Jean

“Men are, that they might have joy.” - The Book of Mormon, 2 Nephi 2:27

Her house is filled with dream catchers I used to think were beautiful. They are emerald green with hanging eagle feathers, soft blue with ivory beads, blood red with gold ribbons and black twine, lavender with translucent green ribbon curled lightly, sunset orange that faded into yellow and pink near the top, mustard yellow with gray feathers and tendrils of bark, and they hang on her doors, walls, banisters, and tree limbs—they are even stowed away with the cutlery. Walking into her suburban home is like walking into a flea market shop.

Jean says she makes them whenever she can't sleep. With the sheer number of dream catchers present, that must be every night. Since I have been her neighbor all these years, I guess it fell to me to be the one to look after her. Take her with me to get groceries, drop her off at the salon to get her hair done, that sort of thing. That is what neighbors are for, after all.

Her husband's name was Paul, and he had loved to garden and go fishing. They used to get up early every Saturday to go fishing down at Utah Lake, but then he got sick and, well. She never did the fishing herself, anyway.

It's been fourteen months now, and those dream catchers are still showing up everywhere.

In the spring, I was pulling some weeds out from behind my roses (Lord, help me) and saw her step out of her front door, dream catcher in hand, and start spinning slow circles in the middle of her yard, looking for a spot.

This dream catcher was woven so it looked like it was a framed doily. There were no beads or feathers this time, but she had hung a mass of ribbons from it. So many, in fact, that it made me wonder if she was cleaning out her whole drawer.

When she caught me staring, she waved her free hand and called out, "Morning, Ellen! Your front swing is looking nice, did you repaint it?"

I glanced over at the swing. It was 30 years old and hadn't seen a fresh coat in 35. "You need to get your eyes checked!" I said, shaking my head at her. "That bench is the same as it's always been, except maybe for a fresh coat of dust!"

She smiled wide, walked over to her trellis, and somehow found a way to snug her creation in there along with the overgrown hollyhock plant. "I thought it looked a shade more gray!" she said, then waved again before going into her house.

"A shade more gray, my butt," I'd said to myself, but I was smiling. It was a good day. The sun was shining, the neighborhood was coming alive, and I was wearing the new sun bonnet I had bought just the Wednesday before.

I made pancakes for breakfast and thought I'd bring some over for Jean. Who knows whether that woman ever feeds herself enough. She was organizing photos when I knocked on the screen door and let myself in. They were spread all across the dining room table, some in shoe boxes, some in piles and some sitting next to frames.

"Which do you think would go better over the stairs?" she asked, holding up two photos for me to see. One was of her and Paul next to the New York City Christmas tree, and the other showed them next to the house, probably just after they bought it.

"I think pancakes," I said, putting a couple photo piles onto a chair so I would have room to set the plate down.

“Oh, I already had breakfast. Thank you, though,” she said, moving around the table to consider another photo.

“What did you eat?”

“Corn flakes.”

“No, that’s what you ate yesterday.”

“A person can eat the same cereal two days in a row, you know. It’s actually quite normal.”

I looked over at her sink and saw no dishes in it. She does this sometimes, forgets that she forgot to eat. She could make millions if she could just bottle that forgetfulness. It’s annoying as all get out.

“Jean, I made these pancakes especially for you, and if you don’t eat them, I’m throwing them on your driveway.”

“Can they wait until lunch?” she said, holding a photo at arm’s length and cocking her head to one side. After a moment, she turned it around for my approval. It was a photo of an elephant. I shook my head and she tossed it back on the table.

We negotiated for brunch, settled on a photo of the two of them in a fishing boat in Alaska, and I stayed to help her organize pictures for a minute before returning to my house to do a couple more chores then head off to my book club.

Mornings were just a matter of making sure she ate. Easy. Nights, though; not good.

Jean would go out on the front porch and play the cello. She had no sheet music to speak of, so it was all just whatever came out of her head. The tunes were okay, just sad. Hard to go to sleep when you hear dismal melodies through the night. It nearly made me want to take up dream catcher-ing.

After trying to sleep for, I don't know, an hour, I'd bundle up in a robe and head over to her house.

About a week after the photos and pancakes morning, I shuffled over there to sit on her front steps and watch the night. She kept on playing, giving me a nod, but not much more.

"Stars are pretty tonight," I said, just to open conversation.

"Yes," she said, and played for a few more minutes without saying more. Then she set her cello down on its side and came to sit by me on the step (hers were freshly painted). She didn't say a word, I didn't say a word, but I put my arm around her and she cried.

The next morning, she was knocking on my door and asking whether I wanted some tulips, because she had bought too many for the space she had allotted them in her garden. I accepted, of course, and thanked her with some bacon and eggs. Then she got busy, as she always was, and I had to spend time reading a biography of Abraham Lincoln for my book club.

Maybe I should have quit the book club and started reading books I actually enjoyed, like Dr. Seuss. But you can’t beat the company, and it's hard to take care of your best friend so much sometimes.

Her cello that night sounded like something out of "Phantom of the Opera." Maybe that's what it was, I don't know. Jean used to be in a symphony somewhere and maybe they played it once. Either way, it only took a half hour before I gave up on sleep and went to sit on her front step.

She had just finished a lingering note, something she put a slowing vibrato to, when she stopped and said, so quietly I almost didn't catch it over the crickets, "What's the point?"

I turned toward her. "Of?"

"All of it."

"To be happy."

"Ah." She let out a breath and put down her cello.

I looked at her and it was hard to read her face by the light of the street lamp, so I squeezed her hand and suggested she go to bed. With a nod, she did just that, and the next time I saw her, she was hanging up another dream catcher, a sky blue one with matching feathers and golden beads. This one was hung from the tree that hangs over our property line. I was sure she'd run out of places soon, but hey, Jean's pretty creative.

That night's music sounded a bit more Celtic. Not being a fan of that genre, I didn't even try to sleep, just went straight over to convince her to go to bed.

But she looked a mess and I just didn't have the heart. So I sat in my familiar place, braced my back against the railing, and tried to like Celtic music.

We didn’t talk except to say good night when she was through. I am not a talkative person after 10 o’clock. Decent people are in bed and sleeping at that hour, unless they have a cello-playing neighbor who is still grieving over losing her husband. Then they sit on porches and try to act civil.

I shouldn't complain, though, because one night, she didn't play her cello at all. I was lying in bed, waiting for my bedtime serenade, and it didn't come. Didn't come, didn't come, so of course I had to go check on her.

She was kneeling on her kitchen floor, using a rag to mop it. It was 11:00 o’clock at night. "Jean?" I said.

"Mmm?"

"Why are you doing chores in the middle of the night?"

"I couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd be productive."

"Why don't you make another dream catcher?"

"I ran out of string today," she said, swiping at a stray hair.

I kept standing in the kitchen doorway. "Or what about your cello?"

"The bridge is broken." She jerked her head toward the counter and I saw a pile of splinters that must have been the bridge at some point.

There was a moment of silence, then, "Anything I can do?"

"No, thank you. Get some sleep."

I patted her shoulder and went home. Breaking things was a new symptom, and I wondered again about calling in a psychiatrist. Jean had adamantly refused before, though, so I knew she would refuse now. She was a grown woman and could figure herself out, I was sure.

I bought her a new bridge, but the cello-playing never recommenced. Might have been that crisper weather was moving in. The dream catchers kept coming, at least. The property line tree starting reminding me of Christmas, with all the dream catchers she was hanging from it.

Question: If the point is to be happy, and a person isn't ...?

It was morning again, and I was back on duty. Slippers on, hair still drying from my shower, I shuffled across the yard and let myself in the back door.

Jean was curled up on her couch under an old Navajo blanket. The ceiling fan was whirring that night’s almost-completed dream catcher’s cream beads against the wooden couch feet.

Jean is a morning person. I didn’t bother being quiet as I pulled out a pot and set some water to boiling on the stove for poached eggs. Somewhere in the clanging, she woke up. I expected to see her in the kitchen, but she didn’t come over. I could tell she was up, though, because the bead-ticking had ended.

I stuck my head into the living room. She was still under the blanket, the dream catcher now on the glass-topped coffee table.

“Would you like your eggs hard or soft?” I said.

“Either.”

Then, belatedly, “Thank you, Ellen.”

I nodded and returned to the stove, cracking four eggs into the pot, then covering them with a lid and turning down the heat. I waited four minutes as the eggs cooked. The house was silent except for that fan. Photos still covered every available space on the table, their haphazard piles unmoved from months ago. When I was through with waiting, I scooped up the eggs, divided them into bowls, added salt, pepper, and spoons, and then carried them into the living room.

Jean sat up slightly to take hers from me, thanking me again in a soft undertone.

“Are you doing alright?” I said as I sat down opposite her. I said a quick mental prayer to the Lord in gratitude for the meal while I waited for her response.

“I’m just so tired,” Jean said. “I didn’t get much sleep.”

I glanced at the dream catcher, and it really was an intricate one. She had somehow contrived the yellow thread into flowers, creating a bouquet in the center of her loop. Beneath it hung cream beads and the fabric petals of a lei.

Jean wasn’t eating her eggs. The bowl was resting in her lap, losing steam and becoming less delicious by the moment. I lobbed a couch pillow at her legs to get her moving.

She smiled as it landed and bounced to the floor, then cut into one of her eggs and took a bite. “It needs toast,” she said, then pulled herself upright and off the couch. She disappeared into the kitchen and I heard her press the toaster down.

Only a couple weeks after that, she lost her appetite altogether, eating only when I was there to feed her. I started seeing a therapist when she continued to refuse one.

But even more than her broken cello and lost appetite, what made me most concerned was when Jean stopped making dream catchers. Her supply drawer was full, but she didn’t have the drive, or the energy, to make another. The ones in her home and yard began to look listless.

And then—oh, I was so scared.

I was standing in my kitchen, wearing an old “kiss the cook” apron and wishing I knew where my slippers were, cutting chicken breasts into strips for fajitas. My sliding glass door opened, and Jean ghosted in, leaving it open behind her and letting in the chill fall air.

When she looked at me, there was nothing in her blue eyes. And I mean nothing—no soul looked out.

She stood there, emptiness staring at me, with no emotions on her face at all. Straight back, wearing a lavender sweater and no shoes on, though it must have been below 40 outside.

“Ready for dinner?” I said. I tried to smile.

She did not respond, just stood there. I washed the juices off my hands, came around the counter, and shut the door before leading her to the table and sitting her down with a hug. Then I walked back to the cutting board.

A moment later, Jean was standing behind me in the kitchen.

“Did you want a glass of water?”

“Ellen,” she said, so quietly she nearly whispered. “Please kill me.”

I felt silence.

“Chicken should be ready in just a few minutes, if you’ll wait,” I said. “How was your day? What did you do?”

“Please, Ellen.”

“No.”

I half-turned from the cutting board to look at her. “It will all be okay tomorrow, you’ll see.”

She laughed a laugh that wasn't. “No, it won’t.”

“But someday it will be, and maybe that day is tomorrow.”

“Use one of your knives. Here,” she said, unbuttoning her sweater and folding it over a nearby bar stool. She pulled her shirt to bare the skin above her heart, then came to stand beside me again. “Right here,” she said, picking up my hand to guide the knife toward the spot. Then, “Please. I can’t do this anymore.”

I pulled the knife back, trembling slightly, and placed it on the counter, then tried to get around her and pick up the phone. But she stopped me, her cold hands pulling on one of mine to keep me away from it. “No,” she said, sounding angry, which actually gave me a measure of hope. Anger is better than nothing.

“You can get help, Jean! Just let me get the phone,” I said.

“I don’t want help. I want to stop.”

And I—

It was only the knowledge that suicide was the wrong way to go that helped me wrench my hand away, pick up the phone, and dial 9-1-1.

She has since apologized to me, over the phone from Portland, where she was sent for help. It felt ridiculous and wrong and I nearly yelled at her for even thinking of it. You just don't apologize for that sort of thing.

She’s home again now, making dream catchers. Today’s was midnight blue with maroon beads and jet black ribbons. Small silver beads in the loop allude to stars—or rather, happiness.

Dream Catcher - start of a short story (I couldn't sleep last night...)

After her husband died, she started making dream catchers. Soon, they were all over the house -- hanging from the banisters, tied to tree limbs, even stowed away with the cutlery. All sorts of colors, too, with beads, feathers, and ribbons hanging from them. Her house was a wonderland.

Jean said she made them whenever she couldn't sleep. Seems to me that must have been every night. Since I had been her neighbor all those years, I guess it fell to me to be the one to look after her. Take her with me to get groceries, drop her off at the salon to get her hair done, that sort of thing. 'ts what neighbors are for, after all.

His name was Hank, and he had loved to garden and go fishing. They used to get up early every Saturday to go fishing down at Utah Lake, but then he got sick and, well. She never did the fishing herself, anyway.

'Bout near cried the first time I had her over for dinner and offered her some trout her husband had caught and frozen for me. It was meant to be a comfort, obviously, but that didn't work out quite like I had hoped.

It's been seven months now, and those dream catchers are still showing up everywhere. Take today, for instance.

I was pulling some weeds out from behind my roses (Lord, help me) and saw her step out of her front door, dream catcher in hand, and start spinning slow circles in the middle of her yard, looking for a spot. I leaned back on my haunches, lifted a hand to shield my eyes from the sun, and waited to see where she would put it.

This dream catcher was woven so as to look like it was a framed doily. There were no beads or feathers this time, but she had hung a mass of ribbons from it. Made me wonder if she was cleaning out her whole drawer.

When she caught me staring, she waved her free hand and called out, "Morning, Lia! Your front swing is looking nice, did you repaint it?"

I glanced over at the swing. It was 30 years old and hadn't seen a fresh coat in 35. "You need to get your eyes checked, Jean!" I said, shaking my head at her. "That bench is the same as it's always been, except maybe for a fresh coat of dust!"

She smiled wide, walked over to her trellis, and somehow found a way to snug it in there along with the overgrown hollyhock plant. "I thought it looked a shade more gray!" she said, then waved again before going into her house.

"A shade more gray, my butt," I'd said to myself, but I was smiling. It was a good day. The sun was shining, the neighborhood was coming alive, and I was wearing the new sun bonnet I had bought just the Wednesday before.

I made pancakes for breakfast and thought I'd bring some over for Jean. Who knows whether that woman ever feeds herself enough. She was organizing photos when I knocked on the screen door and let myself in. They were spread all across the dining room table, some in shoe boxes, some in piles and some sitting next to frames.

"Which do you think would go better over the stairs?" she asked, holding up two photos for me to see. One was of her and Hank next to the New York City Christmas tree, and the other showed them next to the house, probably just after they bought it.

"I think pancakes," I said, putting a couple photo piles onto a chair so I would have room to set the plate down.

“Oh, I already had breakfast. Thank you, though,” she said, moving around the table to consider another photo.

“What did you eat?”

“Corn flakes.”

“No, that’s what you ate yesterday.”

“A person can eat the same cereal two days in a row, you know. It’s actually quite normal.”

I looked over at her sink and saw no dishes in it. She does this sometimes, forgets that she forgot to eat. She could make millions if she could just bottle that style forgetfulness. Annoying as I’ll get out.

“Jean, I made these pancakes especially for you, and if you don’t eat them, I’m throwing them on your driveway.”

“Can they wait until lunch?” she said, holding a photo at arm’s length and cocking her head to one side. After a moment, she turned it around for my approval. It was a photo of an elephant. I shook my head and she tossed it back on the table.

We negotiated for brunch, settled on a photo of the two of them in a fishing boat, and I stayed to help her organize pictures for a minute before returning to my house to do a couple more chores before my book club (we were reading “1984.” It was horrible).

Bridge release

It started with the computer, which hadn't entirely been on purpose. Iris had been balancing it on the bridge's stone wall, trying to use Skype to show her mother the mountain view from where she was, and one far-flung hand had sent it flying.

Almost, almost it felt like she had drowned her own mother. Then the woman had called in a panic to know whether Iris was alright and what she would do about the computer. So far as Iris cared, though, the laptop was gone. She was not going to go swimming for it, and besides that, it would be waterlogged and destroyed.

The next thing to go was her old socks, which had been on purpose, though she pretended otherwise. It wasn't littering so far as it wasn't on purpose, and socks decompose...right? Either way, they were old, and she wanted to be rid of them. So off the bridge they went.

Over time, Iris added her old college textbooks, an ex-boyfriend's ball cap, a stupid collection of rocks, three pairs of sunglasses, her bra (on a particularly fun night), a coffee mug and the coffee inside it, and some carrots she hadn't wanted to eat. It was so relieving, throwing things off that bridge and into the river, that she bought the house nearby and just stayed put.

Most annoying, of course, was when items would wash back up on the shores in her yard. It defeated the whole point. She always threw them back in and, except for the bra, every one of them left.

The bra haunted her, though. It was a pale blue one with yellow lace trim from Victoria's Secret, and it just would not leave, no matter how many times she tried. Iris had had no choice but to hang it from some wire beneath the bridge, hidden from view of the house and out of the water's treacherous reach.

But she knew it was there. The stupid thing wouldn't let her walk across the bridge without thinking about it, and every time she checked, there it was, hanging, there. There and never going to leave her truly alone.

The next course of action, then, was to get high on caffeine, tear down the bra, which busted one of its straps, and wear it with nothing else while swimming in the river. This would absolve her of all crime, she was sure, by showing acceptance of both the river and the bra. It would then have no unfinished business and could leave her to herself.

That didn't work, either.

It was upsetting enough that she stopped visiting the bridge altogether. Iris rehung it under the bridge after its last visit to her home shores and avoided the area. It was more than she could handle.

When the bra showed up on her bank again, even though she had last seen it hanging safely from its wire, Iris gave up. She screamed for all she was worth and flung the bra as far downriver as she could, then ran away. To Louisiana. She's still trying to sell the house, if you're interested. It's got a nice gabled roof and a few flowers coming up near the front door.

(Honestly, I was going to write some fiction about someone attempting suicide, but my attempt didn't work out and this did. Something silly for your day.)

Doubting my story beginning

The following is the beginning of the first chapter of the novel I have been working on for some time now (think years; I'm a slow writer).

Elke had never liked porridge, but his dislike for the bland mush that filled his wooden bowl this morning was dwarfed by his dislike for the look on his mother’s face. He had seen it way too many times this past week, and he knew his best bet was to quietly force himself to swallow his breakfast and disappear for a few hours—but not so far that he couldn’t hear her call his name.

He averted his eyes from hers, sure that her uncanny ability to read them would only spell more trouble for him, and then he wouldn’t be allowed to disappear but instead would be stuck chopping wood, even though winter was a long ways off. He stared at a knot in the table instead and did his best to eat quietly.

Mother was sitting in a chair near the open front door, hand over her eyes and head tilted back against the frame. She usually would have been sitting across from Elke, swatting at his hand if he held the spoon incorrectly, but the head pains always rendered her more quiet and still, and she craved the fresh air without the sounds of Nostos. She looked up now and then to see if he was eating, but that was all.

When he was finished, he did his best to quietly stand up. He winced when his chair squeaked and mother flinched, then carefully rinsed out the bowl using the bucket of water mother kept for that purpose. He kissed her cheek on his way out the door, whispered that he would be back to check on her, then crept away from the house, breaking into a run once he was out of earshot.

“Arato! Get up, you slug! Can’t let Sakuunu see you in bed at this hour!” He slapped on the wood wall of his friend’s home, aiming for the spot where his bed met the wall. Elke paused to listen, then slapped the wooden planks a couple more times for good measure, moving to the front door when he was sure he heard Arato get up.

He bounced a little in his deer-hide shoes while he waited, then opened the door to peek inside just as Arato came scrambling out. “Welcome to the morning, brother!”

“Oh, go eat a pine cone,” Arato said, still adjusting his apprentice necklace, a leather strap ornamented with a metal hoop similar to those that held barrels together.

“I’d rather not be seen eating the ancestors, thanks,” Elke said. He instinctively checked to make sure he hadn’t forgotten to wear his own apprentice necklace with its accompanying miniature cloth stachel, meant to represent the full-sized ones carrying seed. He, however, was carrying a couple coins in his -- something his mother would kill him for if she were to find out.

“So do it at night, when the sane people of this world are asleep.”

“I sleep!”

They had been walking, but at this, Arato stopped and turned toward him, an incredulous look on his face.

“Most of the time,” Elke said, grabbing his friend’s arm to get him going again. “We’re going to miss it. Come on.”

They had just managed to climb into one of the trees when the first girl walked through the meadow. This one was Pylliah, who was too young to have a woman’s figure but too old to bathe with the children. She had carefully wrapped herself in her towel but was walking with a slight cower just the same, hiding herself from the world at large until she could put on her proper clothing. Elke and Arato didn’t waste more than a glance in her direction, instead fixing their gaze on the path to the river, waiting for the next female to emerge.

It turned out Arato’s early wakeup had paid off, because Sakuunu was in the small group of women who followed Pylliah out from the bathing place. Elke had little interest in her, though he could appreciate how her long black hair waved slightly as she walked and the way her towel hung from her figure to reveal its perfection. He knew her to be a tad self-centered and she had mocked him one too many times to earn his desire. Arato was another story; he had been smitten since the day he had first seen her ride one of the village’s horses through the street. Arato had walked into Elke’s home with a glazed look on his face and had stayed that way until Elke had thrown a handful of fish guts at him.

Sakuunu was one of the few to wear her apprentice necklace, ornamented with a miniature horse, to the bathing place. Some of the women were too old to have them and instead wore the armband of their trade, and others, like Pylliah, were as yet too young. Elke and Arato had only received theirs the month before, and Elke was still having a hard time remembering to wear it some days.

Arato scooted forward on the branch he was lying down on, legs holding it tightly beneath him and arms propping his shoulders and head up slightly. The movement caused the tree to shake a little, but it seemed none of the women noticed. There were four of them in Sakuunu’s group, one of whom was her mother. All were wrapped in their towels, feet clad in wooden bathing shoes. They were laughing about something.

Arato scooted forward again, bringing himself to the edge of the leaves, where even one more inch would expose their hiding place. Elke was tempted to either push him off or haul him back in, but indecision about which would be better kept him from doing anything. Besides, there were more women bathing and one may bring him to the edge of his branch, too. He didn’t have his eye on anyone, but he knew that could change any day.

Sakuunu paused before leaving the clearing, gesturing her companions onward and turning back.So she had noticed, then. This ended Elke’s moment of indecision and he leaned forward, shoving Arato to the side. His friend had been too entranced to hold on properly, and the shove sent him crashing to the ground at Sakuunu’s feet.

I like this beginning, because I think it is fun and well-written. It introduces some of my main characters in a personable way and gives each a foundation to stand on. My problem with my beginning (it is longer than this) is that it doesn't really take the story anywhere.

So this week, I had the thought to open it in a very dramatic way: a self-defense killing. I wrote it the next day, about 380 words, and am not as impressed with it as with my original beginning. Perhaps I stick my self-defense killing elsewhere in the story?

Truth be told, my main problem is I want to get the story moving but don't feel like a good enough writer to do it justice. I have a basic outline for it in my head and love it, but I feel like except for a few bright spots, like this scene, it's not all that great yet.

Maybe this post is a pep talk, a reminder that I can write well and all writers start somewhere. I defer to Ira Glass to make the motivational point:

“Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know it's normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story. It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through.”

My column won an award!

I write a column for the Idaho Press-Tribune called the Front Porch. It has a chatty tone and contains the little news you would expect of a hometown newspaper, such as scholarship winners, class reunion notifications, and volunteer requests. It also includes the fun news that has no news value besides being interesting -- for instance, a man brought by some packets of seeds he'd found among his mothers things. They dated back to the 1970s, and he is going to plant them to see if they'll grow. He plans to check back in to give us an update.

I have also covered some small events, of the same sort, like when a local gym had a photo shoot with a few of its female members to show what "real women" look like, the sort who try to stay in shape but also enjoy cookies and milk with their kids now and then.

Even though I'm moving, I'm going to continue writing the Front Porch as a freelancer. The other news having to do with my column is it won an award! Third place at the Idaho Press Club awards for General Column. In the journalism contests I've been privy to, it's a custom that people only get awards if they deserve it. There may be a category with submissions, but if none of the submissions are any good, no one will get an award at all. There were several categories at the awards night with only a first place winner, or a first and second. That said, it actually means something that I got third place and it's pretty cool -- it means that at age 24, I'm an award-winning columnist!

Most of my columns are collections of "tidbits," short summaries, with commentary, about what happened. They are rarely over 300 words each, and a handful make up one column. For the contest, I submitted three columns that were just one massive tidbit. One such column (not one from the contest) is below so you can enjoy it and I can celebrate. It was headlined "Girl shines on 8th grade football team."

(This is the header to my column when it appears in print)

Emalie Wood wanted to play football.

She already played soccer, golf and basketball, but something about football appealed to her enough that even though her father, a soccer coach, tried to dissuade her, she joined the Middleton Middle School eighth grade boys football team at the start of the season.
And unlike the two other girls coach Bob Santi has had in his years coaching football, Emalie stuck with it to the end of the season, becoming a strong asset to the team and leading Bob to call her one of the best athletes — boy or girl — in the school.

She’s played kicker, defensive back, cornerback, defensive end and receiver; she wanted to try out the quarterback position, too, but there just wasn’t time in the season, Bob said.
It’s too bad our newspaper doesn’t cover eighth grade sports, because it would have been fun watching her trademark pink socks and long ponytail (it’s a penalty if you pull it, by the way) pop up in newsprint throughout the season alongside her No. 1 jersey.

I just had to ask Bob why she made it and those other two girls didn’t. He said part of it was because the other girls were talked into it, whereas Emalie had to talk others into letting her do it.

He also talked about his football team and the impressive boys who fill it, saying it is the best group of boys he has ever had the privilege to coach in regards to their grades, athleticism, morals and maturity.

From what he said, these boys respected her and had her back at all times.
In fact, Emalie was just like one of the guys, being smacked on the shoulder pads and helmet whenever she made an impressive play, sitting in the back of the bus and joking with her teammates on trips and greeting them in the hallway whenever they crossed paths during school.

Thanks to that last bit, of course, some of her girl friends asked her to introduce them to members of the team.

Speaking of her girl friends, she had a great group of friends that would support her at her games — even some that were away games — by cheering and waving a sign they had made especially for her.

The home crowd also got behind her; Bob said “she started out as an anomaly … and then she was still out for football, and then she was still out for football, and then people got used to it and kind of just climbed on her bandwagon.”

Her dad, Rorque Wood, recalled her first tackle, saying she was playing defensive end and the opposing team was on the 4-yard line. She tackled the ball carrier and her team got possession of the ball. He said that was her “I’m in the club” moment.

Perhaps that amount of support was another reason for her successful season. The team made it to the playoffs, by the way, and Bob said she was an integral part of that. Actually, in the playoff game itself, they were playing South Middle School and she executed a kickoff near the end of the first half that set the other team to starting on the 6-yard line. They won 14-0.

But maybe Emalie’s successful football season had more to do with herself.
“She’s pretty persistent, and she has a pretty strong will, and she has a good heart,” her coach said. He also praised her good attitude.

As for her father, when I talked with him over the phone, I could just hear his smile the entire time. Rorque recalled the moments in the stands where people would wonder who the girl was on the team, and he would get to say, “That’s my daughter!” He is, for good reason, proud of her.

He also said, and I quote: “Maybe I should have let her play (earlier).”

So what’s next? Will she be playing on the freshman football team? By all reports, she hasn’t quite made up her mind yet, but if you are watching next season and see a pair of pink socks, you’ll know who is wearing them and know to give her a loud cheer.

* Elizabeth’s Note: I didn’t get to interview Emalie for this, mainly because it was a surprise for her from her dad. Sorry about that, but I think it was a good reason. Surprise, Emalie! Good luck with basketball!

Final flash fiction attempt: "Existentialist"

My final flash fiction attempt for the writing contest I entered was the attempt I submitted (and was rejected based on). I originally titled it "Oranges," but switched to something like "Existentialist."

This feels like the perfect night to dress up like hipsters. At least, that’s what everyone else at the Flying M seems to have decided tonight, except me. Me and the woman at the table by the large windows, that is.
She’s wearing a blue dress without sleeves, and she’s been sitting there for over an hour, writing poetry on orange peels with hands decorated by three ring tattoos and veins that are raised rivers, belying an age that is greater than her dress, red purse, or orange peel scrawls.
“It’s as if the trees were whispering,” she’s written on one, a strip discarded near her elbow that I saw on my way to throw out my drink.
A glance out those large, garage door-style windows shows it’s still raining beneath the trees outside, and I wonder what they are trying to say.
But as I wonder, the woman gets up, slipping her oranges into her bag and leaving a tip on the table. I see her step into the evening and stop beneath a sidewalk tree to touch its trunk with one of her river hands, skin like paper and rings like old promises, as if to bid it farewell.
As far as I know, the tree does not answer, but she smiles anyway and it’s a quiet smile, a poet’s smile. She reaches back to free her hair from its clip and it falls in sheets, pulling back in the wind and settling down her back before she turns from the tree and clicks down the sidewalk.
I glance at the hipsters one last time before I check the time and see I should be getting home. On my way to my car, I too stop by the tree and place my hand on its trunk, cold and hard and startlingly white. No words, but perhaps the quiet is a message of its own.

The reason for the title change was an attempt to make this scene more "compelling," which was a criteria it was being judged by. When I wrote this, it was mostly in a poetic frame of mind and I wasn't going for a message in particular beyond "stillness is good."

Found on Livestrong.com. I'm betting she was writing
with a permanent marker.

Deep, I know. I actually purposefully do not try to be profound in my writing, because I think it comes off as sounding stupid a lot of the time.

The writing friend I asked for advice on this piece said something along the lines of, "So the weirdo writes on oranges and touches trees. So what?"

So what, indeed. I did some staring at it and decided it could be considered an existential work. Once something is assigned a philosophy, it automatically gets more credence, right? It's existential because this woman is being her own self and not caring what others think. The narrator is wondering why she is different, and a backdrop of hipsters--a stereotype that loves to philosophize and be individual, yet seeks community and sameness with other hipsters--helps to emphasize how she does not fit a label. (Unless you have an adequate label for an orange-peel poet?)

Does that make it compelling for you? I found it compelling, if only because of the poetic ambiance and beautiful imagery. But then, I'm of the (minority) philosophy that art does not need meaning.

As for dissecting this story, then. The first line was given by the contest organizers, and it reminded me of a local coffee shop, the Flying M Coffeegarage, where small bands often play and people gather to have leisurely conversations. I've had a couple newspaper interviews there, myself, one of them with a philosophy professor who chose the place. I don't know that I have seen hipster-esque people there, but I placed this story there for the hipster environment.

That said, the setting details are correct and true to life, except that I have no idea what trees are outside the place. I doubt there are aspens, which is what I used, but I'm sure I got away with it. I appeal to "Inception," where the girl is told to only use details from actual places, not complete real places.

The woman was in the audience at a reading I attended during the Death Rattle Writers Festival. I took a photo of her, but it didn't do the impression justice, so instead, I wrote this down in my writer's notebook:

And then you see her hands, and the backs of her palms are thin, the bones showing through and the blue of the veins near enough the surface that they could be a raised river and she is old, older than her style of dress or her soda choice or the length of her hair, which reaches down to the bra line in curves. It is brown, and her dress is blue and white and the heels she wears remind me that my mother, not yet fifty, rarely wears high heels. They hurt her feet, she says. Perhaps this woman keeps her age in her hands, arthritis and chafing skin and calloused fingertips, instead of her dress, hair, soda or feet. I keep mine in my shoulders, age counted in 40-hour weeks spent leaning closer to a computer screen.

 Paragraph nonfiction.

Anyway, I borrowed that woman because I was going through my writer's notebooks for ideas and she stood out to me. The ring tattoos come from a student in one of my college classes back in the day--another interesting detail I'd recorded in a writer's notebook. The orange peel poetry was also in my notebook. I have no idea where it came from, but I think I may have stolen it from someone, or else it came from a classmate peeling an orange in English class. Not sure which. But see how useful those notebooks are?!

Note on stealing things in writing: Totally fine, so long as you make it your own. Don't steal wholesale. A guy once tried to borrow pieces of my husband's love poetry to me and mine to him, because he came to us for love poetry advice and we used personal examples. It didn't go well for him. Rang completely false and didn't flow. For the record, that relationship did not last.

Back to the subject at hand. My friend's criticism of the story remains: This story is lacking in conflict. I think it is complete the way it is and would actually like to change the title back to "Oranges." What do you think? Is it compelling? Does it make you care?

Third flash fiction was like the first all over again

And now for the third flash fiction attempt (I don't know that these got significantly better as I continued on writing them):

Jessie is a friend. At least, I think she is. Candice is a friend and Audrey and Donna and Kate and Sara - but Jessie, I don’t know.
I don’t know because when we stood in line together in the second grade, she only talked to the new girl, who was from Russia and therefore interesting. But that was okay. She gave me a pencil later, one with my name on it, and played wolves with me at recess.
I think Jessie is my friend because in middle school, when my grandma died and I first started hating flowers, she sat on my family’s deep freezer and held my hand.
Jessie is my friend because when I was a high school freshman with a crush on that boy in my geography class, she helped me think of ways to meet him then taught me how to curl my hair into pretty ringlets so he would notice me. And then, when he asked me to be his Facebook friend, she freaked out with me in the parking lot and we went out for frozen yogurt to celebrate.
Jessie was definitely my friend on the day that we graduated. We took photos together and laughed and high-fived our favorite teachers, then went to the after party and, well, and she left with that cute guy she had a thing for. But I know she was my friend because later that night, she called me to tell me what had happened - ALL of it.
But now I don’t know, because Jessie won’t answer the phone when I call, and this year, she forgot my birthday. I need to tell her something.
I need to say I’m pregnant and scared, and I could really use a best friend right now to hold my hand. I am not ready for this.

No, I'm not pregnant (though a friend of mine thinks I should change that. Won't happen soon). This idea came into being while it was being written, and at the end, I realized she needed a reason for her best friend, and pregnancy came to mind.

I wanted to capture that moment—back to that approach—when a woman realizes she is going to be a mother. I am sure it is terrifying, exhilarating and altogether overwhelming.

Raphael Soyer's portrayal of the annunciation.

I love this painting by Raphael Soyer. It's of the annunciation, the moment where an angel comes to the Virgin Mary and says, “Hey, you're pregnant!” I think of it as being just a few minutes after the angel leaves. How was Mary feeling? Probably withdrawn, if nothing else. My mom, if I remember right, thought Mary was the woman in the blue. I think Mary is the one with the purple skirt. Either way, it's a powerful painting.

My flash fiction attempt did not at all measure up to this painted pregnancy moment, but then, it was mostly about someone feeling lonely. I don't know that Mary was feeling lonely quite yet (but later, shunned as a pregnant woman without a husband? I'm sure of it).

This story comes off as a little immature to me. Would you agree? Something about how indecisive she is reminds me of high school. So no, this girl is not ready to be pregnant, in my opinion.

Just like with my first flash fiction attempt, I used glimpsed memories to bring life to a person who is not the narrator. As you can guess, a lot of it is from my own life. I don't think the story sucked the reader in enough to make that work, though. It's more of a cheap trick at this point.

The same stuff I said about the first flash fiction goes for this one, though. It's basically the same story, just with different words and a different oh-you-poor-thing ending.

Lesson learned: Don't put multiple memories in one flash fiction piece, building up to a revelation. That story structure does not work. Why? It doesn't resolve, and the build-up seems contrived, unnatural. I'm not sure why it doesn't seem natural, but both stories rang false.

I don't think I was impressed with this one even when I wrote it. My favorite was the one about the oranges, which I'll go over next week.

Sundance flash fiction analysis

 My second flash fiction attempt looked like this. In my defense, it was late at night when I wrote it.

“It feels like a perfect night to dress up like hipsters,” the Dorian Gray boy said. Gorgeous, dangerous, met him in a Park City art gallery during Sundance. Surrounded by paintings of mountains, forks bent into stick men, and a bronze Last Supper sitting in front of a window that opened onto an alley, we were the only two in there just then.
It was the stupidest pickup line in the world, not even a pickup line, but I’m too easy and half an hour later saw me making out with him one steep street over in the middle of a looong flight of stairs. I figured it was Sundance. Might as well, right?
But that boy was the stupidest bad-word-my-momma-would-scream-if-she-heard-me-say I have ever met in my life, ‘cause a week later I caught him stealing more than just French fries and trying for more than just French kisses. And by that second part I mean he was trying to go all Bill Clinton all over my butt.
His pants were down and I was telling him no, this was too fast, we only met an hour ago, but man you did pick a pretty spot for this, on top of a mountain and secluded and all, and I respect you for that, and I like your nice car, too, we should just keep driving around in it or something.
That’s when he said, all hot and heavy, that it wasn’t his car, and that’s what I meant about the stealing more than French fries part.
There’s one thing my momma taught me that is the truest thing I have ever known: If you don’t want a man making love to you, pee on him.
After that, he jumped back enough for me to reach past him and open the door. He’d been leaning on that door then and so he lost his balance and fell out.
So yeah, I pushed him down the mountain. With his pants down.
Snow is pretty good for sliding on, especially when it’s steep and the snow is the dry sort that won’t stick together.
I drove away before I could see how far he went, though, and that’s a shame because it would’ve been hilarious on my Instagram. But at the time, I was more concerned about whether to return the car before or after cleaning up the pee in the back seat. Sundance problems.

Here's what I was trying to do: First, I wanted to write an actual story, not just a moment like I wrote last time. I put in a smaller haiku turn, with the wow-she-just-did-that ending, but it was not such a jarring turn as before.

This story idea actually began with a tactic I saw another author use: alluding to something and then building on that allusion. I think I saw it in the short story "The Tik Tok Man," which referenced "1984" and basically said that was the world the story was set in. It is a brilliant tactic because you use tons of work done already and don't have to waste that time yourself. I attempted to copy it by calling the guy a "Dorian Gray boy," but then threw those benefits out the window by explaining it - gorgeous, dangerous. Sure, that might have more depth for someone familiar with "The Picture of Dorian Gray," but there is not much to add. I did not pull all I could have put of a tactic like this. I will have to try again sometime.

I used the Sundance Film Festival partly because I am familiar with it and partially because the first line I was using, one of the assigned possibilities, reminded me of it. Hipsters and Sundance go together. The art gallery they are in is a compilation of art galleries on Park City Main Street, a Sundance location, and the long staircase is another real detail I added in.

I threw this piece out because I did not think it was compelling. Outrageous, yes, but not compelling, and that was one of the characteristics the writing contest judges were looking for.

My writer friend who looked over it for me said the story was all over the place and needed simplification. She also said the descriptions didn't quite convey the feelings or the plot , and I totally agree. I knew this needed editing, if only to unify the voice, which is not consistent. I think that is where her details comment came from. The beginning is more poetic and the end was crude. As for simplofication, I think a unified voice would have made it seem less jumbled and chaotic.

Your thoughts? How could I have improved this?

Venturing into flash fiction

I have not written much flash fiction, but then I saw there was a Boise-area writing contest asking for it. I have been trying to push myself to enter such contests lately, so I gave it my best shot. The rules were it needed to be 300-500 words and begging with one of three possible first lines.

I came up with four options for myself trying to write something decent. I'll review them next week, but here are the four, in the order I wrote them.

Jessie is a friend. He is one of those do-everything types, the only person I’ve known who took a break from college to work on a cruise ship and see the world. Every day on Facebook, it was something different -- “Just me and Big Ben, no biggie,” “Bike tour in Puerto Rico. My legs are killing me.” “Sometimes I practice my studious look, but only when I am brooding over my kingdom from a castle in Ireland.” “Couscous! In Morocco!”
Back in high school, Jessie and I took driver’s ed together. The teacher was the same guy who had taught my aunt, so that was weird, but whatever. I remember the first time Jessie got behind the wheel, he had to ask the teacher what a green light meant. I’m serious. The teacher just laughed at him, like it was a joke, but when we got to a light and Jessie gunned it on accident the moment yellow turned to red, man, I thought we were all going to die.
When he got back, from the cruise ship, you know, we had one of those late night talks, the kind that start in a restaurant, then continue in the parking lot for an hour before finishing in someone’s basement when one of you falls asleep. Jessie could tell stories like none other. Dramatic pauses, sound effects, hand gestures. You ever known a storyteller like that?
I’d love to hear one of those again.
I just can’t pull myself out of bed today. Even when someone is physically gone, it’s different from when they’re gone gone. And my heart is too still to beat right now.
It’s like with the blankets over my head, I can pretend the world smaller.
Dear God, help me out of bed today. Please. I need your help.

 “It feels like a perfect night to dress up like hipsters,” the Dorian Gray boy said. Gorgeous, dangerous, met him in a Park City art gallery during Sundance. Surrounded by paintings of mountains, forks bent into stick men, and a bronze Last Supper sitting in front of a window that opened onto an alley, we were the only two in there just then.
It was the stupidest pickup line in the world, not even a pickup line, but I’m too easy and half an hour later saw me making out with him one steep street over in the middle of a looong flight of stairs. I figured it was Sundance. Might as well, right?
But that boy was the stupidest bad-word-my-momma-would-scream-if-she-heard-me-say I have ever met in my life, ‘cause a week later I caught him stealing more than just French fries and trying for more than just French kisses. And by that second part I mean he was trying to go all Bill Clinton all over my butt.
His pants were down and I was telling him no, this was too fast, we only met an hour ago, but man you did pick a pretty spot for this, on top of a mountain and secluded and all, and I respect you for that, and I like your nice car, too, we should just keep driving around in it or something.
That’s when he said, all hot and heavy, that it wasn’t his car, and that’s what I meant about the stealing more than French fries part.
There’s one thing my momma taught me that is the truest thing I have ever known: If you don’t want a man making love to you, pee on him.
After that, he jumped back enough for me to reach past him and open the door. He’d been leaning on that door then and so he lost his balance and fell out.
So yeah, I pushed him down the mountain. With his pants down.
Snow is pretty good for sliding on, especially when it’s steep and the snow is the dry sort that won’t stick together.
I drove away before I could see how far he went, though, and that’s a shame because it would’ve been hilarious on my Instagram. But at the time, I was more concerned about whether to return the car before or after cleaning up the pee in the back seat. Sundance problems.

Jessie is a friend. At least, I think she is. Candice is a friend and Audrey and Donna and Kate and Sara - but Jessie, I don’t know.
I don’t know because when we stood in line together in the second grade, she only talked to the new girl, who was from Russia and therefore interesting. But that was okay. She gave me a pencil later, one with my name on it, and played wolves with me at recess.
I think Jessie is my friend because in middle school, when my grandma died and I first started hating flowers, she sat on my family’s deep freezer and held my hand.
Jessie is my friend because when I was a high school freshman with a crush on that boy in my geography class, she helped me think of ways to meet him then taught me how to curl my hair into pretty ringlets so he would notice me. And then, when he asked me to be his Facebook friend, she freaked out with me in the parking lot and we went out for frozen yogurt to celebrate.
Jessie was definitely my friend on the day that we graduated. We took photos together and laughed and high-fived our favorite teachers, then went to the after party and, well, and she left with that cute guy she had a thing for. But I know she was my friend because later that night, she called me to tell me what had happened - ALL of it.
But now I don’t know, because Jessie won’t answer the phone when I call, and this year, she forgot my birthday. I need to tell her something.
I need to say I’m pregnant and scared, and I could really use a best friend right now to hold my hand. I am not ready for this.

This feels like the perfect night to dress up like hipsters. At least, that’s what everyone else at the Flying M seems to have decided tonight, except me. Me and the woman at the table by the large windows, that is.
She’s wearing a blue dress without sleeves, and she’s been sitting there for over an hour, writing poetry on orange peels with hands decorated by three ring tattoos and veins that are raised rivers, belying an age that is greater than her dress, red purse, or orange peel scrawls.
“It’s as if the trees were whispering,” she’s written on one, a strip discarded near her elbow that I saw on my way to throw out my drink.
A glance out those large, garage door-style windows shows it’s stilll raining beneath the trees outside, and I wonder what they are trying to say.
But as I wonder, the woman gets up, slipping her oranges into her bag and leaving a tip on the table. I see her step into the evening and stop beneath a sidewalk tree to touch its trunk with one of her river hands, skin like paper and rings like old promises, as if to bid it farewell.
As far as I know, the tree does not answer, but she smiles anyway and it’s a quiet smile, a poet’s smile. She reaches back to free her hair from its clip and it falls in sheets, pulling back in the wind and settling down her back before she turns from the tree and clicks down the sidewalk.
I glance at the hipsters one last time before I check the time and see I should be getting home. On my way to my car, I too stop by the tree and place my hand on its trunk, cold and hard and startlingly white. No words, but perhaps the quiet is a message of its own.

Anna Karenina - Rewrite!

I thought it might be fun to rewrite scenes from stories, using my own words, to see the differences. Since I just began reading Anna Karenina, I chose the beginning of that book as my first attempt. But when I thought about how to write it, my mind immediately turned to a script instead of straight prose. So that is what I give you: Elizabeth Thomas's Anna Karenina, Scenes 1 and 2. Please note that I changed the names and took other artistic liberties. The plot remains the same (so far as I can tell, but I haven't read the whole book so maybe I am wrong).

Scene I

Scene: A family dining room set with a table and a large number of chairs. A painting by Andy Warhol decorates one wall along with a handsome grandfather clock and a window overlooking the street, which is of the crowded townhouse variety.

Enter Travis, stage right. He is dressed in a suit, with the coat slung over his shoulder jauntily, and his hair has been freshly oiled. He yawns while walking over to one of the chairs, then sits down and turns his head to glance out the window.

Enter Maid from upstage. She is carrying a tray laden with breakfast foods, with a pitcher of milk in her other hand.

Maid: Good morning, sir. (Places plate down.)

Travis smiles his thanks and picks up his fork.

Maid: Well aren’t you going to ask about the missus?

Travis: (Puts down fork with sigh) How is she, Abie?

Maid: She’s up already, sir.

Travis: Ah. (Looks down at meal in obvious discomfort) Is she in?

Maid: Right now she is, sir, yes sir. In her bedroom. Shall I tell her to expect you?

Travis: Can it be helped?

Maid: Not if you’re going to be eating another meal today, sir. Cook’s packed everything up and has left. He said he couldn’t take any more of it. And I may be following him soon, sir, if you don’t settle her down quickly.

Travis: All because of that blasted smile. But what was I to do when confronted like that? I hadn’t prepared myself to grovel and I hadn’t prepared a lie to smooth her feathers.

Maid: Sir.

Travis: You are right, Abie. I will see her after … after my morning coffee.

Travis smiles and lets out a small laugh as Maid nods and exits stage left.

Travis: (Eating while reading through his mail) Work, bills, calling cards. (Writes on one page) Sanctuary, I say. (Finishes food, turns to newspaper and flips it open with a pleasing snap.) “Man sues neighbor for gopher problem.” That must be Pharynt, he always was a little daft. Ah yes, it is Pharynt. I will have to call on him tomorrow to console him over the inevitable—

Maid enters, stage left. She looks frazzled to an extreme.

Maid: You will want your coffee now. (Leaves, upstage, returns with cup and saucer.) Now don’t wait for it to cool down, sir. (Sets it down in front of him, hovers)

Travis: (Throws down paper) Oh, that Monday had not happened!

Maid: Not to mention all those days before, of course. (Travis looks confused, then his face registers understanding) Drink up, sir. Can’t let it get cold, lots to do today.

Travis: (Shoos her off a little, blows on coffee, takes a sip and grimaces.) I see you made this yourself, Abie.

Maid: Just like my papa taught me, sir. Have you finished, sir? Let me take that, then, and you know where the missus’ bedroom is. (Moves upstage, turns toward Travis one last time.) I’d skip knocking and then duck when you enter, sir. You know her aim is sharp. (Maid exits, upstage)

Travis looks at watch, looks out window, sighs, starts to pace the room.

Travis: That blasted smile. (Pulls some liquor out of his suit coat pocket, takes a swig, exits stage left.

END SCENE.



Scene II

Scene: Gloria’s bedroom. Clothes are strewn about the floor and bed, and two suitcases open on the bed. A vanity off to one side has various beauty products and mementos scattered on it. A framed portrait of Gloria and Travis hangs at the head of the bed with its glass cracked.

Travis: Honey?

Gloria shoots him a look of scorn. She has been crying.

Travis: Oh, my wife, mother of my children and caretaker of my home! What have I done?

Travis rushes toward Gloria, who slaps him across the face and fights to get away from him.

Gloria: Get away from me, you … you … you stranger!

Travis: (Begins to cry) Wife—

Gloria: Exactly! WIFE. But no more. I am taking our children and we are leaving. Today. I just need to finish packing our bags and we will be gone so that you may go on as the adulterer you are without corrupting what is most innocent and precious!
Travis: Have pity on me, Gloria! I have done what is most detestable to you; if you but tell me what must be done so that I may regain your love and be the husband you most deserve, I will do it! Tell me what must be done, be my judge, bestow justice and mercy as you will. I stand ready to do all to gain worthiness. (Gloria looks like she may soften) I never should have smiled when you confronted—

Gloria: (Face hardens abruptly and she turns away) You will be late for work. Go.

Travis: But my wife—

Gloria: Is leaving you. Good day, sir. I hope we shall continue to be the perfect strangers I have discovered that we indeed are, even after 10 years of marriage. And I hope we are greater strangers in all time to come.

Maid enters.

Maid: Missus, Lucy demands she wear her pink dress today.

Gloria: Tell her not to argue.

Maid: I tried to tell her to wear the yellow, but she won’t even—

Gloria: (Sighs) I will go to talk with her. (Gives Travis cold stare)

Travis, Maid exit. Gloria allows herself to crumple to the bed, sobbing.

END SCENE.

Headline Troubles?

I recently wrote a 2C Blog post for the newspaper I work for. It doesn't actually get posted on a blog, so I have no idea why it's called that, but "2C" comes from Canyon County, our coverage area. The reporters and some editors at the paper rotate who writes the 2C Blog post each week, and they write about whatever they feel like. Usually that means they complain about something they see happening among our readers or they tell the story behind an article. Me, I like to talk a bit about my life. The point is so our readers will get to know the people working at the paper.

Back to my latest 2C post. You can read it here.

Please excuse the headline.

I so didn't want it called "Blame renewed interest in gold prospecting on the sluice box." When I first read that, it went in one ear and out the other. I had to reread slowly to understand what the person who wrote it was trying to say. The headline I had asked for was "I blame it on the sluice box," which is shorter and easier to understand, plus a bit fun considering how I end the article. Also, I do explain what a sluice box is in the article, so the only mildly confusing bit (which wasn't fixed in the new-and-not-improved headline, may I add) was taken care of.

Rant over. I'm going to write a real blog post to give headline and title advice, partially to vent and partially because some people do have troubles with it.

Option 1: Informational

You have multiple options for the type of headline or title you pick. First, as a friend of mine recently reminded me while searching for a title for her book, is that the title tell the reader something about what they are about to read. It needs to be informational. Examples from published books: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. The Three Musketeers. Memoirs of a Geisha. Little House on the Prairie.

They don't give away the entire plot, but they give you an idea of what their subject material is. Harry Potter's story is going to involve a mythical stone said to bring immortal youth. There are three people working as musketeers. Someone is a geisha and is going to talk about it. There is a little house in the prairie, which means it's a rural story of some sort.

If you don't want to go informational, go for intriguing. You need to hook a potential consumer's interest somehow, and if you want to hint at your concept instead of your plot, this is a good option. Examples from ... movies this time. Why not. Inception. The Imitation Game. Lucy. Citizenfour. (I honestly don't know what those last two are about).

Option 2: Intriguing

Again, this format usually hints at the concept used to form the central conflict. We get a definition for "inception" early on in that movie, making it make perfect sense (and turning the title into an informational one). As for Imitation Game, (spoiler alert) we find out that there is a bunch of imitation going on: main guy is imitating a straight people, main woman is imitating the men in her life, and they break a coded message by imitating what they already know about the code and expanding that knowledge. The other two, as I said, I have no idea. I'd have to watch to find out, which is the point.

When you want to write a headline for a newspaper, you have to go informative. But you can also go for fun or funny. Today is Idaho Gives day, and I suggested at a staff meeting that we use the hammer (half headline, the big words that jump at you on the front page) "Idaho gave." The reason for the suggestion is the twist on words. Journalists love to do that, and the same concept can be used in blog posts, content articles, magazine articles, poetry titles and probably even longer works. Examples from newspapers, because they're easier to hunt down than blog post titles:

 

Each of these gets the information across (if someone is already familiar with the situation), making them good informational headlines without making them boring. That draws in a reader if you can't come up with an informative headline that is interesting.

Interest is, after all, the point of a title or headline. It is used to make people want to read about it, whether that means you entice them with subject matter, with curiosity or with a joke.

Sidenote: Sometimes a poem's title can be used as the first line, so the poem actually starts at the title and the first stanza is actually the second. Just mentioning that in case you felt like experimenting a bit. Put that in the poetry-breaks-rules filing cabinet in your mind.

Settled

The following is the beginning of a short story I have been working on. This morning, though, I realized my plan for it was not realistic, so now I have to rethink things. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the beginning.

Jeff was that guy at the office whose chair had an odd habit of sinking now and then, seemingly at random but somehow always while he was having a conversation with someone. For the first month after he started using that particular chair, he had profusely apologized to whomever he happened to be speaking to at the time of each gravitatious incident. The following month, Jeff had had enough and snooped around the building for a replacement chair. Finding one in a spare conference room filled with marvelous, non-sinking chairs (he tested each), he made the swap and had approximately two days of seated bliss before a conversation was once again intruded upon by his chair sinking toward the ground. It appeared that his chair had been returned to his desk. Jeff spent a couple weeks swapping his chair and having it disgracefully return before he finally gave up. He stopped bothering to apologize when he sank a foot during any sort of parley, and instead would staunchly refuse to readjust the chair until the conversation had reached a clear end. If someone so much as crinkled the corner of their eye at his chair’s antics, Jeff would give them his best So? look.

His wife had suggested he prop the chair up on boxes, or perhaps a short filing cabinet or fridge. Mel always had ill-conceived ideas like that; unfortunately, what he had once considered endearing was by now, after 15 years of marriage, grating on his patience as he found himself telling her to please refrain from spray painting the front door with a skull and crossbones in honor of Halloween, to please put the dead leaves in trash bags instead of lighting them on fire in the middle of their suburban front yard, or even that she shouldn’t give the Girl Scouts cookies every time they knocked on the door, no matter how delicious they were or how fresh from the oven. In the instance particular to his office chair, Jeff explained to Mel, in the kindest way possible, that the chair’s single swivel leg would get in the way of an attempt to wedge a refrigerator down there.

“Can’t you just remove the leg?” she had asked.

“How am I supposed to slide my chair in and out from beneath my desk if it’s on a refrigerator?”

“By attaching wheels to the bottom of the refrigerator. Look, it would save you space—”

“That’s too much work, Mel.”

“Fine, have it your way. Let your chair sink. Heaven only knows what sort of impression that gives to whoever it is you talk to all day,” she said.

“The people I talk to all day already know my chair sinks,” Jeff said, massaging his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He didn’t bother asking about what people would think if they came into his small office to find him sitting on a filing cabinet or refrigerator, never mind the fact that the nearest outlet for the refrigerator was across the room—the one near his desk was already taken up with computer plugs and a plug for a machine so foreign to him that he kept it more for the bland mystery of it than for its potential usefulness—and he would have to rearrange his entire office for that extra two feet-by-two feet space his wife was promising he would gain by the chair-base exchange.

“The people you talk to all day,” Mel was saying, “gave you the chair you have as a joke, a welcome-to-the-office hazing, and you should do them one better by economizing space. Who knows, you could get promoted for your ingenuity.”

Mel had enough ingenuity for the both of them, and that’s why Jeff rarely bothered to think anymore beyond whatever was necessary for his position as an assistant to the county clerk. Which, frankly, wasn’t much.

Jeff had settled into his life, settled for his life, and settled on continuing onward in much the same way, if he could help it. Whatever craving he had for excitement was met on at least a weekly basis by Mel.

On a week when Mel had figured it was a good idea to embroider a detailed, silver map of the United States onto their American flag in preparation for the patriotic summer holidays, Jeff decided to walk to work, promising Mel he would pick up some muffins on his way home. It was a promise he fully intended to keep, for although he was perpetually short on patience with his wife, he did love her and didn’t want her to have to go even one Sunday morning without her customary blueberry muffin with streusel on top.

It was raining that day, but since Jeff had never owned an umbrella, and since he had already decided upon walking, there was little he could do about it. He tossed his neighbor’s newspaper on top of his head to protect his hair from the rain, but then remembered how the ink tended to smear and thought better of it, stopping at the corner of the block to deliver the paper to the small beagle the family who lived there had recently adopted. The pup wagged his tail in overdone gratitude and began tearing the paper to pieces so that it would resemble the one already eroding on the front steps of the house.

At the corner, Jeff checked the street sign to make sure he had walked in the right direction. He had to look down a moment to blink the rain from his eyes before he could continue on, which of course made him look at his shoes and try to remember whether he had ever gotten around to waterproofing them. It was possible he had not, and it was equally possible that Mel had used the shoes to experiment with an alternative waterproofing method she had seen on Pinterest. He would have to find a way to tactfully ask her about it later.

There were few people out that morning, and of those that were, only Jeff seemed to not have an umbrella in working condition. He walked beneath every tree he saw in an effort to make up for it, but there simply weren’t enough full trees along the way to protect his now-sopping clothes from the rain. So Jeff was soon forced to give up any effort to avoid the drizzle and instead focused on avoiding the deepest of the puddles. It was hard to tell if his socks were wet because of his shoes or his dripping pant legs.

He opened the door to city hall thinking about how he hadn’t realized it was so far from his home, then crossed the stone floor of the lobby toward the elevators.

His elevator-mate was an aging black fellow wearing a fedora, and he stood beside some luggage and an umbrella. The umbrella, which was lying on top of the man's luggage, was blue and opened slightly to air out.

They exchanged good mornings and stared together at the elevator doors.

Lorenzo

The mind is a muscle, they said, and it needs to be exercised like one. So Lorenzo dutifully went to school every day, where they handed him a packet the moment he walked in the door. He would sit with his back against the wall, pull out his pencil, and do the Sudokus first, because they were his favorite. Then he did the logic puzzles about baseball players and rows of brightly painted houses, but if he got bored doing that he would take a rest and read a couple of the articles that were in the back. You had to read them all and answer the important questions afterward, like “Who was the man who figured out how to fix the computer?” and “Write down the names of all the breeds of trees mentioned above.” When he was through with the packet, he could give it back and go home. If he fell asleep, that just meant he was there for longer, so he always did his best to stay awake, even though it was hard sometimes.

At some point, Lorenzo got bored of the packets. He wanted to read big people things, like the magazines his uncle was always reading. They could probably tell he was bored, because the next week, he was told to go to a different room, where they would have a different packet for him. The new packet had some Sudokus in the front still, probably because they knew he liked them, but also some how-to articles, about fixing cars and putting TVs together. He had to raise his hand to ask for some help understanding some of it, because he had never seen the inside of a TV before, and they stood talking in the corner about it for a minute. During that minute, Lorenzo examined the new room. The walls were all white, with one blue wall that had a clock on it. And there were bean bags with kids sitting in them and a couple red and brown rugs on the floor. It was the first time he couldn’t remember what the first room looked like. He’d never really looked at it. And that was weird. Really weird.

They were taking a long time talking. He looked at the boy on the bean bag nearby and tried to see what he was reading, but the angle wasn’t good. So he stood up and walked behind him to look, but even then he couldn’t read it because the spelling was all messed up.

“What’re you reading?” he asked, still trying to find a word, even just one, that he could read.

The boy looked back at him and said something that he didn’t understand, and he wondered if the boy was one of those people who didn’t exercise their mind enough and so they were having to start over or something. He walked away from the boy.

They were done talking in the corner and were looking at him, so he walked over to where they stood and asked, “Is that boy on the bean bag chair someone who is stupid?”

They shushed him and glanced at the boy in the corner, then put an arm around his shoulder and took him out of that room, even though his pencil was still in there and it was his only pencil. They gave him a screwdriver instead. He knew what they looked like because his uncle had one.

“We’re going to show you the inside of a TV so you can understand what you are reading,” they said.

“Will it take a long time?”

“You can go home once you finish that part of the packet,” they said. “It shouldn’t take too long.”

“Okay.”

That was the day Lorenzo found out the insides of TVs look weird.





Is there a point to this particular longer-than-a-paragraph fiction? Does there need to be a point? I felt like I had a point at the beginning: I was playing around with an educational system and society that does not prize critical thinking -- or knowledge, even. But as it went on, it turned out that Lorenzo was not as interested as I was in making a point. He resisted fighting the system. So I didn't force him to, because it felt wrong.

It is a story. And no, it doesn't really have a point. A lot of people think that stories should have a point. Even more people think that poetry should have a point. I'd like to ask why. Can't it just be a story? Can't I write a poem that is just about how much I love vanilla ice cream, without any sort of agenda? And once it is written, does its value lie in its ability to make a point, its ability to sound profound? I reserve the right to write without trying to inject it with an agenda of any sort. The point is to enjoy it. Find a lesson if you want, but I'm not going to try to teach one.

Paragraph Fiction - Stolen First Lines

Rules: Find a random book, steal the first sentence, and make things up from there.



It was almost December, and Jonas was beginning to be frightened. His father had promised to return before the year was out, but the snows had already begun and nothing stirred outside their small home except the last few leaves that trembled on the trees beside the blank road. The unknown was gnawing at him in the night so that he could not sleep, so Jonas put on his heavy coat and the scarf his grandma had sent and walked outside, where the snow was glowing with moonlight and he could almost hear the stars twinkle. He walked and erased the blank road, driving an uneven line across it until his feet reminded him that he had boots beneath his bed back home, but he had not discovered his father by then and so boots would have to wait until spring, when his father would give him bear hugs every day and remind him to be careful about getting lost in the mountains where he liked to escape.
The Giver, Lois Lowry

This is me when I was 10 years old. I was old and wrinkly. At least, that's what I thought, or else I thought I would skip my prime altogether and enter old age in a month or so. They are one and the same, really; ten was ancient compared to the youthful three or four, at which age you were just beginning your education and discovering how to tie your shoes. But I was beyond learning to make a bow from shoelaces and teaching my hand to shape the letter B. When I looked in the mirror, I saw the wrinkles already growing, crows feet at the edges of my eyes when I smiled just so, my teeth falling out and implying a serious need for dentures, a hair I could have sworn was gray even though Mom assured me it was a light blonde. And so I wrote my will, and bequeathed my Barbie set to my future nieces, who I was sure would come along relatively soon, because my younger brother was seven, after all, and seven isn't so much younger than ten. That done, I visited the cemetery to find a gravestone I thought would suit me, finally selecting one that had a rose and the name Pearl Quinn on it. I took a picture of it and placed it on the refrigerator along with my will so no one would forget.
Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi

George Washington Crosby began to hallucinate eight days before he died. If you were blind and could have heard him talking, you would have assumed his deathbed to be surrounded by a family of ducks and twenty-one hamsters, all in deep mourning and doing their best to amuse the poor fellow. When he did finally die, it was while smiling at the antics of a particular hamster that had attempted to ride one of the ducks as it ran, quacking, around the perimeter of the room and out into the hall. The hamster fell off somewhere near the bookcase, where it sighed and brushed itself off, then held out a thumb (which it had been miraculously born with) for a lift back to the right rear bedpost, where his brother had taken up temporary residence for lack of room beneath the bed proper.
Tinkers, Paul Harding

The Story of a Rewrite

You know, "rewrite" was once (is?) an
occupation. Reporters would dictate the facts
and quotes over the phone.

I wrote a story in high school that I thought was kind of amazing. I still think it's a pretty good story, actually, and so do those who have read it. It was nearly self-published, but that fell off the bandwagon.

I'm rather grateful it fell off the bandwagon, though, considering how much my writing has improved since then. Looking back, the story had a lot of good things going for it: Personable characters, believable villains (since it was YA, they were definitely villains, not just the cause of conflict), and an intact and original magic system. Probably some other things, too, but I don't remember them right now.

I do remember the major problem of the piece: It had no middle.

Technically, it had one. I mean, there wasn't a vacuum where pages were supposed to be, but what I did have was a few chapters taking my characters straight from the beginning to the end. Nothing important happened in the middle. They discovered they could use magic, learned how to use that magic, then went on a trip and defeated the villain. The only thing that happened in between was the travel, a little character development, and no big mishaps. Nobody messed up, nobody got seriously hurt, nobody did anything interesting.

Since high school, I have always told myself I would rewrite that story. At first, I was waiting so I wouldn't feel so attached to the first version (note: not “draft.” I had edited the manuscript in high school and had it edited by someone else, too). I didn't want to edit it; I wanted to rewrite it entirely. At some point, I was waiting because I wanted to figure out a middle.

But then I got all excited to write something and figured the time had come to give that story another go.

My first chapter was amazing (in my humble opinion). Here are my first few paragraphs, to give you an idea:

Will was hiding behind a fence, crouched down, straining his neck now and then to peer over the top. He was not, of course, hiding hiding. He was lying in wait, in the midst of a midday stakeout with Alex. They were both armed with PVC pipe marshmallow guns, loaded and ready to go the minute Tristan opened the front door.

The fence smelled funny for some reason Will could not figure out, so he was doing his best to quietly breathe through his mouth. He heard a noise, something like the thumping of someone quickly coming down a flight of stairs inside. Looking at Alex, he squinted his eyes, widened them, squinted again. Alex grinned and nodded, then the two of them readjusted their feet so they were ready to bust out of there.

The door opened, and Tristan came out. The two boys yelled and jumped out from behind the fence, blowing their marshmallows at her and quickly reloading. She took off down the sidewalk. Will and Alex gave chase, whooping and doing their best to reload their guns. They had brought along especially stale marshmallows today, saved for the occasion. The boys—all of the boys, every single one of their comrades in arms—had determined today was the day.

Today, they would crush the enemy.

The enemy? The girls, of course. Sneaking, prissy, lying, cheating, conniving girls.

Encouraged by how well things were going, I dedicated myself to writing a bit every day, pushing the story forward. That was fine and dandy until I realized the story was boring.

The idea, brilliant (if I do say so myself). The writing, on par (can we just assume I am mildly humble and just being blatant about things to make a point?). The story, suffering.

I sent it to a writing friend with the request that she check to see if it had a pulse. Is the story alive, or was I forcing dead story parts together without making a successful monster? I thought it was maybe because I had spent so much time out of the story.

But then I caught myself in the act of destroying the story, and I realized what the problem was. My epiphany happened when I had the thought that things would get interesting if I let the two kids destroy a building. Something needed to go out of control, and it had to be big. But no! I thought to my muse. If I do that, everything will be derailed! They can't destroy something and still be left alone long enough to learn how to use magic like they are supposed to!

Charles Dickens: Died while writing a mystery.
The man had class. This is the one mystery that will
never truly be solved; it has been stopped
forever in the middle.

Do you see what the problem was? It wasn't the exact wording from the original that I needed to divorce myself from; it was the story itself. I was so stuck on the idea that this story ended this way, with events A, B, and C, that I would not allow a middle to affect anything in my original plot.

But every chapter needs to affect every subsequent chapter. As I learned from my Writing Excuses course, I shouldn't be writing a chapter that the reader can skip. I was trying to create a middle for the sake of a middle.

But unless it affects the end, it's a dead middle. And that is what I had on my hands.

I could have realized this and then thrown the original story out the window, but I just can't distance myself that much from the original story. It's like I know that's how it happened, and I can't lie to the reader about it and make something else up. That's my own problem. My own solution: Start on something new. Ditch the story.

I am no longer qualified to write it, at least not now. Maybe in the distant future I can resurrect the characters and concept—but only those, because the story itself was a dud. This, folks, is why we use a (metaphorical, in my case) #2 pencil.

I am not advocating quitting on a manuscript. However, I will say that if you come across a problem because you are rewriting—not editing and not re-storying—it may be time to set the story aside. Make sure your reasoning is sound, and then remember that there are other stories out there.

And my new story? As of right now, I don't know the ending. And that gives me the freedom to write the truth of the story, including a middle that matters.