In the year I turned 40, I rediscovered myself as a writer.
I'm not going to detail here the strange, mystical, spiritual experience that preceded it, but suffice it to say that one long, dreary Sunday afternoon, while my kids were away visiting their dad, I sat down at the computer and decided to try writing something. Following the adage 'write what you know', I produced a couple of pages of story about an overweight, single mom trying to make ends meet, trying not to feel like a loser, agonizing about finding love again ... in general, all the issues that were plaguing me at the time. (I think I still have it buried in a file somewhere...) It was fun! Words flowed, in an odd kind of way, and I felt good about my ability to create.
I carried on, writing scenes, descriptions, chapters, events - nothing cohesive and certainly nothing publishable. And I enjoyed it hugely! I started a little writer's group - a few friends who met up once a month and read their ramblings to each other. Then, through the internet, I got connected to a Christian writers' group and in 2002, was given the opportunity to attend a Christian Writer's Conference in the USA - all expenses paid. What a gift! Part of attending a conference, however, is that you are expected to bring along a sample of your writing and to receive critical feedback on it from real, live editors or agents or published authors. So I took my collection of scenes and chapters and pulled them together into a kind of a story. Wrote up a synopsis, polished the first chapter and printed it all out. Took it to the conference and got raves from the two editors I submitted it to.
Now, if memory serves, the writing wasn't all that good. The story was about a man who lives for twenty years under an assumed name, hiding his real identity from his first and second wives and his sons. Then one day, something overturns his world, his little daughter's life is in danger and he goes on the run, trying to prevent his carefully-fabricated world from collapsing. The story was heavily imbued with religious elements (befitting a Christian story) and had a redemeptive theme.
Since then I've written a lot more, mainly fiction in the form of a few short stories and a few more attempts at a novel. My writing has been heavily influenced by whatever is going on in my 'inner life' at the time - and for the greater part of the last few years, that has had to do with my personal spiritual journey / odyssey / whatever you want to call it. And interestingly, a recurrent theme has been to do with hidden identity - with things looking like one thing on the surface, but underneath, there is something completely unexpected going on. Characters are never quite who they seem to be, but they all manage to fool everyone around them (and themselves!) until suddenly, for some reason or other, the system breaks down and the old masks no longer serve ... then the real journey of self-discovery and redemption begins!
Now I have turned 50 and once again, life is imitating art to a degree. Not only is a new emigration plan underway, but I think my writing life is getting a revamp. I seem to have lost all interest (for now) in building a 'world' and in developing characters. I am still trying to make sense of the spiritual. My thinking has undergone a 180 degree change in the last two years and after being a Christian for well over 30 years, the most honest thing I can call myself now is 'agnostic'. And that upheaval is the thing I most want to get to write about.
Not as fiction, though. Maybe as literary or narrative non-fiction. We'll see. I hope it will still be fun, though!!
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Thursday, August 14
Thursday, May 22
Why do we need stories?
What would life be like if we didn't have stories? That we need stories is evidenced by the shelves full of books in our libraries and bookstores and schools, and by the sold-out movie theatres that you'll find in every corner of every country of the world. We find stories everywhere - on the radio, in the lyrics of a song, in the words of the lady at the water cooler recounting her weekend away. But WHY do we need stories? I found a wonderful answer to this question here today, in an article by Jacqui Banaszynski. She writes:
There's more to it than that, I'm sure, but it's a pretty good starting point.
I asked Pete (a journalist writing about forest services) last week to tell me why we need stories, and he sent me back a note which, he confessed, was wine-induced, and he said this:
“I need stories to know I’m not alone. That is reason enough. They tell me what we do and how we live and occasionally, if I’m lucky, they tell me why. There is a commonality to stories that makes us whole beings. Walt Whitman knew that when he wrote ‘Leaves of Grass’:
‘I celebrate myself,
And what I assume, you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.’”
There's more to it than that, I'm sure, but it's a pretty good starting point.
Saturday, May 17
Quick Plug
This is probably my favorite online word game site.
The site was founded a year ago with the Original Game where players were given a two-part phrase describing both a person and something else. For example, a post may be 'He was like Stalinism: of Russian descent' or 'She was like a walled city: unnecessarily defensive.'
The player's goal is try to think of a more clever second part. For example, if the topic was 'She was like conditioning shampoo: multi-tasking', you might respond with 'always making promises she couldn't keep' or 'often found in hotel bathrooms.'
The site now offers seven daily/weekly games that foster abstract and creative thinking. Games are of the challenge and response type - given a clue, users come up with a creative response and then vote for the posts they think are really good - winners are announced when the next round starts.
It's a lot of fun for people who love word play and quite competitive too ... at present, I'm running second only to the legendary Beau - yeah, go me! LOL! There is also the opportunity to submit your own clever word game for inclusion ... mine is called Fictionary!
See you there?
Thoughts on Work, Writing and Life
Way back at the end of 1998, I left bedside nursing for a managerial post and in 2001, I moved on to an administrative post with a risk management company. When that job ended in early 2004, I decided that I no longer wanted to be in the nursing world. I'd originally trained as an RN at the suggestion of my father and for a number of reasons, had never pursued my love of reading, writing, literature, film etc, so when I found myself with a small retrenchment package and an even smaller pension payout, I took a chance and started freelancing as an editor/writer. I wanted a new identity for myself now that I was in my 40s and was determined to find it doing something I really loved - ie working with words!
In the beginning, I worked mainly on commercial projects - brochures, directories, newsletters etc. I was lucky to get quite a lot of work via a friend who is a successful graphic designer, but I struggled to find the oomph to go out and rustle up business for myself. We scraped by on my earnings and the various packages until early 2005, when economic necessity forced me to face up to the fact that I needed more money than I was earning as a freelancer if I wanted to survive.
I fought long and hard against the idea of doing relief RN shifts - going back to nursing felt just like 'failing' to me. In the end, with a great deal of unhappiness, I signed up with an agency and did some shifts in ICU and HiCare at a local hospital. I hated it - I felt stupid, incompetent, out of my depth and useless - but the money was more than useful! So 2005 to the end of 2007 saw me doing a combination of part time RN work and some freelance stuff. Some months were great and others were really tight, but we never starved and I never missed a mortgage payment either.
Towards the end of 2007, with my USA emigration process staggering along in fits and starts, I started reviewing options for 2008. This, the year in which I faced up to turning 50, had to be a year that meant something, in which I achieved something out of the ordinary to mark the event (and probably to prove to myself that I wasn't a failure / loser / ordinary etc ...) I decided to pursue a new qualification which I hoped would be useful to me in the US.
But none of that worked out - my house sale fell through meaning I had NO spare cash in the bank to fund a sabbatical year, plus there was a screw-up and I didn't get into the course I'd applied for. Major bummer all round. Think again time ... and only six months left before 50 showed up. In the end, it wasn't that hard a decision. I needed a regular income, I'd been doing relief work for the past 18 months with a LTC facility and they had an opening. I figured if nothing else, I could spend my free time writing properly again for a change, the way I used to do before I started freelancing. So by April the 1st, I started back in fulltime nursing.
Now here's the odd and very surprising thing: I'm happier and more at peace now than I have been in a very long time. It's not just the job, of course, although I have to say I am really, really happy there, for many different reasons (like the people, like the ambience, like the feeling that I'm good at what I do, like building relationships with my patients etc etc.) It's also living in a place that is much more 'me', it's coming to terms with the spiritual and philosophical issues that have caused me so much deep heartache over the last few years, and it's seeing my kids moving on and feeling secure and happy too.
So all that remains for this year is to get actually Write The Book. And get through July 6th in one piece ... anyone got any wonderful ideas on a unique way to celebrate a 50th?
In the beginning, I worked mainly on commercial projects - brochures, directories, newsletters etc. I was lucky to get quite a lot of work via a friend who is a successful graphic designer, but I struggled to find the oomph to go out and rustle up business for myself. We scraped by on my earnings and the various packages until early 2005, when economic necessity forced me to face up to the fact that I needed more money than I was earning as a freelancer if I wanted to survive.
I fought long and hard against the idea of doing relief RN shifts - going back to nursing felt just like 'failing' to me. In the end, with a great deal of unhappiness, I signed up with an agency and did some shifts in ICU and HiCare at a local hospital. I hated it - I felt stupid, incompetent, out of my depth and useless - but the money was more than useful! So 2005 to the end of 2007 saw me doing a combination of part time RN work and some freelance stuff. Some months were great and others were really tight, but we never starved and I never missed a mortgage payment either.
Towards the end of 2007, with my USA emigration process staggering along in fits and starts, I started reviewing options for 2008. This, the year in which I faced up to turning 50, had to be a year that meant something, in which I achieved something out of the ordinary to mark the event (and probably to prove to myself that I wasn't a failure / loser / ordinary etc ...) I decided to pursue a new qualification which I hoped would be useful to me in the US.
But none of that worked out - my house sale fell through meaning I had NO spare cash in the bank to fund a sabbatical year, plus there was a screw-up and I didn't get into the course I'd applied for. Major bummer all round. Think again time ... and only six months left before 50 showed up. In the end, it wasn't that hard a decision. I needed a regular income, I'd been doing relief work for the past 18 months with a LTC facility and they had an opening. I figured if nothing else, I could spend my free time writing properly again for a change, the way I used to do before I started freelancing. So by April the 1st, I started back in fulltime nursing.
Now here's the odd and very surprising thing: I'm happier and more at peace now than I have been in a very long time. It's not just the job, of course, although I have to say I am really, really happy there, for many different reasons (like the people, like the ambience, like the feeling that I'm good at what I do, like building relationships with my patients etc etc.) It's also living in a place that is much more 'me', it's coming to terms with the spiritual and philosophical issues that have caused me so much deep heartache over the last few years, and it's seeing my kids moving on and feeling secure and happy too.
So all that remains for this year is to get actually Write The Book. And get through July 6th in one piece ... anyone got any wonderful ideas on a unique way to celebrate a 50th?
Thursday, May 8
Writing Buddies
I just got linked up (thanks to Kells) with an accountability group called Word Count Buddies.
Basically, you have to write at least 100 words per day or suffer a cyberflogging! With my personal goal of completing my new novel within the Big Five Oh year (ie by 31st Dec 2008), I need something to keep me focused on actually writing every day - and blog entries/emails/comments don't count!
Basically, you have to write at least 100 words per day or suffer a cyberflogging! With my personal goal of completing my new novel within the Big Five Oh year (ie by 31st Dec 2008), I need something to keep me focused on actually writing every day - and blog entries/emails/comments don't count!
So here we go. So far so good. They look like an interesting group of writers - thirteen in all. Hope that number will prove lucky for some, including me!
Redwood tree, CA 2004 - we all have to start somewhere ... Monday, March 31
The Book Thief
Australian author Markus Zusak is my new hero and inspiration. I'm two-thirds the way through The Book Thief, which is, as he says: " ... just a small story really, about among other things: a girl, some words, an accordionist, some fanatical Germans, a Jewish fist-fighter, and quite a lot of thievery. . . . "
This book captivates me on a multiplicity of levels. The use of words is simply outstanding - consider this from the opening paragraphs:
Where are my manners?
I could introduce myself properly, but it's not really necessary. You will know me well enough and soon enough, depending on a diverse range of variables. It suffices to say that at some point in time, I will be standing over you, as genially as possible. Your soul will be in my arms. A color will be perched on my shoulder. I will carry you gently away.
At that moment, you will be lying there (I rarely find people standing up). You will be caked in your own body. There might be a discovery; a scream will dribble down the air. The only sound I'll hear after that will be my own breathing, and the sound of the smell, of my footsteps.
The question is, what color will everything be at that moment when I come for you? What will the sky be saying?
These words are spoken by the book's narrator - Death. (Yeah, that Death!) Set during World War II in
This book works for me in sooo many ways. It touches on things like goodness and evil, words and literature, compassion and hatred, risk, faith, friendship, love, loss - and death. But even more than the actual story itself, as a wannabe writer, I am deeply inspired by the author, Markus Zusak.
In answer to the question of what inspired TBT:
It was a lot like finding a tap that's never been switched on before and turning it on... When I was growing up, my mum and dad told me stories about growing up in Nazi Germany - about a teenage boy who gave a starving Jewish man a piece of bread, of fiery skies and of people who didn't want to fly the Nazi flag. That world came rushing out of the tap. It was all at my feet, but then I had to organize it and turn it all into an imaginative piece of work. Fragments needed to be joined and I searched for the originality that would create not only a story but a style that was compelling for me to write.
In the end, The Book Thief took me three years to write. If nothing else, I know it’s a far different book from anything I’ve done before, which is what made it so challenging. I was also finally satisfied that there was a good sense of imagination in it. In three years, I must have failed over a thousand times, but each failure brought me closer to what I needed to write, and for that, I’m grateful.
Links to interviews: Here, here and here.
Sunday, October 28
Jesus
This morning, as part of my getting-organized-for-NaNoWriMo (ie procrastination with a purpose), I came across something I wrote in February 2006 - ie about 18 months ago. It was part of an application to a Christian writing organization and I was required to answer the question 'Why are you a Christian?'
Briefly explain why you are a Christian.
I am a Christian simply because I love Jesus. Without Him, life has no rhyme or reason, no purpose or point. Even at my lowest ebb, those times when faith is nothing more than a daily choice to trust in a dimly and waveringly perceived God, I would still choose Him.
What's really interesting is that despite this whole deconversion experience, my intense attraction to and interest in the person of Jesus has never disappeared completely. It's still there. And that is particularly evidenced by the fact that the NaNo book I'm going to be working on is a re-write of a book I did in 2003/2004, a book my crit partners and I called my 'Josh' book.
Back in July 2003, I sat down one day and watched the remade version of Jesus Christ Superstar. It knocked me sideways ... and into a surge of creativity. I wrote and wrote and wrote for about three months and my desire at that point was to write a story about Jesus that would make him human and accessible and attractive to the reader in the same way that the movie had made him human and accessible and attractive to me. I took that completed story to a Christian Writer's conference in April 2004 and while some editors shook their heads (What? A Jesus who doubts his calling? A Jesus who drinks beer? And drives a truck? Hoo boy ....), there were a few who liked it very much indeed. One of the literary agents asked me to send him the full ms once I was back home ...
But on my return home, life intervened and I fell into a spiritual and emotional funk and I put that story away (all 120K words of it) and never followed through. And since then, my spiritual journey has taken me a long a difficult path. I've ranted and cried and been angry and been afraid and wrestled with despair and nihilism of the worst kind.
But now. Now I find in me that same attraction to Jesus that has always been there. My beliefs at present are undefined ... I'm holding onto the mystery, continuing to read and think and explore and engage in discussion .. but I'm also going to write again. I'm going to rewrite that story bringing to it all the things that have been a part of me over the last three years. I think it was Phillip Yancey who said we write not because we have all the answers, but because we have questions that won't go away. We write to try and find those answers.
It's terrifying, but in a good way!!! I'm excited!
Wednesday, October 24
November
November is NaNoWriMo time - National Novel Writing Month.
Foolish dreamer that I am, I signed up again (!) so from now until the end of November, any and all blogging that happens will be on my other blog: Write On The Edge which is specifically writing-related.
If, as has happened before, I fail in my Nano efforts, I'll be back here much sooner. So wish me luck!
Foolish dreamer that I am, I signed up again (!) so from now until the end of November, any and all blogging that happens will be on my other blog: Write On The Edge which is specifically writing-related.
If, as has happened before, I fail in my Nano efforts, I'll be back here much sooner. So wish me luck!
Sunday, July 16
Writer's Paralysis ...
… is what I think I've got.
Writer’s Paralysis worse than Writer’s Block, ‘cos WB usually means you don’t quite know where to go next in your story, but WP means you can’t even get that story going because you don’t know what the story is about; you don’t know what you want it to be about; you don’t know what genre it’s supposed to be; you don’t know who the characters are, or where they live, or why they may or may not do any or all or none of the things you might ask them to do. You have serious doubts, and I mean really serious doubts, about whether you will ever be able to be the writer you always dreamed of being.
Writer’s Paralysis is hell.
Throughout the last six to nine months I’ve dreamed of the moment when my exam would be behind me and I would be free to write again. That time is here and thank you very much, I now have Writer’s Paralysis!! I sit and gaze at the bright, blank screen of my lovely new notebook computer and feel nothing but weakness and despair. I lie in a steaming hot bath, a place which usually unleashes ideas, connections, insights and understanding, and all I get is hot and sweaty and prune-textured finger tips. Instead of walking along the beach getting invigorated and inspired, I moulder away the hours in aimless net-surfing and dvd-watching and food cupboard-visiting.
This morning, searching for inspiration, I read an excerpt from an article that appeared in the NY Times online edition of Book News, about author Kim Edwards (48) and her debut novel ‘The Memory Keeper’s Daughter’ which is apparently zooming up the trade paperback best seller charts. “With the ethical dilemma and family drama at its heart, “The Memory Keeper’s Daughter” is appealing to readers who want a literary page turner…” Ah! A new novelist my age, writing the kind of book I’d most like to write! So I went and checked her out, hoping to maybe uncover a secret or two, a trick to breaking out of WP, and breaking into good writing (not to mention bestsellerdom!). The excerpt from the novel on Amazon looked really, really good – beautiful word flow, characterization, everything … so on to her bio:
Kim Edwards is the author of a short story collection, The Secrets of a Fire King, which was an alternate for the 1998 PEN/Hemingway Award, and has won both a Whiting Award and the Nelson Algren Award. A graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop, she currently teaches writing at the University of Kentucky.
Despair. How can a South African-born and raised woman with no education in literature or writing ever hope to write that way? I just don’t have the grounding, the education, the understanding, or the way with words that people like Kim Edwards, Sue Monk Kidder, Marilynne Robinson and Ann Patchett have. I don’t have the flow of ideas and gift for dialogue and characterization that my talented and prolific writing friend Pat has. All I have right now is the fear that if I don’t get past this, I may never, ever become a writer of any description at all. And if I am not a writer, then what am I?
Nothing?
Maybe this is part of the paralysis – the fear that if I don’t succeed as a writer, then my life will have been meaningless. After all, as a divorcee in her late forties with a minor weight problem and braces, as a freelancer who lives from job to job, as a single who has had no ‘relationship’ for nearly ten years, there’s a large part of me that feels like a hideous failure. Yes, I have wonderful kids and yes, I have a few dear friends, and yes, I am relatively healthy, and yes, for the moment I’m surviving financially. But is that enough for me to call my life ‘successful’? If so, why do I feel this pressing need to move to the US? Why do I feel that if I don’t get writing again very soon, I’ll be sinking into some kind of pit of mediocrity and loss from which I may never emerge?
There are other factors that contribute to this paralysis, I know, that I need to face up to and smash down, if I am to move past this. It feels very much like the fight I sometimes have to keep hold of my faith in God, the fight I sometimes have to keep depression at bay, the fight I often have to not give in to the feelings of loneliness that being single generates. When it feels like there’s a rock in my gut, and all I can see is mud and slime and darkness, and all I feel like doing is crying. And therein lies a clue …
Because I have come to see that crying is a safe place for me. When I cry, I’m giving in to the feelings. I’m giving up, I’m saying ‘I can’t do anything about this, whatever it may be’. I can be passive, and bitter, and feel sorry for myself. And while that’s uncomfortable, it’s also safe. No scary changing-of-attitude needed. No scary ‘I’m going to get past this’ decision.
And that is why I’m back in Lord of the Rings territory (my all-time favorite movies). Partly Frodo making his decision to carry the ring at the Council of Elrond, partly Frodo staring up at the fires of Mount Doom, but mainly Aragorn at the entrance to Dimholt Road after Elrond says to him: “Put aside the ranger. Become who you were born to be.” Frodo had Sam by his side, but Aragorn stepped out alone, not even knowing whether he would survive but prepared to risk all to try and become who he was born to be.
The way to go? I think so…
Elleann.
Writer’s Paralysis worse than Writer’s Block, ‘cos WB usually means you don’t quite know where to go next in your story, but WP means you can’t even get that story going because you don’t know what the story is about; you don’t know what you want it to be about; you don’t know what genre it’s supposed to be; you don’t know who the characters are, or where they live, or why they may or may not do any or all or none of the things you might ask them to do. You have serious doubts, and I mean really serious doubts, about whether you will ever be able to be the writer you always dreamed of being.
Writer’s Paralysis is hell.
Throughout the last six to nine months I’ve dreamed of the moment when my exam would be behind me and I would be free to write again. That time is here and thank you very much, I now have Writer’s Paralysis!! I sit and gaze at the bright, blank screen of my lovely new notebook computer and feel nothing but weakness and despair. I lie in a steaming hot bath, a place which usually unleashes ideas, connections, insights and understanding, and all I get is hot and sweaty and prune-textured finger tips. Instead of walking along the beach getting invigorated and inspired, I moulder away the hours in aimless net-surfing and dvd-watching and food cupboard-visiting.
This morning, searching for inspiration, I read an excerpt from an article that appeared in the NY Times online edition of Book News, about author Kim Edwards (48) and her debut novel ‘The Memory Keeper’s Daughter’ which is apparently zooming up the trade paperback best seller charts. “With the ethical dilemma and family drama at its heart, “The Memory Keeper’s Daughter” is appealing to readers who want a literary page turner…” Ah! A new novelist my age, writing the kind of book I’d most like to write! So I went and checked her out, hoping to maybe uncover a secret or two, a trick to breaking out of WP, and breaking into good writing (not to mention bestsellerdom!). The excerpt from the novel on Amazon looked really, really good – beautiful word flow, characterization, everything … so on to her bio:
Kim Edwards is the author of a short story collection, The Secrets of a Fire King, which was an alternate for the 1998 PEN/Hemingway Award, and has won both a Whiting Award and the Nelson Algren Award. A graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop, she currently teaches writing at the University of Kentucky.
Despair. How can a South African-born and raised woman with no education in literature or writing ever hope to write that way? I just don’t have the grounding, the education, the understanding, or the way with words that people like Kim Edwards, Sue Monk Kidder, Marilynne Robinson and Ann Patchett have. I don’t have the flow of ideas and gift for dialogue and characterization that my talented and prolific writing friend Pat has. All I have right now is the fear that if I don’t get past this, I may never, ever become a writer of any description at all. And if I am not a writer, then what am I?
Nothing?
Maybe this is part of the paralysis – the fear that if I don’t succeed as a writer, then my life will have been meaningless. After all, as a divorcee in her late forties with a minor weight problem and braces, as a freelancer who lives from job to job, as a single who has had no ‘relationship’ for nearly ten years, there’s a large part of me that feels like a hideous failure. Yes, I have wonderful kids and yes, I have a few dear friends, and yes, I am relatively healthy, and yes, for the moment I’m surviving financially. But is that enough for me to call my life ‘successful’? If so, why do I feel this pressing need to move to the US? Why do I feel that if I don’t get writing again very soon, I’ll be sinking into some kind of pit of mediocrity and loss from which I may never emerge?
There are other factors that contribute to this paralysis, I know, that I need to face up to and smash down, if I am to move past this. It feels very much like the fight I sometimes have to keep hold of my faith in God, the fight I sometimes have to keep depression at bay, the fight I often have to not give in to the feelings of loneliness that being single generates. When it feels like there’s a rock in my gut, and all I can see is mud and slime and darkness, and all I feel like doing is crying. And therein lies a clue …
Because I have come to see that crying is a safe place for me. When I cry, I’m giving in to the feelings. I’m giving up, I’m saying ‘I can’t do anything about this, whatever it may be’. I can be passive, and bitter, and feel sorry for myself. And while that’s uncomfortable, it’s also safe. No scary changing-of-attitude needed. No scary ‘I’m going to get past this’ decision.
And that is why I’m back in Lord of the Rings territory (my all-time favorite movies). Partly Frodo making his decision to carry the ring at the Council of Elrond, partly Frodo staring up at the fires of Mount Doom, but mainly Aragorn at the entrance to Dimholt Road after Elrond says to him: “Put aside the ranger. Become who you were born to be.” Frodo had Sam by his side, but Aragorn stepped out alone, not even knowing whether he would survive but prepared to risk all to try and become who he was born to be.
The way to go? I think so…
Elleann.
Sunday, November 13
Tell me a Story!
My contribution to the November 'Writers Craft Fair' edition of the Celebration of New Christian Fiction blog carnival. To visit other stalls, call in at Violet Nesdoly's blog for directions!
When I flew back to Cape Town after attending the Mt Hermon Christian Writers Conference in California last year, I ended up bent double beneath a backpack crammed with books! The darn thing even set off the sensors at LAX and I had to unpack it, ending up with a bunch of novels and inspirational books, and a collossal pile of 'how-to-write' tomes strewn across the counter. The bemused security person stared at the books and then at me, before saying: ‘You expecting a boring ride, lady?’
In South Africa, good books on writing are often hard to find (and even more expensive to import) hence my toting home multiple orders for friends, fresh fodder for the book club, as well as a selection of new books on writing techniques for myself, which included Self Editing for Fiction Writers (Browne and King), Getting into Character (Brandilyn Collins) and The First Five Pages (Noah Lukeman).
But oddly enough, the book that has since become my personal writing bible wasn’t even in that backpack, despite that fact that it was on one editor’s 'Most Recommended' list at Mt Hermon! I’d looked at it in the bookshop, scanned the first few hard-to-read pages, checked out the price, performed the dollars to rands conversion, let out a silent screech—and returned it to the shelf.
But as the months went by and my critique partners started raving about it, quoting from it, and writing better as a result of reading it, I realized I had to get hold of the thing. None of our local bookshops carried it, so I turned to the library and after an eternity of a wait, I received the one and only copy in the whole provincial library system.
I devoured it. Breathed it, ate it, slept it and dreamt it until I reached the end, then started all over again. I was completely and utterly hooked. I learned about …
But that was just the start. This author took me deep into the world of storytelling. He taught me about the elements of story—the structure spectrum and its relationship to setting, genre, character and meaning. About story design—from the inciting incident to resolution. About the principles of antagonism, exposition, characters, problems and solutions.
By now, however, the library was petulantly wanting to know when they could get their copy back—didn’t I think four months was a little long to keep a book? With extreme reluctance I returned it. And then (bless his heart!) my brother in the UK sourced a paperback edition and mailed it to me as a belated birthday present!
Happy, happy, happy birthday to me!
So this, now, is the book on writing I will recommend first and foremost to anyone who wants to dive in deep and really get to grips with the craft of storytelling.
STORY – Substance, Structure, Style and the Principles of Screenwriting by Robert McKee.
This book arose, btw, from McKee's highly respected Story Seminars - and his graduate list includes such luminaries as the writers of the movies LOTR, A Beautiful Mind, Shrek, Phantom of the Opera, Law & Order, CSI plus a whole ream of Emmy, Academy, DGA and WGA award winners. Don't be put off by the 'screenwriting' aspect - the input applies equally well to novelists!
In his introduction, McKee says (see, now even I’m quoting him!) that his book Story is about …
It’s a winner!
Elleann.
Unraveling life … one word at a time.
When I flew back to Cape Town after attending the Mt Hermon Christian Writers Conference in California last year, I ended up bent double beneath a backpack crammed with books! The darn thing even set off the sensors at LAX and I had to unpack it, ending up with a bunch of novels and inspirational books, and a collossal pile of 'how-to-write' tomes strewn across the counter. The bemused security person stared at the books and then at me, before saying: ‘You expecting a boring ride, lady?’
In South Africa, good books on writing are often hard to find (and even more expensive to import) hence my toting home multiple orders for friends, fresh fodder for the book club, as well as a selection of new books on writing techniques for myself, which included Self Editing for Fiction Writers (Browne and King), Getting into Character (Brandilyn Collins) and The First Five Pages (Noah Lukeman).
But oddly enough, the book that has since become my personal writing bible wasn’t even in that backpack, despite that fact that it was on one editor’s 'Most Recommended' list at Mt Hermon! I’d looked at it in the bookshop, scanned the first few hard-to-read pages, checked out the price, performed the dollars to rands conversion, let out a silent screech—and returned it to the shelf.
But as the months went by and my critique partners started raving about it, quoting from it, and writing better as a result of reading it, I realized I had to get hold of the thing. None of our local bookshops carried it, so I turned to the library and after an eternity of a wait, I received the one and only copy in the whole provincial library system.
I devoured it. Breathed it, ate it, slept it and dreamt it until I reached the end, then started all over again. I was completely and utterly hooked. I learned about …
… The love of story—the belief that your vision can be expressed only through story, that characters can be more real than people, that the fictional world can be more profound than the concrete.
… The love of truth—the belief that lies cripple the artist, that every truth in life must be questioned, down to one’s own secret motive
... The love of humanity—a willingness to empathize with suffering souls, to crawl inside their skins and see the world through their eyes.
… The love of dreaming—the pleasure in taking leisurely rides on your imagination just to see where it leads.
… The love of language—the delight in sound and sense, syntax and semantics.
… The love of duality—a feel for life’s hidden contradictions, a healthy suspicion that things are not what they seem.
… The love of perfection—the passion to write and rewrite in pursuit of the perfect moment.
… And finally, the love of self—a strength that doesn’t need to be constantly reassured, than never doubts that you are indeed a writer …
But that was just the start. This author took me deep into the world of storytelling. He taught me about the elements of story—the structure spectrum and its relationship to setting, genre, character and meaning. About story design—from the inciting incident to resolution. About the principles of antagonism, exposition, characters, problems and solutions.
By now, however, the library was petulantly wanting to know when they could get their copy back—didn’t I think four months was a little long to keep a book? With extreme reluctance I returned it. And then (bless his heart!) my brother in the UK sourced a paperback edition and mailed it to me as a belated birthday present!
Happy, happy, happy birthday to me!
So this, now, is the book on writing I will recommend first and foremost to anyone who wants to dive in deep and really get to grips with the craft of storytelling.
STORY – Substance, Structure, Style and the Principles of Screenwriting by Robert McKee.
This book arose, btw, from McKee's highly respected Story Seminars - and his graduate list includes such luminaries as the writers of the movies LOTR, A Beautiful Mind, Shrek, Phantom of the Opera, Law & Order, CSI plus a whole ream of Emmy, Academy, DGA and WGA award winners. Don't be put off by the 'screenwriting' aspect - the input applies equally well to novelists!
In his introduction, McKee says (see, now even I’m quoting him!) that his book Story is about …
'... principles, not rules; about eternal, universal forms, not formulas; about archetypes, not stereotypes; about thoroughness, not shortcuts, about the realities not the mysteries of writing; about mastering the art, not second-guessing the marketplace; about respect, not disdain, for the audience; and about originality, not duplication.’
It’s a winner!
Elleann.
Unraveling life … one word at a time.
Sunday, November 6
The second reason ...
It's official. I am now a NaNoWriMo 2005 dropout.
Although I feel relieved to have made the decision, I hate the feeling that comes with having started something and then not completed it. My inner tape player starts spooling the same old tunes I've played time and time again over the years - no-good loser, weakling, drop-out ... failure. But having examined my reasons - second one coming up now - I can actually turn that tape off this time - woo hoo! And that's progress, big personal inner progress. I must also admit that I feel some regret, but that regret had nothing to do with my not writing! It's purely regret at not being a part of the 'team' any more, of not going every day to see how my word counts stacks up against my writing buddies' word counts - in other words, I'm missing not being in the competition anymore! So down, vile competitive spirit! Begone!
So, the other reason.
And maybe this is an even more important reason in terms of life. I gave up NaNo because I had to make a choice about my present priorities. I'm in the middle of a life-changing process right now. Having been born, bred and lived the last forty-plus years in South Africa, I'm attempting at last to fulfil a long-held dream of emigrating to the US!! Woo hoo again!!
It's quite a long process and can take two to two and a half years in total. I received a job offer from a hospital group in Northern California. But the next step is that I have to take an exam called the NCLEX , which will enable me to practice as an RN in the US. This is not an easy exam to pass - current stats reveal that only 75% of first timers pass the test, and only 42% of repeat takers get through. There is also a financial outlay as the test gets taken in the US and airfares are pricy. IF I pass, I will be reimbursed from my relocation allowance. If I fail, I will be deep in debt and my hopes and dreams will be in tatters and shreds.
So, with the exam looming in Feb next year, I have to study a lot more than I am doing right now. And at my 'advanced' age, it also takes more mental effort than it used to.
So, tied to my feeling discussed in yesterday's post, and that my evaluation test scores are only showing up at round 60% (you have to be hitting a regular 75% to be ready for the NCLEX), I don't feel bad anymore about being a NaNo dropout.
Elleann.
Unravelling life ... one word at a time.
Although I feel relieved to have made the decision, I hate the feeling that comes with having started something and then not completed it. My inner tape player starts spooling the same old tunes I've played time and time again over the years - no-good loser, weakling, drop-out ... failure. But having examined my reasons - second one coming up now - I can actually turn that tape off this time - woo hoo! And that's progress, big personal inner progress. I must also admit that I feel some regret, but that regret had nothing to do with my not writing! It's purely regret at not being a part of the 'team' any more, of not going every day to see how my word counts stacks up against my writing buddies' word counts - in other words, I'm missing not being in the competition anymore! So down, vile competitive spirit! Begone!
So, the other reason.
And maybe this is an even more important reason in terms of life. I gave up NaNo because I had to make a choice about my present priorities. I'm in the middle of a life-changing process right now. Having been born, bred and lived the last forty-plus years in South Africa, I'm attempting at last to fulfil a long-held dream of emigrating to the US!! Woo hoo again!!
It's quite a long process and can take two to two and a half years in total. I received a job offer from a hospital group in Northern California. But the next step is that I have to take an exam called the NCLEX , which will enable me to practice as an RN in the US. This is not an easy exam to pass - current stats reveal that only 75% of first timers pass the test, and only 42% of repeat takers get through. There is also a financial outlay as the test gets taken in the US and airfares are pricy. IF I pass, I will be reimbursed from my relocation allowance. If I fail, I will be deep in debt and my hopes and dreams will be in tatters and shreds.
So, with the exam looming in Feb next year, I have to study a lot more than I am doing right now. And at my 'advanced' age, it also takes more mental effort than it used to.
So, tied to my feeling discussed in yesterday's post, and that my evaluation test scores are only showing up at round 60% (you have to be hitting a regular 75% to be ready for the NCLEX), I don't feel bad anymore about being a NaNo dropout.
Elleann.
Unravelling life ... one word at a time.
Saturday, November 5
Not this time ...
Well. I just learned my short story for the FiF contest didn't make the final cut. Sad, sad, sad ... then I found a link to one of the finalist's stories in the comments section of Dave Long's blog. I read the story, to see what the 'competition' was like, why my story didn't make it. All I can say is - awesome writing! Congratulations, Mike!! If this a measure of the calibre of the entrants, then it's no wonder I'm not among them.
That set me thinking about the writing I am doing now, however. The NaNo stuff. As mentioned below, I got going - and then I got stuck! I have the outline, I have the characters, I know the conflicts, but still I got stuck. And so I've been stressed out for the last couple days, knowing I was falling way behind the daily word count. (By now I should be up at somewhere round 6680 words, and I'm only at about 1500!)
Why? Because I don't like what I'm writing and I don't like the way the characters are behaving. Under the pressure of just churning out masses of words, I'm losing sight of the nuances of the characters - their attitudes, their accents, their hearts - the small things that make them really real. They're starting to walk and talk like cardboard cutouts instead of real people. I find I'm writing scenes just to 'tell what happens' and I'm forgetting about things like 'the turn' (McKee), the scene and sequel structure (Dwight Swain), pacing and so much more. All the things I've spent such a long time learning.
So why am I pulverizing myself just to turn out a badly-written 50 K novel, when what I really want to do is learn how to write the way Mike does, to write prose that sings and stirs the heart?
So I guess I should thank Dave for not choosing my short story for the final cut! If something I labored long and hard over isn't good enough yet, then a 50K novel written under pressure is certainly not going to be something I will feel proud of. I already have 2 other unfinished, unpublished novels gathering moss on my hard drive - do I really want another?
Maybe not.
Elleann.
Just unravelling today ...
That set me thinking about the writing I am doing now, however. The NaNo stuff. As mentioned below, I got going - and then I got stuck! I have the outline, I have the characters, I know the conflicts, but still I got stuck. And so I've been stressed out for the last couple days, knowing I was falling way behind the daily word count. (By now I should be up at somewhere round 6680 words, and I'm only at about 1500!)
Why? Because I don't like what I'm writing and I don't like the way the characters are behaving. Under the pressure of just churning out masses of words, I'm losing sight of the nuances of the characters - their attitudes, their accents, their hearts - the small things that make them really real. They're starting to walk and talk like cardboard cutouts instead of real people. I find I'm writing scenes just to 'tell what happens' and I'm forgetting about things like 'the turn' (McKee), the scene and sequel structure (Dwight Swain), pacing and so much more. All the things I've spent such a long time learning.
So why am I pulverizing myself just to turn out a badly-written 50 K novel, when what I really want to do is learn how to write the way Mike does, to write prose that sings and stirs the heart?
So I guess I should thank Dave for not choosing my short story for the final cut! If something I labored long and hard over isn't good enough yet, then a 50K novel written under pressure is certainly not going to be something I will feel proud of. I already have 2 other unfinished, unpublished novels gathering moss on my hard drive - do I really want another?
Maybe not.
Elleann.
Just unravelling today ...
Wednesday, November 2
Day Two begins
The first day of NaNoWriMo is over and I survived! But only just ...
After not having written anything for the last while, it was kinda scary to be faced with a crispy clean screen, but nevertheless I sat down, ready to go. I'd had a few ideas for a story, but hadn't done any serious preparation. So, guess what happened? I wrote and deleted, wrote and deleted, wrote and deleted .. and then it was nearly 10.30 pm and I had nothing to post to my word count.
The problem was I'd had this fantasy about 'just writing'. I'd sit down, pen in hand (so to speak!) and effortlessly pour out reams of deathless prose. I'd see this amazing, moving, award-winning novel take shape by itself, solely because I was 'doing NaNo'. Ha ha ha! So much for that fantasy! I realized that I was going to have to do something and do it pretty damn quick cos my NaNo writing buddies had already posted their first word counts - 1300 and 408 words respectively. What to do, what to do? I paced and thought and paced some more.
And I remembered that when I signed up, my esteemed writing partner and dear friend suggested I write the novel I'd just finished outlining, The Devil's Dust. I'd hesitated, then said no, because I like to write slowly, carefully, crafting every word, phrase and sentence. I like to take my time and write 'properly', and isn't NaNo all about writing with abandon, and daring, and carelessness? Yes, all of that, but it's also about writing with freedom--the freedom to make mistakes and make discoveries and make a mess and make it up and have fun! So could I write a book I really cared about that way? Wouldn't it 'ruin' it if I wrote it in 30 days, at top speed?
Did I have a choice?
If I wanted to do NaNo, I'd have to get going with something. In Devil's Dust, I have a story, I have characters, I have conflict, I have love and anguish and death and - I have a novel I could write!
So I sat down and started. And at 11:55 I posted my first word count - 862 words.
OKAY!!
Elleann.
If you're going to skate on thin ice ... you may as well dance!
After not having written anything for the last while, it was kinda scary to be faced with a crispy clean screen, but nevertheless I sat down, ready to go. I'd had a few ideas for a story, but hadn't done any serious preparation. So, guess what happened? I wrote and deleted, wrote and deleted, wrote and deleted .. and then it was nearly 10.30 pm and I had nothing to post to my word count.
The problem was I'd had this fantasy about 'just writing'. I'd sit down, pen in hand (so to speak!) and effortlessly pour out reams of deathless prose. I'd see this amazing, moving, award-winning novel take shape by itself, solely because I was 'doing NaNo'. Ha ha ha! So much for that fantasy! I realized that I was going to have to do something and do it pretty damn quick cos my NaNo writing buddies had already posted their first word counts - 1300 and 408 words respectively. What to do, what to do? I paced and thought and paced some more.
And I remembered that when I signed up, my esteemed writing partner and dear friend suggested I write the novel I'd just finished outlining, The Devil's Dust. I'd hesitated, then said no, because I like to write slowly, carefully, crafting every word, phrase and sentence. I like to take my time and write 'properly', and isn't NaNo all about writing with abandon, and daring, and carelessness? Yes, all of that, but it's also about writing with freedom--the freedom to make mistakes and make discoveries and make a mess and make it up and have fun! So could I write a book I really cared about that way? Wouldn't it 'ruin' it if I wrote it in 30 days, at top speed?
Did I have a choice?
If I wanted to do NaNo, I'd have to get going with something. In Devil's Dust, I have a story, I have characters, I have conflict, I have love and anguish and death and - I have a novel I could write!
So I sat down and started. And at 11:55 I posted my first word count - 862 words.
OKAY!!
Elleann.
If you're going to skate on thin ice ... you may as well dance!
Tuesday, November 1
NaNoWriMo
Along with umpteen thousand other wannabe novelists, I signed up for NaNoWriMo - National Novel Writing Month. The shortest cut to a nervous breakdown that I know of! Simply reset your priority clock and push novel writing to the top of the list, and then churn out 50K words within 30 days. Easy, ain't it?
The other things I'm pushing down the priority list are studying for the NCLEX, maintaining an income, keeping the kids and me fed, clothed, clean and sane ... just the usual stuff!
So wish me luck!
Elleann.
Unravelling life ... one day at a time.
The other things I'm pushing down the priority list are studying for the NCLEX, maintaining an income, keeping the kids and me fed, clothed, clean and sane ... just the usual stuff!
So wish me luck!
Elleann.
Unravelling life ... one day at a time.
Tuesday, October 18
October Celebration of New Christian Fiction
It's very cool to finally be a part of the monthly Celebration of New Christian Fiction, which was founded some time ago by my dear friend and writing partner, Pat Loomis . This month's hostess is Dee Stewart - check out her website, where you will find links to the blogs (and other sites) of the 28 writers participating this month. The stories range from extracts from published novels, to flash fiction, to contest entries and much, much more. My contribution is my recent FiF contest enty, a short story called Mirry - see the post below this one! Happy reading!
Elleann.
Unravelling life one word at a time ...
Elleann.
Unravelling life one word at a time ...
Friday, October 7
Mirry: My FiF contest entry
Mirry is sweating. Her salmon-pink dress encloses her as if she’s a plastic-wrapped chunk of fish; the straps of her high-heeled sandals are buried in the folds of flesh that conceal her ankles. Stealthily, she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, clinging to the handle of the wheelchair to steady herself. But she is not careful enough. Gus Chaplin turns faded blue eyes towards her, irritation evident in the quivering of his wrinkled mouth.
“Sit, Mirry.”
She shakes her head. She will not leave her spot to lumber three feet to the pew behind them. It is bad enough that she is trapped up front for the ceremony. She hopes that if she remains still, she will be blessed with invisibility for the duration.
“I’m fine,” she says, pitching her voice sharp and low. Let the old boy hear it and shut up.
But he refuses to let go. “Don’t be stupid, girl. If I know anything about Vi, she’ll be late. You should sit down, take a load off your feet.”
Gus Chaplin has many good qualities, but tactfulness is not one of them. This she knows, so she ignores his words and takes refuge behind the mask she has worn for the past three years: dedicated caregiver, hardworking nurse’s aide. Her elderly charges don’t mind what she looks like; in fact, she sometimes thinks they don’t really see her at all. She reaches over, pats his gnarly, paper-thin fingers.
“Don’t worry, Gus. She’ll be here soon enough.”
“It’s not her I’m worried about.” Gus straightens the bowtie at his neck for the third time in ten minutes. “It’s you. You’re red as a beet, girl. Can’t have my wedding ruined by you keeling over at the altar.” He works his mouth for a moment, as if he’s considering summoning an usher to have her removed. “It’s too damn hot in here. We should have waited for September.”
“I’ll be fine.” She stares ahead, examining the daisies and roses that litter the front of the chapel. Above them, framed within a stained-glass window, Jesus gazes down at her, his smile fixed, his halo gleaming in the afternoon light. She averts her gaze. She doesn’t want to feel the eyes of this translucent God upon her, judging her for what she has become—a fat, ugly, middle-aged failure of a woman.
Mirry blinks as the flowers shimmer and dance in the heat. The straps of her bra are cutting into her shoulders, and she’s sweating again; she can feel the beads forming on her upper lip. Dear God, have mercy on me and get that woman down the aisle quick, she prays. And then laughs at herself. How pathetic, praying to a God she no longer believes in.
But as if in answer to her prayer, the first blasts of Mendelssohn’s wedding march boom out with a ferocity that startles her and she turns her head. Violet Poole stands at the far end of the aisle, clinging to the arm of her grandson Michael. She’s a roly-poly blob of a woman, with a pale face and a large mole on the side of her nose. Her head hovers somewhere near the upper button of Michael’s vest, and Mirry gets her first look at the lanky grandson whose grainy college graduation picture adorns the bookshelf in Violet’s room. He is, Violet has told her with pride, in seminary now, learning to be a minister. Mirry expects a pallid pastoral type in glasses and a shabby suit.
But this boy is no pale-skinned, mealy-mouthed cleric. Michael Poole is a self-assured young man whose gray morning suit makes him look simultaneously elegant and tough as steel. His dark hair has been tamed with water and there are deep shadows beneath his eyes. As his gaze sweeps across the chapel, Mirry flushes. He exudes a tough masculinity that unsettles her, makes her wish she could crawl beneath the wheelchair.
She will not look at Violet, dare not look at Michael. Instead she looks at Gus, who will need her help to stand to his feet as he waits for his bride to totter down the aisle. She reaches out a hand in anticipation, but Gus is rising from his chair faster than a jack rabbit. She stares at him, surprised, but it is not his agility that shocks her.
It is the look on his face that takes her breath away.
With hands laced across his chest as if he is trying to still his heart, Gus Chaplin gazes up the aisle at Violet Poole. He is entranced. Tears puddle in the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill down whiskery, age-spotted cheeks. Mirry is stunned. As his bride shuffles down the aisle, Mirry sees Gus’s lips quiver, watches him bite down hard to keep the emotions in check. But he cannot. Tears and smiles make a mess of his face and he snorts aloud, fumbling in his pocket for a dark blue handkerchief. Mirry cannot move.
Oh God.
She struggles for control, fighting off the misery that threatens to choke her. How many times has she begged God to take away her fat, to make her beautiful? To make her loveable? But she doesn’t believe in God, she reminds herself, stifling the sobs. So she concentrates on her feet—ten stubby toes tipped with red and squashed into a pair of fancy sandals—and feels despair sinking like stone to the empty pit of her stomach.
Michael Poole and his grandmother have reached the far side of the wheelchair. The tiny chapel is filled with rustles and coughs as the elderly guests release walkers and canes and settle back into the pews. Gus and Violet join hands, their weathered fingers entwined like teenagers. Violet smiles shyly up at Gus and the minister is a beaming blur of black and white in front of them. From the window above, Jesus watches them with his unblinking eyes. Mirry stares at the ground.
“…gathered together in the Presence of God…” The sonorous voice rebounds off the walls and after a brief inner wrestle, Mirry sneaks a quick look at Michael. His grandmother still clings to his arm, and he covers her hand, absently stroking her fingers with his own. As if he feels her gaze on him, Michael looks up and catches Mirry peeking at him. Heat rushes up her neck and into her face, and she jerks her eyes away. As she does so, he smiles at her, but it’s a meaningless, all-purpose kind of smile. Hot with humiliation, Mirry longs to disappear, but she is glued to the floor by her bulk and her role in this ceremony.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! She tries to concentrate on what the minister is saying.
“… to have and to hold … in sickness and in health … to love and to cherish, till death us do part ...” As the service unfolds and the sun slants lower through the stained-glass window, Mirry feels dizzy and wonders if she is going to faint. But then Gus turns towards her and extends his hand. It is her moment. She reaches into her purse, steps forward and places the ring on his outstretched palm.
The old man smiles, and his hand trembles. The ring glitters in the sunlight, a seal of love to be given and received. Mirry relaxes, relieved. Her part is done. She steps back towards the pew where she can sit down and—
“Oh my—Mirry …”
Gus’s hands are empty, his mouth agape with bewilderment. Mirry turns her head, sees the band of gold skipping across the cold floor towards the foot of the heavy altar table.
Mirry looks up. Violet is wobbling, paler than ever, with both hands now welded to Michael’s arm. Gus is groping for his wheelchair, confusion creasing his face. The minister blinks and clutches his Bible to his breast like a shield.
Nobody moves.
Then, as one, they look at her. Mirry feels a nauseating surge of disbelief as she realizes she’s the one who’ll have to retrieve the ring. Slowly, she places her purse on the pew, knowing by the burn in her face that everyone is watching her.
As she faces the walk to the table, a sick tide of anger catches her unawares. She wants to grab Gus round his scrawny neck and curse him for his stupidity and clumsiness. It’s all his fault! She glances at Violet, sees her mouth hanging open like a codfish, and thinks she’d like to strangle her, too. What right has she to such happiness, at her age?
It’s not fair!
Mirry storms forward, sandals clacking on the tiles, pink dress rustling round her legs like grass in a hurricane. She reaches the table and peers behind it, but the ring has rolled deep in and she cannot see it. Humiliation swamps her as she lowers herself awkwardly to her knees. This is horrible, horrible. She swipes her hand beneath the table, aware of the eyes watching her, and prays for the touch of cool metal beneath her fingers. But there is nothing.
She will have to go lower to find the ring. Immediately she knows that if she does, the bridal party will be treated to the sight of her rear end swaying to and fro as she gropes beneath the table. And her rear end, swathed in yards of pink chiffon, is not a pretty sight. Waves of shame and rage sweep across her and she wants to run, screaming, from the chapel. But she is trapped, trapped by her fat, her faults and her failings, trapped in a life she hates …
The silence is broken by the tiny rustlings, muffled coughs. People are becoming restless. Mirry hesitates, her face burning.
What does she have to lose, that she hasn’t already lost? God has abandoned her to a life that is meaningless, a future that is empty. Felled by the black weight of hopelessness and despair, she goes down, flat on the floor, prostrated in front of the altar table. The smell of polish is in her nose and the floor is cool beneath her cheek. But she is barely aware of this.
God, just let me find this damn ring.
She wriggles forward, puffing, and sweeps her arm under the table, groping for it. Her fingers brush against something smooth and cold, and in amazement and relief she pulls her arm out, grateful that she’s been so quickly let off the hook.
But she’s not free yet. In her hand is a tiny glass, dust-smeared and stained with the dregs of communion wine.
She wants to scream. She wants to let rip with a string of epithets that will make elderly ears sizzle and force the clerics to adjust their plastic collars. Instead, hot pricking tears finally spill over, blinding her. In despair she turns her gaze upward, and goes back to trying to find the ring with her fingers, trying in vain to stop the humiliating tears. It feels like the end of everything.
High above her on the wall she sees another Jesus. But this Jesus wears neither halo nor translucent smile. This Jesus is gritty and real. He is trapped, nailed to a rough-hewn cross and his face is contorted with agony. Sweat drips from his brow and through her tears, it seems as if he is struggling to free himself.
Do you know how I feel? Mirry screams silently at him as her fingers trawl across the floor. Her body quivers with misery and she can taste the salty tears. Why did you make me like this? I hate you! she tells him…
…and feels something ripping open, because deep inside a voice is telling her it isn’t true. She wants to hate him, wants to blame him for the mess she’s made of everything, but she can’t anymore. Mirry teeters on the edge of the abyss, struggling with the ambivalent emotions that surge through her. She swipes at her eyes with her free hand and blinks, trying to see the sculptured Christ. Words pour from her, a silent hemorrhage of sorrow and longing and need.
I’m sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Please help me. I’ve made such a mess of it all…
She lets go at last. Now she is falling, plunging deep into the echoing void. As she falls, she feels as if she is being drained of everything, scrubbed and wrung out to dry. And she wants to cry again with the sheer, gut-wrenching relief of it.
Mirry’s still-questing fingers close upon a circle of cold metal. She pulls her arm free from beneath the table, sits up and wipes her eyes quickly with the back of her hand. She’s disorientated, as if she’s been flat on the floor for hours.
“Well done. You found it.” Michael Poole squats at her side and offers her his hand. His eyes are dark brown, and crease up at the corners as he smiles at her. “Let me help you.”
He slides an arm around her and lifts her to her feet as if she weighs no more than a kitten. Then he bends, retrieves the little glass from the floor and sets it on the table. She hears the squeak of his shoes, catches the scent of mint on his breath as he offers her his arm for the walk back. Minutes later, Gus and Vi are pronounced man and wife and the wedding ceremony is over. The organist launches into the recessional and Mirry’s moment of humiliation dissipates in a cloud of hubbub and chatter as the guests prepare to leave the chapel. It’s as if nothing happened.
Mirry sits down, blows her nose and wonders what she’s supposed to do next. She glances up, sees Michael enfolding his grandmother in a hug while the minister shakes Gus’s hand. Guests are heading down the aisle, smiles of congratulation on their lips. In a flurry of black and white, the minister turns and sweeps over to her.
“Well done, Mirry dear—thank you so much.” Mirry smiles, shy now, and sees Gus beckoning her over. He takes her hand and his eyes are apologetic.
“What a clumsy old fool you must think me, Mirry.” He reaches up and touches her face. “To put you through that when you’ve been nothing but kindness itself to me. I’m so very sorry.”
“It’s OK.” Mirry hugs him, almost overpowered by the camphorated scent of his moth-balled suit. “It was nothing.”
But she knows it was a lot more than just nothing. As she turns to wheel Gus up the aisle, she becomes aware of a swathe of colored sunlight falling across floor in front of them.
She looks up.
In the window high above them, his halo glowing in the late afternoon light, the stained-glass Jesus is smiling down at her.
Elleann
Unravelling life one word at a time ...
“Sit, Mirry.”
She shakes her head. She will not leave her spot to lumber three feet to the pew behind them. It is bad enough that she is trapped up front for the ceremony. She hopes that if she remains still, she will be blessed with invisibility for the duration.
“I’m fine,” she says, pitching her voice sharp and low. Let the old boy hear it and shut up.
But he refuses to let go. “Don’t be stupid, girl. If I know anything about Vi, she’ll be late. You should sit down, take a load off your feet.”
Gus Chaplin has many good qualities, but tactfulness is not one of them. This she knows, so she ignores his words and takes refuge behind the mask she has worn for the past three years: dedicated caregiver, hardworking nurse’s aide. Her elderly charges don’t mind what she looks like; in fact, she sometimes thinks they don’t really see her at all. She reaches over, pats his gnarly, paper-thin fingers.
“Don’t worry, Gus. She’ll be here soon enough.”
“It’s not her I’m worried about.” Gus straightens the bowtie at his neck for the third time in ten minutes. “It’s you. You’re red as a beet, girl. Can’t have my wedding ruined by you keeling over at the altar.” He works his mouth for a moment, as if he’s considering summoning an usher to have her removed. “It’s too damn hot in here. We should have waited for September.”
“I’ll be fine.” She stares ahead, examining the daisies and roses that litter the front of the chapel. Above them, framed within a stained-glass window, Jesus gazes down at her, his smile fixed, his halo gleaming in the afternoon light. She averts her gaze. She doesn’t want to feel the eyes of this translucent God upon her, judging her for what she has become—a fat, ugly, middle-aged failure of a woman.
Mirry blinks as the flowers shimmer and dance in the heat. The straps of her bra are cutting into her shoulders, and she’s sweating again; she can feel the beads forming on her upper lip. Dear God, have mercy on me and get that woman down the aisle quick, she prays. And then laughs at herself. How pathetic, praying to a God she no longer believes in.
But as if in answer to her prayer, the first blasts of Mendelssohn’s wedding march boom out with a ferocity that startles her and she turns her head. Violet Poole stands at the far end of the aisle, clinging to the arm of her grandson Michael. She’s a roly-poly blob of a woman, with a pale face and a large mole on the side of her nose. Her head hovers somewhere near the upper button of Michael’s vest, and Mirry gets her first look at the lanky grandson whose grainy college graduation picture adorns the bookshelf in Violet’s room. He is, Violet has told her with pride, in seminary now, learning to be a minister. Mirry expects a pallid pastoral type in glasses and a shabby suit.
But this boy is no pale-skinned, mealy-mouthed cleric. Michael Poole is a self-assured young man whose gray morning suit makes him look simultaneously elegant and tough as steel. His dark hair has been tamed with water and there are deep shadows beneath his eyes. As his gaze sweeps across the chapel, Mirry flushes. He exudes a tough masculinity that unsettles her, makes her wish she could crawl beneath the wheelchair.
She will not look at Violet, dare not look at Michael. Instead she looks at Gus, who will need her help to stand to his feet as he waits for his bride to totter down the aisle. She reaches out a hand in anticipation, but Gus is rising from his chair faster than a jack rabbit. She stares at him, surprised, but it is not his agility that shocks her.
It is the look on his face that takes her breath away.
With hands laced across his chest as if he is trying to still his heart, Gus Chaplin gazes up the aisle at Violet Poole. He is entranced. Tears puddle in the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill down whiskery, age-spotted cheeks. Mirry is stunned. As his bride shuffles down the aisle, Mirry sees Gus’s lips quiver, watches him bite down hard to keep the emotions in check. But he cannot. Tears and smiles make a mess of his face and he snorts aloud, fumbling in his pocket for a dark blue handkerchief. Mirry cannot move.
Oh God.
She struggles for control, fighting off the misery that threatens to choke her. How many times has she begged God to take away her fat, to make her beautiful? To make her loveable? But she doesn’t believe in God, she reminds herself, stifling the sobs. So she concentrates on her feet—ten stubby toes tipped with red and squashed into a pair of fancy sandals—and feels despair sinking like stone to the empty pit of her stomach.
Michael Poole and his grandmother have reached the far side of the wheelchair. The tiny chapel is filled with rustles and coughs as the elderly guests release walkers and canes and settle back into the pews. Gus and Violet join hands, their weathered fingers entwined like teenagers. Violet smiles shyly up at Gus and the minister is a beaming blur of black and white in front of them. From the window above, Jesus watches them with his unblinking eyes. Mirry stares at the ground.
“…gathered together in the Presence of God…” The sonorous voice rebounds off the walls and after a brief inner wrestle, Mirry sneaks a quick look at Michael. His grandmother still clings to his arm, and he covers her hand, absently stroking her fingers with his own. As if he feels her gaze on him, Michael looks up and catches Mirry peeking at him. Heat rushes up her neck and into her face, and she jerks her eyes away. As she does so, he smiles at her, but it’s a meaningless, all-purpose kind of smile. Hot with humiliation, Mirry longs to disappear, but she is glued to the floor by her bulk and her role in this ceremony.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! She tries to concentrate on what the minister is saying.
“… to have and to hold … in sickness and in health … to love and to cherish, till death us do part ...” As the service unfolds and the sun slants lower through the stained-glass window, Mirry feels dizzy and wonders if she is going to faint. But then Gus turns towards her and extends his hand. It is her moment. She reaches into her purse, steps forward and places the ring on his outstretched palm.
The old man smiles, and his hand trembles. The ring glitters in the sunlight, a seal of love to be given and received. Mirry relaxes, relieved. Her part is done. She steps back towards the pew where she can sit down and—
“Oh my—Mirry …”
Gus’s hands are empty, his mouth agape with bewilderment. Mirry turns her head, sees the band of gold skipping across the cold floor towards the foot of the heavy altar table.
Mirry looks up. Violet is wobbling, paler than ever, with both hands now welded to Michael’s arm. Gus is groping for his wheelchair, confusion creasing his face. The minister blinks and clutches his Bible to his breast like a shield.
Nobody moves.
Then, as one, they look at her. Mirry feels a nauseating surge of disbelief as she realizes she’s the one who’ll have to retrieve the ring. Slowly, she places her purse on the pew, knowing by the burn in her face that everyone is watching her.
As she faces the walk to the table, a sick tide of anger catches her unawares. She wants to grab Gus round his scrawny neck and curse him for his stupidity and clumsiness. It’s all his fault! She glances at Violet, sees her mouth hanging open like a codfish, and thinks she’d like to strangle her, too. What right has she to such happiness, at her age?
It’s not fair!
Mirry storms forward, sandals clacking on the tiles, pink dress rustling round her legs like grass in a hurricane. She reaches the table and peers behind it, but the ring has rolled deep in and she cannot see it. Humiliation swamps her as she lowers herself awkwardly to her knees. This is horrible, horrible. She swipes her hand beneath the table, aware of the eyes watching her, and prays for the touch of cool metal beneath her fingers. But there is nothing.
She will have to go lower to find the ring. Immediately she knows that if she does, the bridal party will be treated to the sight of her rear end swaying to and fro as she gropes beneath the table. And her rear end, swathed in yards of pink chiffon, is not a pretty sight. Waves of shame and rage sweep across her and she wants to run, screaming, from the chapel. But she is trapped, trapped by her fat, her faults and her failings, trapped in a life she hates …
The silence is broken by the tiny rustlings, muffled coughs. People are becoming restless. Mirry hesitates, her face burning.
What does she have to lose, that she hasn’t already lost? God has abandoned her to a life that is meaningless, a future that is empty. Felled by the black weight of hopelessness and despair, she goes down, flat on the floor, prostrated in front of the altar table. The smell of polish is in her nose and the floor is cool beneath her cheek. But she is barely aware of this.
God, just let me find this damn ring.
She wriggles forward, puffing, and sweeps her arm under the table, groping for it. Her fingers brush against something smooth and cold, and in amazement and relief she pulls her arm out, grateful that she’s been so quickly let off the hook.
But she’s not free yet. In her hand is a tiny glass, dust-smeared and stained with the dregs of communion wine.
She wants to scream. She wants to let rip with a string of epithets that will make elderly ears sizzle and force the clerics to adjust their plastic collars. Instead, hot pricking tears finally spill over, blinding her. In despair she turns her gaze upward, and goes back to trying to find the ring with her fingers, trying in vain to stop the humiliating tears. It feels like the end of everything.
High above her on the wall she sees another Jesus. But this Jesus wears neither halo nor translucent smile. This Jesus is gritty and real. He is trapped, nailed to a rough-hewn cross and his face is contorted with agony. Sweat drips from his brow and through her tears, it seems as if he is struggling to free himself.
Do you know how I feel? Mirry screams silently at him as her fingers trawl across the floor. Her body quivers with misery and she can taste the salty tears. Why did you make me like this? I hate you! she tells him…
…and feels something ripping open, because deep inside a voice is telling her it isn’t true. She wants to hate him, wants to blame him for the mess she’s made of everything, but she can’t anymore. Mirry teeters on the edge of the abyss, struggling with the ambivalent emotions that surge through her. She swipes at her eyes with her free hand and blinks, trying to see the sculptured Christ. Words pour from her, a silent hemorrhage of sorrow and longing and need.
I’m sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Please help me. I’ve made such a mess of it all…
She lets go at last. Now she is falling, plunging deep into the echoing void. As she falls, she feels as if she is being drained of everything, scrubbed and wrung out to dry. And she wants to cry again with the sheer, gut-wrenching relief of it.
Mirry’s still-questing fingers close upon a circle of cold metal. She pulls her arm free from beneath the table, sits up and wipes her eyes quickly with the back of her hand. She’s disorientated, as if she’s been flat on the floor for hours.
“Well done. You found it.” Michael Poole squats at her side and offers her his hand. His eyes are dark brown, and crease up at the corners as he smiles at her. “Let me help you.”
He slides an arm around her and lifts her to her feet as if she weighs no more than a kitten. Then he bends, retrieves the little glass from the floor and sets it on the table. She hears the squeak of his shoes, catches the scent of mint on his breath as he offers her his arm for the walk back. Minutes later, Gus and Vi are pronounced man and wife and the wedding ceremony is over. The organist launches into the recessional and Mirry’s moment of humiliation dissipates in a cloud of hubbub and chatter as the guests prepare to leave the chapel. It’s as if nothing happened.
Mirry sits down, blows her nose and wonders what she’s supposed to do next. She glances up, sees Michael enfolding his grandmother in a hug while the minister shakes Gus’s hand. Guests are heading down the aisle, smiles of congratulation on their lips. In a flurry of black and white, the minister turns and sweeps over to her.
“Well done, Mirry dear—thank you so much.” Mirry smiles, shy now, and sees Gus beckoning her over. He takes her hand and his eyes are apologetic.
“What a clumsy old fool you must think me, Mirry.” He reaches up and touches her face. “To put you through that when you’ve been nothing but kindness itself to me. I’m so very sorry.”
“It’s OK.” Mirry hugs him, almost overpowered by the camphorated scent of his moth-balled suit. “It was nothing.”
But she knows it was a lot more than just nothing. As she turns to wheel Gus up the aisle, she becomes aware of a swathe of colored sunlight falling across floor in front of them.
She looks up.
In the window high above them, his halo glowing in the late afternoon light, the stained-glass Jesus is smiling down at her.
Elleann
Unravelling life one word at a time ...
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