Category Archives: Writing

FICTION Picture This #8

Fiction response to Write Anything prompt for Picture This

I knew it was wrong to marry him. But he promised me riches and comfort, and it was easy to believe as I watched him pay $400 for my nine-course meal at the nicest restaurant in town. We would be so happy together, he said, as he added me to his credit card account. We’d never see the bill: it was covered by his employer in total, no questions asked.

In the end, he convinced me. It was partly all the fancy dining he treated me to, with the season of box seats at the opera. But I wanted that four-bedroom home with the manicured garden and gourmet kitchen. I wanted the brand-new BMW every year, complete with a new car smell. I wanted the free travel around the world, and I certainly wanted the comfy leather chair in the library with unlimited books. He had his employer write it all into the marriage contract. But I know now I should have read the fine print.

We found the perfect house. It had a white picket fence in the back yard. During his first two weeks’ leave, we decided on paint colors for the walls. During his next leave, we married and moved in. I was so happy.

It was not very long before our baby was on the way. I was still getting used to all the household servants (I didn’t like telling them what to do and kept apologizing) and I was still building the library. But it was a perfect excuse to add pregnancy self-help books and children’s books to the shelves. I was excited to find that it was a girl. I bought pink bows and dresses for her. I canceled our trip to London and painted the nursery lavender. His employer gave him five years local work so he wouldn’t be away. We would have a wonderful little family.

I realized in the hospital that something wasn’t quite right. He took her away from me after the first night. I asked him to bring her to me, and he started talking to me about protocol. I was a bit exhausted from the labor, so I did enjoy a little rest and pampering. But by the end of the first week, I was ready to see her a lot more than I had seen her!

It was then that he got out the marriage contract and showed me the fine print. I thought the Rumpelstilskin Program was about being a soldier for life in exchange for every comfort you could imagine.

I didn’t realize it meant my daughter’s life, too.

I’m sitting now in my chair. Twenty books are on my side table, but I can’t bring myself to read any of them. Kate is about to bring in my supper, but I don’t have much of an appetite. The house is immaculate — all four-bedrooms — and the flower garden is perfectly groomed. I believe the lilacs are out this week, but I haven’t walked in the garden all spring. I have a new Mercedes in the driveway, but it still has only 78 miles on it.

They will be home from work late tonight. That is why I sit and look at their photograph: my husband and my daughter, Soldiers.

Yes, they have a good relationship. They work together most of the day, Daddy showing her how to do the job she will have to do for the rest of her life.

She thinks it’s a game. I am dreading the day when she finds out it is not.

Sunday Scribblings #111 Soar/Sore

I lift him above my head: his mouth opens wide in a baby-grin and he laughs loudly, soaring above me, arms outstretched. I smile too, my heart memorizing the sound, the sight, and the feeling of chubby childhood joy.

***

I turn away: in my mind I still see the tears on his pumpkin-covered face and in my ears I still hear his constant scream of baby indignation. I sigh and grab a towel to wipe away the blood on my finger, wishing someone would kiss my sore better.

This is motherhood: a daily dichotomy.

[Fiction] Friday: Retold Fairy Tale

How the Dog Got his Bark

(With apologies to Rudyard Kipling)

Long ago, when the world first began, dogs were quiet animals. They did what they were told, particularly when it came to fetching things, and lived a quiet life, usually.

One particular dog, named Terry, liked to jump on people to get their attention. He lived with a man named Joe. Joe did not like to be jumped on. Every time Terry jumped up to get Joe’s attention, Joe hit him with a stick.

This was not very nice. Terry did not like to be hit with a stick. But he still wanted to get Joe’s attention sometimes.

One night, Joe was asleep and Terry was resting at the foot of Joe’s bed. He wasn’t quiet tired yet, so he just rested. Then he heard something approaching. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew it wasn’t good. He stood up on his four legs. Joe kept sleeping. Then Terry realized that it was a big bear. The animal was coming toward Joe in his bed. Terry realized that Joe was not going to wake up before the bear attacked him.

Terry knew he would be hit by the stick if he jumped on Joe. But he wanted to protect Joe. He jumped up on Joe. Joe, as was his instinct, grabbed the stick, which was under his pillow. But Joe missed Terry. Terry, in his excitement, swallowed the stick. Joe was still kind of asleep. Terry didnâ’t like the feeling of the stick in his throat so he tried to cough it out. It wouldn’t budge. But instead of silence, a sound came out:

“Rroof! Rroof!”

Joe jumped up. The combination of the noise from Terry and Joe’s movement caused the bear to flee. And both Terry and Joe were safe.

From then on, whenever Terry wanted to get Joe’s attention, he would simply”Rroof”, and Joe would respond. Joe liked that much better.

And that is how the dog got his bark.

[Note: Technically, I don’t think I quite followed the prompt, as it was supposed to be a “modern” take on a fairy tale. Instead, I did my own take on Kipling’s “Just So Stories” idea. It’s the first thing that came to mind.]

When Did You Know You Were a Writer?

I scrawled in five-year-old writing on the cover (The Three Little Pigs) and on the last page (THE END). For the other pages, my mother was my scribe. She wrote my words on ruler-straight lines underneath my crayon illustrations. Then, I took a stapler and bound my first book together. My first experiment with the written word — my written word — was thus published for all to see. Although I simply retold a story, for the first time I had expressed my own creativity through the written word.

Then, in first grade, my teacher gave me lined pages. I wrote my stories carefully on the lines. These stories were no longer simple retellings, but my own creations. The class published them at the elementary school publishing center: plastic comb bindings.

At home in the afternoons, my classmate, neighbor, and friend became my co-writer and illustrator. We sat, side-by-side, at a plastic blue Smurf table. Together, we wrote and illustrated stories set in all times and settings—from orphans in our day to dinosaurs that traveled through space and time. I wrote words. She drew pictures. She wrote words. I drew pictures. We stapled the pages together.

As I moved through school, our Smurf table publishing world came to an end, and the elementary school publishing center was no longer a monthly destination. But my interest in the written word remained at my core. Anytime anything even remotely interesting happened in my family, I produced another issue of the Family Tribune and delivered it to every member of my family and to my grandparents who were far way. I wrote a play and my friends and I acted in it. I wrote stories and half of a novel. Then, come high school and college, I wrote term paper after term paper.

Now I write for myself, I write for my family, and I share my words online. I suppose writing on a webpage is much like stapling my books: it’s not professional, and few will read my words. But the words are mine. As I improve my ability to write, I will better find my voice for expressing my own experiences — whether those experiences focus on travel adventures, nonfiction research, or the creative explorations of my imagination.

Someday, my words will be bound between covers.

Amateur that I am, I know that I am a writer: I have always been a writer.

Quote: Keeping a Journal

One of the most helpful tools a writer has is his journals. Whenever someone asks how to become an author, I suggest keeping a journal. A journal is not a diary, where you record the weather and the engagements of the day. A journal is a notebook in which one can, hopefully be ontological. [A journal is] a place where you can unload, dump, let go. A journal is also a place in which joy gets recorded, because joy is too bright a flame in me not to burn if it doesn’t get expressed in words.

Madeleine L’Engle, A Circle of Quiet, page 197

Sunday Scribblings #110 Telephone

My unpacked bags were under the kitchen table. It was Saturday morning, and I perched on the edge of a kitchen chair, drinking a glass of water and telling my mother about my amazing week at the religious retreat. Then the telephone rang.

The excitement of my week of teenage socialization hadn’t worn off on the one-hour drive home. I wanted to tell her everything: she could not get off the phone soon enough.

I don’t recall how she told me. I just remember the feeling of euphoria ebbing out of me, like the sands in an hourglass.

Quote: Writing Practices

I like the name writing practices better than Creative Writing. Nobody can teach creative writing: run like made from anybody who thinks he can. But one can teach practices, like finger exercises on the piano; one can share the tools of the trade, and what one has gleaned from the great writers: it is the great writers themselves who do the teaching, rather than the leader of a seminar. It doesn’t take long for the gifted student to realize that there are certain things the great writers always do, and certain things they never do; it is from these that we learn.

Madeleine L’Engle, A Circle of Quiet, page 60-61

One-Year Anniversary

No, this is not my wedding anniversary: this is my blogging anniversary.

In the past year, a lot has happened. My husband and I moved to Australia. I had a baby. I went from working full-time to being a mom full-time. I learned to cook. I had abdominal surgery.

I guess that doesn’t sound like a lot, but I feel like I’ve learned a lot this year.

In the past year, I’ve written more than 80 posts. Here are some of the things I experienced and learned (and wrote about):

For good measure, here are my favorite recipe and my favorite photographs.

In looking back over these posts, I realize that not many of them have anything to do with being in Australia. I could have learned these lessons anywhere. I guess that’s the point of life: we learn what we need to learn, wherever we are.

As a stay-at-home mom, I know that I need an outlet where I can develop my creativity and my own thoughts. That’s why I like my page: it is mine.

Notice that I call it “Rebecca’s Webpage.” It is not our family page. (I don’t think my husband even reads it; if he does, it’s a month after the fact.) At the same time, I will write about my life, and of course my family is a huge part of that.

This page is my personal forum and journal, online. And I love having a place to write. When I think about this blog, I feel satisfied. And I think that’s the reason I write it.

Painting a Novel: East of Eden by John Steinbeck

My writing teachers have always instructed to “show not tell.” I didn’t understand it, really, until I began to read John Steinbeck’s East of Eden last month.

I thought “showing” meant describing the character in a context: hair color, quirks, and personality traits, mentioned as the story unfolds. Here’s a silly example I just thought of: “She tossed her mousy brown hair over her shoulder, crossed her arms in front of her, and narrowed her dark brown eyes as the wicked man sauntered toward her.” With that type of description, I can picture what is happening: the movie is playing and I don’t need to guess what people look like or how they react to a situation.

Steinbeck does not do that. He steps aside from the plot development to show us who these characters are. This could be boring, but it is not when Steinbeck does it. Here are a few paragraphs describing Liza Hamilton.

Liza Hamilton was a very different kettle of Irish. Her head was small and round and it held small round convictions. She had a button nose and a hard little set-back chin, a gripping jaw set on its course even though the angels of God argued against it.

Liza was a good plain cook, and her house — it was always her house — was brushed and pummeled and washed.

She wore her hair always pulled tight back and bunned behind in a hard knot. And since I can’t remember how she dressed, it must have been that she wore clothes that matched herself exactly. She had no spark of humor and only occasionally a blade of cutting wit. She frightened her grandchildren because she had no weakness. She suffered bravely and uncomplainingly through life, convinced that that was the way her God wanted everyone to live. She felt that rewards came later.

(Part 1, Chapter 2)

Steinbeck’s approach gives us a description of this woman as if he were describing a photograph (her head, her nose, her chin, her hair) and we can picture Liza in our minds because the description gives us the information a photograph would. But Steinbeck is also able to give her a personality: Liza Hamilton becomes real to me. As a result, as the novel progresses, I am able to anticipate how she would react simply because her character is so full of life. That is hard to do.

And guess what? She was real: Steinbeck based Samuel and Liza Hamilton in the novel on his own maternal grandparents of the same name. That underscores what I’ve always known: write what you know about and it will come alive. By extension, if a writer doesn’t know a character (or a setting or time period) — her personality, physical description , and personal history, for example — he can’t truly describe her so the reader feels he knows her too.

Have you ever looked at an oil painting up close? Some strokes of color are thicker than others; each stroke of paint leaves a texture. The painting may not look like a photograph: the colors will be different and the artist’s interpretation of the person, place, or thing will be different from the “real thing.” But often there is a texture that makes an oil painting much more interesting than a photograph would be.

Steinbeck writes an oil painting. He paints the characters, the setting, and the decades. I recognize the textures as I read the novel. It feels rich and full of life, and I love to read it. Truly, this texture helps make it a classic.

I have much more to say about East of Eden. But, for now, tell me: can you recommend any other novels that you feel “paint” the characters, the setting, and the time period? I want to read more.

A poem for the IRS

How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.
I hate thee for the withheld taxes I want to spend
And for the forms that never end,
And for all the complications — I am dazed.
I hate thee for the time you take. For days
I agonize as I calculate, and the numbers blend:
I hate thee from the first line until the end.
I hate thee presently, as I long for May.
I hate thee sluggishly, for the work is so slow.
Finding an error-filled column again, I groan.
I hate thee with my mind, heart, and soul.
With my hard-earned money, I hate thee with a moan,
Tears, agony, the same each year! — and, yet I know,
I shall but hate thee less a refund sent.

Note: Unless your tax situation deals with capital gains, itemization, two workers, multiple states, multiple countries, new children, and the previous five years, I don’t want to hear about it!

P.S. My husband wonders if I have anything better to do than write pretty bad amateur poetry. Silly question!