Finding the Words

I am in the middle of editing my book. Literally. At the halfway point, a catastrophic incident occurs and I have tried to do it justice, yet worry that I fail. The words are often elusive, just out of reach. How can I express the pain, the horror, the agony without being clichéd? Without skimming the surface of their pain?

On Saturday, in the midst of my struggle, I closed my eyes and listened to the lyrics of the song that played in the background, Lightness by Death Cab for Cutie. The song barely has any lyrics. They incredibly simple, yet so incredibly moving.

Your heart is a river that flows from your chest

Through every organ

Your brain is the dam

And i am the fish who can't reach the cord.

On paper, they look like nothing but put together with the music they are magic. Then a cosmic hammer hit me on the head and I realized: Lyricists face the same situation writers do, they must write a message in as few words as possible and still make a powerful statement.

I began to listen to more Death Cab for Cutie lyrics over the weekend and I was inspired by how a simple statement could move me so much. Take the opening for Tiny Vessels:

This is the moment that you know

That you told her that you loved her but you don't.

You touch her skin and then you think

That she is beautiful but she don't mean a thing to me.

The message could easily have been written in 500 words or more, explaining why and how he knew he didn't love her, but in 38 words Ben Gibbard conveys the feelings of sadness and regret without coming out and saying: I feel really bad that I don't love her. A perfect show not tell.

I also listened to the words of another Death Cab for Cutie song, What Sarah Said. I have written a post about it on my Life After Death blog. The song is about someone you love dieing and it struck too close to home. Four years ago my husband was in a single engine plane crash. He suffered 3rd degree burns over 60% of his body and spent 5 weeks in Vanderbilt University Hospital's Burn Unit ICU. In the end, he became too tired to fight. I held his hand and watched him die. I remember thinking "I can't believe this is happening. This isn't real." And yet it was. As the heart monitor decreased, from 80 beats per minute, to 30, to five and finally to zero, I watched in disbelief. This wasn't supposed to happen.

The moment he died, I stood on a threshold between my life as I knew it and the life I was about to face, alone. My best friend, the one person in the world who could help me through my pain, just left me. People went on with their lives and I watched in wonder. How could they not know the world had just ended? Time slows, stops in the moment. I was aware of everything and nothing.

As I wrote the catastrophic incident in my book, I wanted to capture the threshold, the moment the characters lives are irrevocably changed. The moment time stands still and the realization hits them: their world has just ended. I'm still working on it. It's only halfway there. But this is the tiny snippet I have:

Flaming embers rained down the hill, minute pieces falling through the tree canopy like floating fireflies. In the dusk of the storm they glowed in golden splendor, dreams captured and blown away by the wind. Lost forever.

** On my blog Life After Death, For Those Left Behind I am doing a four part series on What Sarah Said and relating it to my experience.

Take Your Child to Work Day aka Mommy Forces Her Children To Write Flash Fiction

Yesterday was Take Your Child to Work Day. Last year my daughters, then in kindergarten and 6th grade, went to work with their older brother. Trace is a college student and works as at pizza place, so what could be better than taking orders over the phone and making pizzas?

Mommy goes to Starbucks two to three mornings a week to write so this year, both girls announced they wanted to go to work with Mommy, because *duh* who doesn't like Starbucks?

Sorry girls, Mommy does more than drink coffee, which they were about to find out. No sooner had they ordered their drinks and pastries before Mommy had them get out their brand new notebooks to take notes. Mommy say what??? Notes?

**Jeez, talking in third person is exhausting.**

We discussed different types of writing from non-fiction which includes newspaper and magazine articles, technical manuals and even directions that come with ready to assemble items (Even if they probably were written in Chinese first.) and fiction-- poetry, flash fiction, short stories, novellas and novels. Given our time constraints, they were ordered given the assignment to write a piece of flash fiction, a story 1000 words or less. Julia, my 12 year old, asked for a writing prompt, so I gave her three-- city park, bus and old lady. She and Jenna had to use all three prompts in their piece, even if it was only a mention. Somewhere in the process of trying to convince them how easy it would be, I offered to write one too, using the same prompts. Mine is at the bottom.

Jenna wrote her piece fairly quickly, she's only in first grade so you can't expect much from her but I loved what she came up with. We discussed that her story had to have a beginning, a middle and an end and there must be some kind of conflict that was resolved.

This is Jenna's story verbatim along with a blurry picture of her story:

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A city park and old woman waiting for the bus finally gets on sits next to a boy. She says hellow and says this is my stop to the park. Forget's her purs. He says wait then she doesnt here him. As soon as she get's of she sudenly thot she forgot something. The bus was still there and she say's wait. The boy here's her and he quickly grabs her purs. Then he jumps off. Say thank you forgiving her purs back!

I wish my hand writing was that neat.

****************

Julia and I discussed the many ways to come up with a plot and Julia chose to just start writing. She quickly churned out a story which she proudly read. Then Evil Editor Mommy pointed out a major plot flaw. She moaned and groaned and wanted to leave it and I refused.

"Figure out how to fix it."

Her solution was to dump the fatal flaw completely and come up with a mostly new story, which in my opinion, and now her's as well, is much, much better. I had no part in her story at all, it is completely her own, copied and pasted into this blog post.

Julia's 660 word story:

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First Day on the Job

It was a warm and sunny day in the middle of summer. The birds were chirping, children were laughing, and the sky was a bright blue like the clear ocean. Everybody was cheerful and upbeat. But was I? NO WAY! It was my first day on the job. I’m a lifeguard at the community pool. I have to deal with a bunch of whiny kids who pee in the pool and whine to their parents about how they want dip n’ dots from the machine that never works!

It’s 2:00 pm and I have to change out of my comfy clothes and into my bright neon green one-piece swim suit. UGHHH! Before I went out to catch the bus I made sure to put on my volleyball t-shirt, shorts, and my flip flops. The bus bench is about 3 minutes away from my house if I walk to it. I got outside and started walking. On my way I saw a few of my friends who were having a good time basking in the sun with lemonade. If only I could be them. Why didn’t their parents force them to get a job? I wanted to be them badly. Finally I got to the bus stop and got on the bus. On my way I saw more teenagers who looked about 15 like me at the city park. Some were playing Frisbee others having picnics. Am I the only teen in this state that has to get a job?

Finally it was my stop: the pool. Great I could already see about 3 kids whining from the bus window. Joy. I got out and walked to the pool. Then I opened the gate and got my life guard pass. After that I got in my seat and watched. There were children playing under the mushroom that squirted out water, there were parents running after their children who were running away from their parents, an old lady wearing a two piece (something I REALLY don’t want to see) and there was a HUGE line of people waiting to get Dip n’ Dots. Too bad it was broken, as usual. How do I know this? This is the pool I ALWAYS go to unfortunately my parents saw the sign saying that there were jobs open for life guards. The loving parents that they are, they offered that I could do the job for me.

It was 3:30 which means it is time for Adult swim so I blew my whistle for everyone under 16 to get out of the pool. Everyone got out except for one little kid who just kept playing in the water like he didn’t hear the whistle. Oh no. We are NOT starting this. I got down from my chair and walked over to the boy. He looked about 7 years old. I could tell because he had chocolate ice cream all over his face, unless a grown man is that messy. I also wondered how in the world this boy kept ice cream on his face when he is in the pool. Back to the point.

“Excuse little boy but it is time for you to get out of the pool it is adult swim. You can’t be in here unless you are over 16.” I said.

“I AM GOING TO STAY IN HERE AS LONG AS I WANT!” He yelled.

“Where are your parents?”

“They went to go get me Dip n’ dots!”

“I am going to go find them if you don’t get out of this pool.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“ Fine then I can ban you from ever coming in this pool again. Would you like that?”

“NO! PLEASE DON’T! I WILL BE BETTER I WILL GET OUT!!”

“That’s what I thought!”

The boy got out of the pool faster than I could snap my fingers. Wow I feel so powerful! Maybe I will like this job after all.

**********************

I tried to write my flash fiction in themorning, but after dealing with the girls and their lectures, er I mean, offering my assistance, I had a blank page. As the day went on, Julia kept asking me if I had written my flash fiction yet. Uh, no. She obviously wasn't going to let me forget, so I spent the afternoon pondering my story and wrote it last night.

I used all three prompts but decided, as an added challenge, to not use the words old woman. I had to write the story so that the reader knew without me saying it. Also, because one of the reasons I love blogfests is to be able to try something new, I decided to write in present tense, something I have never done. I'll let you tell me if it works.

Denise's 726 word story.

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He Knows Her

He knows her. Every afternoon he waits for his bus and she arrives on the 315. She shuffles to the nearby park, a bag of bird seed in one hand, her cane in the other. A prim hand bag hangs on her arm, swaying to her gait. Her back hunches in such distortion people cast a second glance in her direction. If she knows this, she never lets on, her eyes focused on the ground immediately in front of her as carefully she picks her way along the sidewalk. They have never spoken, never acknowledge one another. He doubts she knows he exists.

Her aloofness offends him. She reeks of old money in her tweed coat and her pill box hat from years gone past. He is but a simple janitor and he knows that some days he smells of sweat and chemicals and exhaustion. This is merely his first job of the day, some days he races to two more to make ends meet. He thinks of the money she spends on bird seed to feed pigeons, rats with wings, while his own children often go hungry. Embers of anger and frustration smolder in his gut. Yet, he knows her money is mostly gone; she rides the bus and her clothing is threadbare, only her haughty attitude remains.

A rowdy group of boys jostles their way to the bus stop. In their roughness, they bump into her. He sees her wobble and in slow motion she falls to the ground, bird seed and the contents of her purse spilling all over the cracked concrete sidewalk, like the spoils of a derelict piñata. The boys race off and ignore the mishap they have caused. People turn and stare then move along, in a hurry to get to their lunch dates and office meetings. She startles. Her mouth drops open with a gasp and her eyes widen and he momentarily fills with righteousness. A cosmic justice imparts as pedestrians kick her belongings lying in their path. Just as quickly he's overcome with remorse and to make amends, he steps towards her.

She eyes him with wariness and he is offended anew. He knows how he looks. He pauses and reconsiders. Her eyes narrow as she scans him from head to toe and in that moment he decides. He proceeds to help her, if only to prove he is worthy of touching her belongings. He stoops down and begins to pick up her scattered objects. A set of keys, a tube of lipstick, a small memo pad, her wallet. She is on her knees, scooping things with her gnarled hands as she crawls in his direction. He picks up her purse and dumps what he has gathered in the open bag. She is in front of him now and tries to get up with little success. He stands, still holding her purse and offers her his hand. She squints at him, appraising his worthiness then looks down with a sigh of defeat. He reaches under her arm sets her aright, holding on as she tottles and regains her balance. He notices the pieces of bird seed embedded in scrapes on her knees and the gashes on her distorted knuckles. He holds out her purse to her and she stretches out her shaky arm, turning her hand so her wrist is turned upwards. The sleeve of her tweed coat slips back and he then sees them. The tattooed numbers on her wrist.

His eyes widen and he looks into her face and for the first time he sees her. The hell she has lived through, the loneliness of her life and he burns with shame. He looks down and bends slightly as he offers her the bag. Her hand shakes violently and she has trouble gripping it so he slips it over her outstretched hand. Her cane has been kicked against the curb and he retrieves it and and hands it over as well. Only then does he allow himself to face her. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears and her mouth trembles. She nods her head in thanks, then shuffles to the park as his bus pulls up. He boards the bus and sits by a window, watching as she collapses onto a bench and closes her eyes.

He knows her. They have never spoken but he knows she exists.

Murder Scene Blogfest

Anne Riley at Anne Riley Books is hosting a Murder Scene Blogfest. I love blogfests and who doesn't love to think up a good murder? I immediately signed up. Then I promptly forgot the day to post was SATURDAY at 12:01 a.m., until 10:30 pm Friday night that is.

Actually, I had given it some thought. As I painted my son's bedroom and bathroom Friday afternoon, my SECOND bedroom and bathroom to paint in two days, the scene slowly came to me. So, it's really no surprise that I would come up with a murder scene performing such a brain cell killing task.

Just remember I didn't start writing this until about 11:00 pm. so please be kind. :-)

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Chloe sat in her car as she watched the woman in the softly lit window of the house. The woman had come into view eight times in the last twenty minutes. She was obviously taunting Chloe with her boldness, confirming the rightness of what she was about to do.

A soft drizzle fell adding a chill to the already dreary night. Chloe longed to turn the car on to heat up the now chilly interior, but she didn’t dare draw any attention. Patience might be a virtue, but Chloe seemed to be losing virtues by the minute. She was weary of sitting here and wished to be done with it but she hadn’t seen the sign yet. For all she knew, she’d wait all night for the effing sign. She twisted the rough leather steering wheel until the skin on her fingers stung from the pressure.

A flash of light caught her peripheral vision and she realized she had stopped watching the window. Stupid. One of the four garage doors opened, flooding the driveway with light as a car backed out onto the street, the door closing behind it.
That was her sign.

As the car drove away, Chloe reached down and pulled the revolver from underneath the front seat. She paused as she watched the street light reflect on the shiny metal of the barrel. There was no going back after this. What she was about to do would change everything.

Good. That’s exactly what you want.

She got out of the car, pulling the hood of her jacket over her head. Her shoes produced a soft a squish on the driveway as she walked to the back of the house. After the hundreds of times she had driven past, this was the closest she had ever been to the house. She found the back door with little effort. Chloe reached for the door knob, hesitating for a millisecond before she grasped it in a firm grip. The cold metal was slick from the rain but turned easily as she twisted and pushed the door open a few inches. Chloe stopped and assessed her progress. The door opened to a mud room, which was dimly lit by a faded nightlight over the washing machine. It appeared to be empty so she pushed the door open further, allowing her to squeeze into the room and closing the door quietly behind her.

Music drifted from another room. Barry Manilow from the sounds of it. God, who listened to Barry Manilow? That alone was enough to justify killing her. Chloe crept from the room, into the kitchen. She held the gun to her side, slightly hidden. There was no sign of the woman so she continued on, surprised at her calmness. She thought she’d be nervous the first time she killed someone.

Chloe paused at the opening to the family room, hanging in the shadows. The woman sat in an overstuffed chair, her legs covered with a blanket and her head bent over a book in her lap.

“You can come out.” A warm voice called out.

Chloe’s heart lurched when she realized the woman was looking right at her. She took a few steps forward, emerging from the darkness.

“You’re younger than I expected.” The woman took off her reading glasses and squinted at her, shutting the book. “Come closer, I won’t bite.”

Chloe found herself shuffling closer, against her better judgment. Just shoot her already. Instead, she hid the gun behind her leg, curious the woman had expected her. She stopped halfway across the room.

“Closer, Darling.” The woman purred. She folded up the glasses and placed them on the table next to her.

Chloe tilted her head a fraction of an inch, studying the woman as she crept forward a few more feet. She was middle aged, with streaks of grey in her faded brown hair. Wrinkles lined her forehead and around the outer corners of her eyes, but her mouth lifted into a kind smile.

“You’re not the first, you know.” She folded her hands neatly on top of the book.

“Excuse me?” Chloe’s voice croaked. She cleared her throat.

The woman chuckled. “There have been others, although none quite as persistent as you.”

Chloe’s mind reeled at the woman’s revelation, but she soothed herself with the knowledge that he often complained the woman was a bitch. Of course, there would have been others. The woman’s smug smile told her that she registered Chloe’s shock so Chloe steeled her face.

“But I must admit, you were the first he took seriously. That’s why it’s such a shame, really.” Her mouth pursed into a sympathetic pout.

“What are you talking about?” Chloe asked. Her grip on the gun tightened and the woman’s gaze drifted to Chloe’s leg. The whoosh of a gunshot filled the air and Chloe wondered if she accidently squeezed the trigger.. The gun peering over the top of the blanket in the woman’s lap told her no.

Chloe reached down instinctively as a searing pain flooded her gut. Her eyes flited to her blood smeared hand and Chloe fell to her knees in disbelief, dropping her gun with a soft thud on the carpet.

“I knew you were coming, darling.” The woman’s voice cooed. “He told me.”

“What?” Chloe’s eyes widened in bewilderment as she stared at the woman’s glowing face.

The woman heaved a weighty sigh. “He was tired of you, darling, and frankly so was I.” The woman got up from the chair and kicked Chloe’s gun out of her reach. “When you are gone, he will shower me with gifts and attention to make up for his transgressions. Just like he always does.” She sighed again. “Until the next one…” Her voiced trailed off.

Chloe fell to the floor, her vision fading. The woman stood over her, shaking her head and making a tsking sound. “It really is such a shame.”