I know I've hit on this topic before, but character development is so important.
Something I've heard time and time again is that your antagonist can't just be bad to be bad, they need to have a motivation, something that makes their actions "good" from their point of view.
My latest WIP has a side arc about a saboteur. When I finished the rest of the main storyline and tied up the other loose ends, I realized I hadn't finished the side arc about the saboteur. In all honesty, I was probably too anxious to finish, and I plucked the character that made the most sense to me and made him the bad guy.
Fast forward a few months, and I had an agent give me really good feedback on the ms. One of her points was that the person I'd named as the saboteur was too obvious. She was right. So, I've been trying to figure out a better way of finishing off that story arc. I've narrowed down my options, and I'm playing with the new antagonist, but I have to establish his motivation.
For something like this, I recommend explorative writing. Typically, it's not something that will ever appear in the pages of my ms, but it will help me understand my character better, and therefore write them better where they do appear in the book.
This prompt is to write a scene for one of your characters that won't ever appear in your story, but that will give you a better understanding of your character.
Enjoy!
*Edited: With some people coming to read this blog who are also reading my ms, I'm changing the names of my characters, because otherwise this post ruins the ending.*
********************************************************************************
My response:
The shadows grew longer outside the supermarket as the grumbling in Tom's stomach grew louder.
He didn't know how long he'd been living on the streets, but it was long enough to learn he'd better wait until the group of men moved off before he moved in. His ribs still ached from that last run-in he'd had.
A hot wind blew past his face, rank with rot and disease. Sweat rolled down Tom's back. The heat of the asphalt seeped through the rubber of his soles. He sucked on his tongue, desperate to build moisture in his mouth. Still, he waited. A bottle of water later was better than risking a boot in the face now.
Until the dogs came. Tom heard them coming from the next block over. His right hand dropped down to cover a line of scabs on his left forearm. It was bad being an orphan after the epidemic wiped out most of the population. The dogs had it worse. In the absence of loving, food-providing owners, it had literally become a dog-eat-dog world.
Unless they found something else more helpless. Like an orphan.
Tom left the safety of his alleyway and shot towards the doors of the grocery store. The barking of the dogs picked up behind him, and he heard the pad of paws on the pavement behind him. Either he hadn't been fast enough, or they'd already picked up his scent.
A shadow stepped out of the doorway in front of Tom. His feet faltered for just a moment, but then they regained their motion. The dogs were definitely the worst of the two options.
As Tom reached the doors, the shadow stepped forward into the fading sunlight. It was a tall man, dark enough to be a shadow himself, with a halo of curly hair and bright, wide eyes. He pulled a gun from his belt and aimed it at Tom.
Tom threw himself to the ground. The asphalt bit into his palms and his chin as a shot rang out above his head.
Behind him, a dog dropped, yelping. The gun rang out again, followed by another thud.
Tom lay on the ground, gasping and trembling.
The man reached down, slipping his hands under Tom's arms and lifting him to his feet. Without a word, he tucked his gun back into its holster and pulled a canteen from his bag. Twisting the lid off, he pressed it to Tom's lips.
Tom's hands flew forward, snatching at the canteen and upending it into his mouth. Water spilled from the corners of his mouth as he gulped, eyes closed.
The shadow man chuckled, like laughing thunder. "Thought you might be thirsty." He crouched down, his hands on his knees. "I'm Mr. Smith. What's your name?"
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
Thursday, March 24, 2016
Identity
I came across a story today that piques my interest in so many ways. Especially with this push in the publishing industry for more diverse books, I really want to see something done like this. Here's the story: http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/life/a37533/adoption-secret-family-history/
So, the girl was raised believing she was born to a Jewish mother. I am not Jewish, but the article implies that Jews believe any child born to a Jewish mother is Jewish. She was adopted by a Jewish family and raised as a Jew. She developed a close association with her Jewish heritage, even more so than some of her relatives.
When she sought out her birth parents, however, she discovered that her mother was a Christian who envied the family lives of the Jewish people she knew. She wanted her child to have that, so she filled out the adoption forms to label her child as Jewish, so it would go to a Jewish household.
Ultimately, she overcame the shock and moved on, but I'd love to see a novel like this, where someone's life view - something they consider to be a part of them - turns out to be wrong. It would be a lot more literary than what I usually write, but I'd love to read it.
So, the girl was raised believing she was born to a Jewish mother. I am not Jewish, but the article implies that Jews believe any child born to a Jewish mother is Jewish. She was adopted by a Jewish family and raised as a Jew. She developed a close association with her Jewish heritage, even more so than some of her relatives.
When she sought out her birth parents, however, she discovered that her mother was a Christian who envied the family lives of the Jewish people she knew. She wanted her child to have that, so she filled out the adoption forms to label her child as Jewish, so it would go to a Jewish household.
Ultimately, she overcame the shock and moved on, but I'd love to see a novel like this, where someone's life view - something they consider to be a part of them - turns out to be wrong. It would be a lot more literary than what I usually write, but I'd love to read it.
Monday, November 16, 2015
The wind ...
I didn't go running this morning. Not because of the snow, which we did get, but because of the WIND. Oh my lands, the wind we have today!!!
We're not unused to wind, here in southern Idaho. On a typical day, it manifests itself as a determined breeze. On days like today, every trash can on the street has blown over, and it looks like the truck has already collected, because the trash is nowhere to be found ... until you get into the farmers' fields downwind, and the barbed wire looks like a clothesline.
It reminded me of a few weeks ago, when the wind snatched a piece of paper from my daughter's hands at school pick-up. Her face squished up and I knew she was about to cry, so I grabbed her hand and we dashed off across the parking lot after it. Luckily, it hit a tree in front of the school and stuck, so we only had to chase ... well, maybe 200 feet across the crowded school pick-up before getting it. *eye roll*
And do you know what that piece of paper was?
An ad.
No, seriously, it was an ad for a pediatric dentist or chiropractor or something that the teacher forgot to put in their homework folders so had instead handed out on their way out the door. And we risked life and limb running through school pick-up to get it back.
Oy.
At least it works as fodder for my prompt this week! Without any further ado, the prompt is:
"The winds snatched it from [his/her] hands..."
Enjoy!
*****************************************************************************
My response:
The wind snatched the origami butterfly from her hands. It passed the edge of the cliff in moments, swirling higher and higher in the updraft.
Her mouth dropped open as she watched its frantic dance. Only the cliff edge held her back. It had happened too quickly.
She had meant to come and stand at the rim, contemplating her loss and talking to her mother, as if she were still there. Then, when she was ready, she would have let the small paper fly.
But just like her mother's death, the butterfly was gone too soon. Now she stood with empty hands and a hollow heart wondering what had just happened.
We're not unused to wind, here in southern Idaho. On a typical day, it manifests itself as a determined breeze. On days like today, every trash can on the street has blown over, and it looks like the truck has already collected, because the trash is nowhere to be found ... until you get into the farmers' fields downwind, and the barbed wire looks like a clothesline.
It reminded me of a few weeks ago, when the wind snatched a piece of paper from my daughter's hands at school pick-up. Her face squished up and I knew she was about to cry, so I grabbed her hand and we dashed off across the parking lot after it. Luckily, it hit a tree in front of the school and stuck, so we only had to chase ... well, maybe 200 feet across the crowded school pick-up before getting it. *eye roll*
And do you know what that piece of paper was?
An ad.
No, seriously, it was an ad for a pediatric dentist or chiropractor or something that the teacher forgot to put in their homework folders so had instead handed out on their way out the door. And we risked life and limb running through school pick-up to get it back.
Oy.
At least it works as fodder for my prompt this week! Without any further ado, the prompt is:
"The winds snatched it from [his/her] hands..."
Enjoy!
*****************************************************************************
My response:
The wind snatched the origami butterfly from her hands. It passed the edge of the cliff in moments, swirling higher and higher in the updraft.
Her mouth dropped open as she watched its frantic dance. Only the cliff edge held her back. It had happened too quickly.
She had meant to come and stand at the rim, contemplating her loss and talking to her mother, as if she were still there. Then, when she was ready, she would have let the small paper fly.
But just like her mother's death, the butterfly was gone too soon. Now she stood with empty hands and a hollow heart wondering what had just happened.
Monday, November 2, 2015
Elections
The post for this week is inspired by my friend, whose husband is running for a spot on the City Council of a small town. With the election tomorrow, I asked her how she's doing. She said the hard part is that they don't have the first clue how it's going to turn out. There are no polls for a small town election, so while he could very well win, he may also walk away with only a few votes. There's really no way to know ... and so they won't know until the votes are counted.
I would not trade all of my anxieties for this one of hers right now.
So, the prompt for this week is to write a bit about an election. Make it a student body, homecoming queen, or even US President election, whatever you like. Have fun!
********************************************************************************
My response:
I walked into the courthouse with wings on my feet. I felt like I'd off-loaded barrels of bricks from my shoulders. Only the weight of my restored ego kept me down.
The swearing-in was scheduled for 10am, but I was there early. Mostly for the photo op with the press. It had taken fifteen minutes to get from my car to the front door - a distance I usually crossed in a matter of seconds. Today everyone wanted to shake my hand and get my autograph. After four years of serving my people, even more of them had grown to know and love me, and I knew I would keep fighting for them.
It was us against the world, but as of the election yesterday, we'd won a major battle.
And it wasn't just that. Four more years of a paycheck that would keep my children in the best schools. Four more years of holding a position of respect, such that my ex couldn't mess with me like he had in the past. Four more years.
I was so ready.
"Annie?" Suddenly my best friend, also a member of the legislature, but on the staggered term from my own, was at my elbow. "Annie, you better get in here."
Her blue eyes were wide and wet as she pulled me into the main hall. Everyone was there, which was expected, but I quickly picked out the problem. The election clerk stood at the presentation table, a projector set up.
"... manipulated the vote in a number of the sectors. We have identified the areas where the vote was tampered with, and these sectors will be removed from the total count of yesterday's election ..."
Someone tampered with the votes? I only believed it for a split second. Then the reality of the situation hit me. They were getting rid of me. Whether the people wanted me or not, the rest of the government was tired of putting up with me. They'd had to come up with a way to get rid of me, and they'd done it. Accuse me of tampering with votes. Throw out the sectors where my supporters live.
But they were wrong. I wasn't done fighting, yet.
I would not trade all of my anxieties for this one of hers right now.
So, the prompt for this week is to write a bit about an election. Make it a student body, homecoming queen, or even US President election, whatever you like. Have fun!
********************************************************************************
My response:
I walked into the courthouse with wings on my feet. I felt like I'd off-loaded barrels of bricks from my shoulders. Only the weight of my restored ego kept me down.
The swearing-in was scheduled for 10am, but I was there early. Mostly for the photo op with the press. It had taken fifteen minutes to get from my car to the front door - a distance I usually crossed in a matter of seconds. Today everyone wanted to shake my hand and get my autograph. After four years of serving my people, even more of them had grown to know and love me, and I knew I would keep fighting for them.
It was us against the world, but as of the election yesterday, we'd won a major battle.
And it wasn't just that. Four more years of a paycheck that would keep my children in the best schools. Four more years of holding a position of respect, such that my ex couldn't mess with me like he had in the past. Four more years.
I was so ready.
"Annie?" Suddenly my best friend, also a member of the legislature, but on the staggered term from my own, was at my elbow. "Annie, you better get in here."
Her blue eyes were wide and wet as she pulled me into the main hall. Everyone was there, which was expected, but I quickly picked out the problem. The election clerk stood at the presentation table, a projector set up.
"... manipulated the vote in a number of the sectors. We have identified the areas where the vote was tampered with, and these sectors will be removed from the total count of yesterday's election ..."
Someone tampered with the votes? I only believed it for a split second. Then the reality of the situation hit me. They were getting rid of me. Whether the people wanted me or not, the rest of the government was tired of putting up with me. They'd had to come up with a way to get rid of me, and they'd done it. Accuse me of tampering with votes. Throw out the sectors where my supporters live.
But they were wrong. I wasn't done fighting, yet.
Tuesday, October 27, 2015
Perspective
I was going through the pictures on my phone the other day when I came across a sequence of pictures that seemed off. I recognized the place, but the angle was funny. All the pictures had been taken from a couple of feet lower than my own eye level. My daughter had taken them.
I found it interesting how different the front hallway of her school (which I'm fairly familiar with, having been on the PTA board for a while) looked so different from a different perspective. First of all, I realized that all the posters and advertisements we had out were at adult eye-level. She was looking up to see any of them, and most of what she could see was plain, blank wall.
When I write, I love third person, omniscient. It allows so much freedom as far as, you can tell the reader anything you want. But for voice, first person makes all the difference.
The prompt for this week is to try and use a perspective you haven't used before, whether that's a unique character or a different point of view in your writing.
Enjoy!
******************************************************************************
My response:
Contemporary. Romeo and Juliet. Death scene. Perspective: Juliet's best friend - who would have to be a new character and would take over some the nurse's roles.
I never left the church after the funeral. It was enough that I'd convinced Juliet's mom that drawing the funeral out, with the funeral service on one day and the graveside and burial the next, would bring in more publicity. She always would do anything for more camera time. When the funeral procession left the cathedral, heading towards the dinner, I hid in the shadows until they were gone.
Friar Laurence would be missed at the party. We locked eyes as he laid his robe across the pulpit and followed the mourning family out the door. I nodded and gave him a grim smile.
When the doors shut, I checked on Juliet. Her body temperature was still depressed, but I could tell by the flush on her cheeks that her heart had started beating again. It was still irregular, but she wasn't supposed to wake up for another hour, so that didn't bother me. I went upstairs, to the Friar's office, to check our suitcases.
I wasn't able to get any of Juliet's clothes, so everything I had packed, I had to buy. I wasn't worried. I knew her taste. Besides, as long as she got to be with Romeo again, she wouldn't care what she was wearing.
Romeo. I rolled my eyes thinking of him. This whole thing had been crazy. I'd told Juliet she'd lost her mind, but would she listen to me? At least it would all soon be over. Romeo had dropped his phone when they ran him out of town, but Ben figured out where he was, and Friar Laurence sent him a letter. Ben was on his way there, to make sure Romeo was okay. As soon as Friar Laurence got back and Juliet woke up, the three of us would be on our way, too.
My phone was still on vibrate, and it rattled against my thy. I pulled it out. It was a text from Ben: Here now. Not good. Laurence's letter in the door, R not here. Car missing.
It took a minute for the pieces to come together in my mind. If the letter from the Friar was in the door, and Romeo wasn't there, that meant he still didn't know our plan. Ben had only just gotten there, so he hadn't had a chance to tell Romeo the plan.
Horror swept over my heart. If Romeo heard the news and believed it, he'd be on his way here. He was as crazy as Juliet. Nothing would keep him away. And as soon as he got here, either Juliet's cousins or the Prince himself would make sure he breathed his last breath.
There was still hope. Romeo would come to find Juliet. He was too much of a romantic to do anything else. And I was here, with Juliet. Maybe she'd even be awake by time he got here.
I slipped out of the Friar's office. Just as the door closed behind me, I heard a cry. It was long and low, and ended in wracking sobs. I flew to the upper railing and looked down at the sanctuary, three stories below.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Romeo had made it here. If we could just sneak him out with us, all would still be well. I ran from the railing towards the stairs. My slippered feet barely made a sound as I ran, so I heard Juliet's voice as she woke up.
"Romeo?!" She laughed. "I thought we'd have to go find you! You're here!"
For a moment, my heart lifted. No harm, no foul. We'd get through this.
Then the still air of the cathedral shattered with Juliet's piercing wail. "Romeo!!! What's this?!!! Did you drink this?!!!"
What did she mean? Was he drunk? How had he made his way into the city and managed to avoid everyone looking for him? He couldn't be drunk ...
Through the pillars, I caught a glimpse of the raised bed in the sanctuary. Juliet was sitting up. Romeo no longer stood by the bed, but lay across her lap, his face pale. His lips trembled and he reached a hand towards Juliet's cheek. Then another pillar blocked my view.
"Juliet!" I cried. What was going on?!
I reached the last turn of the staircase. Now I had a straight shot to the sanctuary. My eyes found Juliet and watched in horror, refusing to look away.
She did not cry. She did not wail. Her face became a mask of stone, the picture of perfect agony.
Her hands reached to the dagger on Romeo's belt.
My feet ran, but time slowed. I knew I wouldn't make it in time.
There was no last kiss. No loving promise. No tears falling on perfect lips, so anxious was she to meet her beloved Romeo. She simply grasped the dagger in both hands and thrust it deep into her own breast. It was simply the quickest way to get to him, just like this crazy scheme.
In her last moment, her heart already stilled by the dagger, but her spirit still in her eyes, she saw me. She saw me, and she smiled. Then she fell back against the pillows.
The phone in my pocket vibrated. It was Ben: Did you get my text? This is BAD.
I typed out a response: It's okay. They're together now. Forever.
I found it interesting how different the front hallway of her school (which I'm fairly familiar with, having been on the PTA board for a while) looked so different from a different perspective. First of all, I realized that all the posters and advertisements we had out were at adult eye-level. She was looking up to see any of them, and most of what she could see was plain, blank wall.
When I write, I love third person, omniscient. It allows so much freedom as far as, you can tell the reader anything you want. But for voice, first person makes all the difference.
The prompt for this week is to try and use a perspective you haven't used before, whether that's a unique character or a different point of view in your writing.
Enjoy!
******************************************************************************
My response:
Contemporary. Romeo and Juliet. Death scene. Perspective: Juliet's best friend - who would have to be a new character and would take over some the nurse's roles.
I never left the church after the funeral. It was enough that I'd convinced Juliet's mom that drawing the funeral out, with the funeral service on one day and the graveside and burial the next, would bring in more publicity. She always would do anything for more camera time. When the funeral procession left the cathedral, heading towards the dinner, I hid in the shadows until they were gone.
Friar Laurence would be missed at the party. We locked eyes as he laid his robe across the pulpit and followed the mourning family out the door. I nodded and gave him a grim smile.
When the doors shut, I checked on Juliet. Her body temperature was still depressed, but I could tell by the flush on her cheeks that her heart had started beating again. It was still irregular, but she wasn't supposed to wake up for another hour, so that didn't bother me. I went upstairs, to the Friar's office, to check our suitcases.
I wasn't able to get any of Juliet's clothes, so everything I had packed, I had to buy. I wasn't worried. I knew her taste. Besides, as long as she got to be with Romeo again, she wouldn't care what she was wearing.
Romeo. I rolled my eyes thinking of him. This whole thing had been crazy. I'd told Juliet she'd lost her mind, but would she listen to me? At least it would all soon be over. Romeo had dropped his phone when they ran him out of town, but Ben figured out where he was, and Friar Laurence sent him a letter. Ben was on his way there, to make sure Romeo was okay. As soon as Friar Laurence got back and Juliet woke up, the three of us would be on our way, too.
My phone was still on vibrate, and it rattled against my thy. I pulled it out. It was a text from Ben: Here now. Not good. Laurence's letter in the door, R not here. Car missing.
It took a minute for the pieces to come together in my mind. If the letter from the Friar was in the door, and Romeo wasn't there, that meant he still didn't know our plan. Ben had only just gotten there, so he hadn't had a chance to tell Romeo the plan.
Horror swept over my heart. If Romeo heard the news and believed it, he'd be on his way here. He was as crazy as Juliet. Nothing would keep him away. And as soon as he got here, either Juliet's cousins or the Prince himself would make sure he breathed his last breath.
There was still hope. Romeo would come to find Juliet. He was too much of a romantic to do anything else. And I was here, with Juliet. Maybe she'd even be awake by time he got here.
I slipped out of the Friar's office. Just as the door closed behind me, I heard a cry. It was long and low, and ended in wracking sobs. I flew to the upper railing and looked down at the sanctuary, three stories below.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Romeo had made it here. If we could just sneak him out with us, all would still be well. I ran from the railing towards the stairs. My slippered feet barely made a sound as I ran, so I heard Juliet's voice as she woke up.
"Romeo?!" She laughed. "I thought we'd have to go find you! You're here!"
For a moment, my heart lifted. No harm, no foul. We'd get through this.
Then the still air of the cathedral shattered with Juliet's piercing wail. "Romeo!!! What's this?!!! Did you drink this?!!!"
What did she mean? Was he drunk? How had he made his way into the city and managed to avoid everyone looking for him? He couldn't be drunk ...
Through the pillars, I caught a glimpse of the raised bed in the sanctuary. Juliet was sitting up. Romeo no longer stood by the bed, but lay across her lap, his face pale. His lips trembled and he reached a hand towards Juliet's cheek. Then another pillar blocked my view.
"Juliet!" I cried. What was going on?!
I reached the last turn of the staircase. Now I had a straight shot to the sanctuary. My eyes found Juliet and watched in horror, refusing to look away.
She did not cry. She did not wail. Her face became a mask of stone, the picture of perfect agony.
Her hands reached to the dagger on Romeo's belt.
My feet ran, but time slowed. I knew I wouldn't make it in time.
There was no last kiss. No loving promise. No tears falling on perfect lips, so anxious was she to meet her beloved Romeo. She simply grasped the dagger in both hands and thrust it deep into her own breast. It was simply the quickest way to get to him, just like this crazy scheme.
In her last moment, her heart already stilled by the dagger, but her spirit still in her eyes, she saw me. She saw me, and she smiled. Then she fell back against the pillows.
The phone in my pocket vibrated. It was Ben: Did you get my text? This is BAD.
I typed out a response: It's okay. They're together now. Forever.
Monday, October 19, 2015
Religious
While I consider myself a deeply spiritual person, I rarely write about religious issues. Except for the odd occasion when I'm asked to speak in church, my writing focuses mainly on fantasy and sci-fi universes that I've thought up on my own.
Still, I admire people who are able to put their faith into words, hence the prompt for this week: Write something that touches you.
Please note that it doesn't have to be religious in the sense of church-going and scripture-reading. Just something that stirs your soul.
Enjoy!
*********************************************************************************
My response:
(This is an idea I've played around with in my mind, but I've never actually tried to write. It may be a mess, but that's the point of this blog, to stretch and try new things.)
The end came like the swell of a wave in the ocean, except instead of lifting her feet off the sandy bottom and dropping her back down, it lifted her up, off her sick bed, and the fall never came.
Mary had been asleep until the wave lifted her, but now she saw the dim room with perfect clarity. Her daughter sat next to the bed, holding Mary's hand. The tone of the heart monitor brought tears to her eyes. Mary's son-in-law put a hand on his wife's shoulder. On the other side of the bed, in various metal and plastic chairs, her other three children and their spouses sat.
Ten years of fighting cancer, and Mary knew there would be no nurses rushing to save her, no doctors and last-ditch efforts to keep her alive. That was the purpose of her living will, and she noticed with a flicker of satisfaction that they submitted peacefully to her choice.
Then she noticed the orderly standing in the doorway. She might have looked right past him, except he was looking right at her. Then he smiled.
"Mary, are you ready?"
Mary cocked her head. "For what? And even if I wasn't, I don't see much of a choice."
She almost regretted her tone, but the man only smiled wider while his eyes gleamed. "Come with me, then, and I'll get you ready for your report."
He reached out an incorporeal hand, and Mary took it, surprised she hadn't left her sense of touch behind with her body. The man led her down a hallway. It was white with doors on either side and gleaming, gold doorknobs.
"Are we still in the hospital?" Mary asked.
"No."
"Well, where are we, then?" Mary hated to be caught unawares.
The man stopped at a door, his hand on the knob. "This world is in a form that you will understand right now. Very soon, you will understand more. Be patient, please, and everything will be explained."
Mary frowned, but as he opened the door, curiosity drew her in. She peeked into the bright room.
It was a storage room. From floor to ceiling, rows and rows of shelves had cardboard boxes, filing cabinets, plastic storage bins. It looked like her own basement, except easily one hundred times the size.
"What is this room?" Mary turned to her escort.
His eyes glowed with reverence and awe as they traveled over the boxes. "Mary, this is your life's work. Everything you ever made is in here. Your first kindergarten pictures to your last journal entry. The meals you prepared, presents you packaged, everything you put together or created in life can be found in this room."
Mary's mouth opened as she stared in wonder. "What is it all here for?"
"You will need to choose," the man explained. "Choose the best thing you made in life to present to God. Thereby will you be judged."
Mary turned to object. "Choose?! From all this, I have to choose just one thing?!"
Again, the sparkling smile. "You may have all the time you want. There is no rush, here."
Before she could object again, he was gone, and Mary found herself alone in the room.
Mary was not a woman of sentimentality or distraction. She moved through the shelves of her youth fairly quickly, the scribbled first letters and abstract art done in crayon. She paused here and there as she moved through her preteen and high school years. English reports and clay pots, completed tests and hair ribbons. Her first few attempts at sewing. Still, she moved on.
The food grew more abundant when she married, and the flower arrangements, but it was a little box with a slip of white satin showing that stopped her. A small christening gown, crocheted booties, a bonnet. The daughter who held her hand as she died had worn this dress as an infant. Mary hadn't known she could cry, but now she did. She picked up the dress, carrying it with her as she continued.
Baby books, pants with patches sewn on, and music ... little songs she'd made up and sung to her children stored in music boxes. They even sang with the voice of her youth, full and sweet. She picked her favorite and moved on.
A black silk scarf, flowers in red and white, and a speech typed on thick, marbled paper. Mary remembered her father's funeral. She'd made the scarf for her mother, and they'd arranged the flowers together. She picked up the small photo album she'd presented to her mother and hugged it to her chest.
Mary moved deliberately through the room, careful to open every box. Time didn't seem to matter. She grew neither hungry nor tired. Then she was back at the door with her arms full.
Her escort reappeared. "Mary, are you ready now?"
Mary looked at her collection. If she had to choose something to represent her life, she figured she'd done a good job of gathering up the most important things. Still, each item on their own seemed insufficient. They only spoke part of the story of her life. Any one item couldn't show all she was.
"Mary? You can take more time, if you need," he prompted sweetly.
Mary shook her head, slowly at first, and then firmly. "No. No, I won't need any more time."
She turned back to the shelves. Lovingly, she put the dress back. She put the silk scarf and the music box back. Piece by piece, she emptied her arms of her treasures. Then she turned back to her guide.
"The only thing to do is to bring me. I carry all of these things in my heart ... all of these things ... and what I have become."
The smile on the man's face grew wider, and Mary's memory stirred. She knew him from somewhere. She couldn't make sense of it, yet, but she knew he was someone very important.
"Dear Mary," he said. "You have chosen well."
Still, I admire people who are able to put their faith into words, hence the prompt for this week: Write something that touches you.
Please note that it doesn't have to be religious in the sense of church-going and scripture-reading. Just something that stirs your soul.
Enjoy!
*********************************************************************************
My response:
(This is an idea I've played around with in my mind, but I've never actually tried to write. It may be a mess, but that's the point of this blog, to stretch and try new things.)
The end came like the swell of a wave in the ocean, except instead of lifting her feet off the sandy bottom and dropping her back down, it lifted her up, off her sick bed, and the fall never came.
Mary had been asleep until the wave lifted her, but now she saw the dim room with perfect clarity. Her daughter sat next to the bed, holding Mary's hand. The tone of the heart monitor brought tears to her eyes. Mary's son-in-law put a hand on his wife's shoulder. On the other side of the bed, in various metal and plastic chairs, her other three children and their spouses sat.
Ten years of fighting cancer, and Mary knew there would be no nurses rushing to save her, no doctors and last-ditch efforts to keep her alive. That was the purpose of her living will, and she noticed with a flicker of satisfaction that they submitted peacefully to her choice.
Then she noticed the orderly standing in the doorway. She might have looked right past him, except he was looking right at her. Then he smiled.
"Mary, are you ready?"
Mary cocked her head. "For what? And even if I wasn't, I don't see much of a choice."
She almost regretted her tone, but the man only smiled wider while his eyes gleamed. "Come with me, then, and I'll get you ready for your report."
He reached out an incorporeal hand, and Mary took it, surprised she hadn't left her sense of touch behind with her body. The man led her down a hallway. It was white with doors on either side and gleaming, gold doorknobs.
"Are we still in the hospital?" Mary asked.
"No."
"Well, where are we, then?" Mary hated to be caught unawares.
The man stopped at a door, his hand on the knob. "This world is in a form that you will understand right now. Very soon, you will understand more. Be patient, please, and everything will be explained."
Mary frowned, but as he opened the door, curiosity drew her in. She peeked into the bright room.
It was a storage room. From floor to ceiling, rows and rows of shelves had cardboard boxes, filing cabinets, plastic storage bins. It looked like her own basement, except easily one hundred times the size.
"What is this room?" Mary turned to her escort.
His eyes glowed with reverence and awe as they traveled over the boxes. "Mary, this is your life's work. Everything you ever made is in here. Your first kindergarten pictures to your last journal entry. The meals you prepared, presents you packaged, everything you put together or created in life can be found in this room."
Mary's mouth opened as she stared in wonder. "What is it all here for?"
"You will need to choose," the man explained. "Choose the best thing you made in life to present to God. Thereby will you be judged."
Mary turned to object. "Choose?! From all this, I have to choose just one thing?!"
Again, the sparkling smile. "You may have all the time you want. There is no rush, here."
Before she could object again, he was gone, and Mary found herself alone in the room.
Mary was not a woman of sentimentality or distraction. She moved through the shelves of her youth fairly quickly, the scribbled first letters and abstract art done in crayon. She paused here and there as she moved through her preteen and high school years. English reports and clay pots, completed tests and hair ribbons. Her first few attempts at sewing. Still, she moved on.
The food grew more abundant when she married, and the flower arrangements, but it was a little box with a slip of white satin showing that stopped her. A small christening gown, crocheted booties, a bonnet. The daughter who held her hand as she died had worn this dress as an infant. Mary hadn't known she could cry, but now she did. She picked up the dress, carrying it with her as she continued.
Baby books, pants with patches sewn on, and music ... little songs she'd made up and sung to her children stored in music boxes. They even sang with the voice of her youth, full and sweet. She picked her favorite and moved on.
A black silk scarf, flowers in red and white, and a speech typed on thick, marbled paper. Mary remembered her father's funeral. She'd made the scarf for her mother, and they'd arranged the flowers together. She picked up the small photo album she'd presented to her mother and hugged it to her chest.
Mary moved deliberately through the room, careful to open every box. Time didn't seem to matter. She grew neither hungry nor tired. Then she was back at the door with her arms full.
Her escort reappeared. "Mary, are you ready now?"
Mary looked at her collection. If she had to choose something to represent her life, she figured she'd done a good job of gathering up the most important things. Still, each item on their own seemed insufficient. They only spoke part of the story of her life. Any one item couldn't show all she was.
"Mary? You can take more time, if you need," he prompted sweetly.
Mary shook her head, slowly at first, and then firmly. "No. No, I won't need any more time."
She turned back to the shelves. Lovingly, she put the dress back. She put the silk scarf and the music box back. Piece by piece, she emptied her arms of her treasures. Then she turned back to her guide.
"The only thing to do is to bring me. I carry all of these things in my heart ... all of these things ... and what I have become."
The smile on the man's face grew wider, and Mary's memory stirred. She knew him from somewhere. She couldn't make sense of it, yet, but she knew he was someone very important.
"Dear Mary," he said. "You have chosen well."
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
Character Development - She has a squint.
I've been wracking my brain, trying to remember something I read recently, but I can't place it. I can remember this much: It was a classic piece of literature ... maybe C. S. Lewis or Mark Twain. Or maybe it was Austin, because I'm pretty sure it was set in the Victorian era.
The point is, the character was a young man looking for a wife, and his complaint about one of the potential ladies is that she has a squint. I was intrigued. What if her squint is from poor eyesight? If she were alive today, she'd wear contacts, and it wouldn't be an issue at all. My imagination kicked in, then, and I started to wonder about what other quirks people could possibly have, if modern medicine wasn't to the point where those things are taken care of when we're young.
Think about it. Webbed toes/fingers. Poor hearing or poor eyesight. Scars from measles or small pox. Hunchbacks. The prompt for this week is to think of character trait like that and write a short piece on your character.
Enjoy!
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My Response:
Marlise whirled around the dance floor, her heart spinning nearly as fast as she was. Who would have thought that her fourth season would turn out so differently from her first three? It had certainly started off the same.
Marlise's family had moderate social status, though the titles had fallen on firstborn sons, and Marlise came from second and third sons. They had land and a little wealth, but not enough to cause a ripple in the room when her dowry was mentioned. Her looks were fair, enough to ensure her dance card was full, but her hand remained unclaimed. If she's attracted any attention in the first two weeks of the season, it was only when people remarked that she was losing the glow of her youth.
Then the Duke of Kent arrived, and all the matrons whispered behind their fans. The Duchess, his wife, had died two years prior, but he'd been left with two infant sons. Rumors ran rampant. He may be looking for a new wife, but she would have to accept that her own son would never bear the title.
Marlise didn't care. From the moment he'd laid eyes on her, they'd both been new people. Now, as they sought out the cool night air on the balcony, Marlise felt she'd never been happier. She'd forgotten her fan inside, so she pulled at the fingertips of her left glove.
Then she stopped. It would be nice to wave the glove and feel the rush of air against her skin ... and in the dark, maybe he wouldn't notice.
But no. Marlise pulled her glove back into position, determined. Her deformity only reached to the first knuckle of each finger. Certainly, her hands looked stilted in gloves, but to remove them would be something far worse.
Marlise sent a quick prayer to heaven, grateful for a civilized world, so she could wear her gloves right up until her wedding night, and her Duke would be none the wiser until it was too late.
The point is, the character was a young man looking for a wife, and his complaint about one of the potential ladies is that she has a squint. I was intrigued. What if her squint is from poor eyesight? If she were alive today, she'd wear contacts, and it wouldn't be an issue at all. My imagination kicked in, then, and I started to wonder about what other quirks people could possibly have, if modern medicine wasn't to the point where those things are taken care of when we're young.
Think about it. Webbed toes/fingers. Poor hearing or poor eyesight. Scars from measles or small pox. Hunchbacks. The prompt for this week is to think of character trait like that and write a short piece on your character.
Enjoy!
*********************************************************************************
My Response:
Marlise whirled around the dance floor, her heart spinning nearly as fast as she was. Who would have thought that her fourth season would turn out so differently from her first three? It had certainly started off the same.
Marlise's family had moderate social status, though the titles had fallen on firstborn sons, and Marlise came from second and third sons. They had land and a little wealth, but not enough to cause a ripple in the room when her dowry was mentioned. Her looks were fair, enough to ensure her dance card was full, but her hand remained unclaimed. If she's attracted any attention in the first two weeks of the season, it was only when people remarked that she was losing the glow of her youth.
Then the Duke of Kent arrived, and all the matrons whispered behind their fans. The Duchess, his wife, had died two years prior, but he'd been left with two infant sons. Rumors ran rampant. He may be looking for a new wife, but she would have to accept that her own son would never bear the title.
Marlise didn't care. From the moment he'd laid eyes on her, they'd both been new people. Now, as they sought out the cool night air on the balcony, Marlise felt she'd never been happier. She'd forgotten her fan inside, so she pulled at the fingertips of her left glove.
Then she stopped. It would be nice to wave the glove and feel the rush of air against her skin ... and in the dark, maybe he wouldn't notice.
But no. Marlise pulled her glove back into position, determined. Her deformity only reached to the first knuckle of each finger. Certainly, her hands looked stilted in gloves, but to remove them would be something far worse.
Marlise sent a quick prayer to heaven, grateful for a civilized world, so she could wear her gloves right up until her wedding night, and her Duke would be none the wiser until it was too late.
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