LITR 3731: Creative Writing
Student Journal / Portfolio Sample Submission 2003
Laurie Eckhart
LITR 3731 2003
journal
INTRODUCTION
This journal is the compilation and exploration of one semester’s worth of poetry, fiction, drama and critiquing exercises in a creative writing course. Before this class I had experienced writing poetry and fiction but, this was my first attempt at working with drama. Revisions of my work were based on class response and the readings from Stephen Minot’s book the Three Genres.
I still have newspapers and journals that I began making by the time I was eight years old. I have enjoyed writing since I was a child, but it has only been recently that I began to seriously consider what opportunities exist in the world for writers. I took this course primarily as a means of finding other serious writers for support and because I could think of nothing I’d rather do that write creatively for a grade.
An unexpected benefit of the class has been the “gentle pressure” to write and produce on a regular basis. I think, honestly, this is the first college course I have ever finished my assignments weeks before they were due. The valuable truth that I have learned is that I need to find external pressure to write; whether that is in a regular writing group (which I have joined) or a deadline for a contest submission.
The other unexpected gift from this course has been the discovery of The Joy of Writing Drama. I actually dreaded the drama section when I first saw it in the syllabus. I admit it was irrational, but my thoughts on it were that drama was a completely alien creature that would suck valuable time from real writing, and I preferred to focus on poetry and writing.
I learned the most about drama, whether that’s because I knew absolutely zilch about drama and had no where to go but up or I was more receptive to it than the poetry and fiction, I don’t know. I’ve been prowling bookstores lately and have noticed a ridiculous number of books about writing drama. Evidently, I was blind to them before this course. I also spotted an article in Writers’ Journal about positive current trends regarding script writing. This is definitely an area of writing that I’ll continue to explore, although, without actors drama might not prove to be as exciting.
Ultimately, I was disappointed in the class as potential community of writers, but I must lay much of the blame for the failed connection on myself. I am very grateful for the handful of writers that I did have significant contact with over the term. The comments I received were a wonderful balance of criticism and encouragement.
I feel that this course was almost equal parts writing and criticism, and to have a successful community of writers the art of criticism must be learned and practiced as diligently as writing itself. Bringing together a group of, even serious, writers in a room does not a community of writers make.
POETRY
I submitted three poems in addition to the poem I presented in class. I will briefly discuss each poem with more attention given to “Technological Conscience,” the poem I developed for class. I have to admit that I had some additional help with critical feedback this semester because I was also enrolled in a graduate poetics class. The great benefit of taking that class in addition to creative writing was that 90% of the poetics students were experienced with giving criticism. Interesting to note, the responses I received from the two sets of classmates didn’t match. It reinforced the fact that while technique does exist, it’s still subjective.
When
I write fiction I ask myself “what if” until a scenario of interest crawls
into my imagination. Poetry works differently for me. It’s literally a case of
“what I see is what you get.” I have a difficult time writing
“fictional” poetry. Unfortunately, I still feel a desire to be
“truthful” with poetry, whereas I can stretch truth to whatever point I feel
necessary in fiction. The following accounts are primarily of the ideas that
drove each of my poems. The techniques that I focused on improving this term
were learning to recognize where to break the lines, word choice (for clarity
& connotation), and how to separate the fat from the lean meat of the poem.
Technological
Conscience
I love to hear other people’s kernels, the idea or spark that they later develop into a poem or story. The kernel for this story sprouted during a conversation with my mother on a long, boring car trip. Mom told me about a conversation she overheard when my brother’s cell phone autodialed her, unknown to him. Since I have a slightly voyeuristic (see definition # 2, not #1, in your dictionary) nature the story captured my attention. I began thinking about my own paranoia (having heard of similar experiences from other people) and how I compulsively check my cell phone whenever I say something I wouldn’t want to be overheard. I asked my Mom to find a scrap of paper to record my poem idea. I still have the bank deposit slip with the words “paranoia – check cell phone for autodial – technological conscience” in my writing journal.
Most of my poems happen that way. I’m never in a convenient place to write, so I jot down the idea or clip the inspiring article and throw them in a journal to wait for the day when the writing in right.
I wrote the original draft of “T.C.” and was close to satisfied, but not quite. The first stanza proved to be pesky, it’s always sounded different than the rest of the poem —to me and others. I also fretted about making the leap from and individual compulsively checking a cell phone to technology, on the whole, replacing our scruples or conscience.
The two problems have been theoretically solved. I haven’t been able to bring myself to make theoretically become reality yet, because my distance from the poem isn’t quite far enough. I’ve decided to take out the cell phone reference and make the poem about a more general “technological conscience.” “Click the hypertext of my consciousness” will be my new focus. I think that the checking-the-cell-phone-to-be-sure-it-hasn’t-autodialed-someone is destined to be a second poem, one more light and accessible, without moral or societal implications to impede the reader’s ability to identify with the poem.
Adult
Astigmatism
“Adult Astigmatism” is another poem with a technology flavor, but I don’t think it hits the reader over the head quite so much as “Technological Conscience. “ This poem was my attempt to share the experience I had as a youth when, despite my stigmatism, I was able to see things in startling clarity every so often—due to overactive tear ducts I imagine. I’m constantly trying to identify the things in life that we all experience, but for whatever reason rarely share with one another. As a child I thought my experiences were wholly unique because no one would ever admit to some of the things I asked about. I was in my early twenties before I found another soul who would cop to the fact that they sometimes hocked up stinky, little white cubes (plaque from the lungs). For years I thought I was a medical curiosity. As an adult I accept that no one experiences events alone, no matter how strange or peculiar they may be.
My
Autumn
This poem began as an ode to the way my pillow smells, especially on cold days when I don’t want to wake up and leave the house. I wish I could share the progression of the poem, but unfortunately I don’t save my versions or drafts. I learned early on that if I save multiple drafts I become frustrated with flipping back and forth, asking “is this better, or is that better?” Nothing kills my desire to work on a writing project quicker than the need to collate too many versions. “My Autumn” is the result of a challenge I issued to myself to write about something essentially boring.
Recently I read this poem at a Houston poetry house where I received a snide comment about having a “smelly pillow” from a malcontent in the audience. I can go to my grave knowing my boring, little poem sparked emotion in at least one person. I live to serve.
The
Resident Advocate
As I stated earlier, I share what I know through poetry. “The Resident Advocate” is my attempt to share a world that isn’t known to many people. All too often social work is idealized by people who aren’t familiar with what goes on behind the scenes. Not every case, hardly any case, ever turns out to be Hallmark-ish. I wanted to chronicle my passage from painful naivety to dull cynicism in some concrete way, and the image of the poster stating “he beat her 100 times she only got flowers once” underneath a casket seemed to be the perfect subject.
The following is an example of a simple, but significant change at the end of the poem.
Revised:
because I did not understand
why the grim thing was necessary,
I despised the shadows it cast--
the shades, I thought, better left dead.
Rough:
because I did not understand
why the grim thing was necessary,
I despised the shadows it cast--
the shades, I thought, better left dead.
How naïve.
I cut “how naïve” from the end of the poem because it’s the job of
the poem’s content to express this to the reader. In a nutshell, I decided I
was insulting the intelligence of a reader by including the bit about being naïve.
If they don’t have that impression from the body of the poem they either A:
have come to some other conclusion equally valid or B: I haven’t done a good
enough job writing to begin with and the end is too late to make the point.
Poetry
in Conclusion
I can’t remember who said it, but once I
heard a brilliant piece of writing advice, “make the familiar exotic and the
exotic familiar.” If any one sentence could possibly summarize what I try to
accomplish with my writing, especially through poetry, that would be it. Example
of first drafts and revisions with comments can be found for each poem except
“My Autumn” at:
FICTION
I recently read that if you were unpopular in high school that isn’t a reason to publish a book-- some days I agree, some days I don’t. I suppose if you were unpopular because you were socially dysfunctional, ho hum, but if you weren’t popular because you had two heads I might be interested.
I began this story with a little bit of trepidation, because it’s based loosely on my own experience. When I told my father about the story idea he asked me why anyone would want to read about my life, even fictionalized, and I was crushed. But, then I remember that all the really interesting stuff I hid from him, and I uncrumpled.
This story began as a seven or eight page outline. Essentially, I told everything and showed nothing. Once I fleshed it out the outline turned into a single spaced twenty-four page story that I plan to carry on to book length. I feel confident I can carry this to novel (or at least novella) length because I intensely enjoy writing it and the protagonist actually has a voice. I have two other books that choked by 40,000 words because I never found a voice for the main characters.
I received some rather significant advice from several classmates. See Appendix A for comments from Liz, Robin and Reani. Liz helped me isolate my “assumptions” – those things I assume the reader is familiar with, but might not be, for example the use of the brand name for a prescription pain pill and muscle relaxant. I always thought specific equaled better, but she pointed out to me that my use of Greyco (name brand) for the baby carriage in the story is perhaps too specific. I began to realize I was forcing the reader to visualize my archetype for baby carriages, and perhaps depriving them of their own equally strong mental image.
Liz also keeps referring to Ginny as a “motorcycle girl” which was at odds with the persona I wanted to portray. I don’t want even a hint of motorcycle culture in the reader’s mind when they envision Ginny. I simply hadn’t thought of the connotations people would associate with her when I depicted her riding a motorcycle. It was Liz’s perception of Ginny that led me to realize how certain words trigger associations, and when I use culturally “hot” words they are apt to form an association in the reader’s mind. This was a nice epiphany because I gained a new writing tool that I could use as a short cut for description. Conversely, it also means that when I use something with strong cultural connotation I have to spend time with the narration to overcome the reader’s assumptions.
Liz referred to the way I seemed to address the audience in a Ferris Buhler-like style-- I never realized what I was doing. Since that isn’t a style I want to develop, I appreciate her pointing it out to me. The example she cited is a moment in the narrative when the reader is told that Ginny is nervous and awkward. I replaced this with physical cues to her nervousness so the reader could come to the conclusion on their own.
Robin and Reani really encouraged me to keep developing the character and her struggle. As a result of their responses I wrote the scene depicting Ginny dressing the cat in his Halloween costume and taking him to the antagonist’s house to trick-or-treat. Anyone who cares to read the scene may find it in Appendix C.
DRAMA
When I began to think about writing a drama for the classroom I once again began to play the “what if” game: what if President Staples ran down the hall naked; what if Dr. White was a narcoleptic; what if a meteorite ripped through the building and landed in the middle of class; what if someone won the lottery. A student wining the lottery over holiday break won the “what if” prize.
Once the idea gelled it didn’t take long to get a rough draft down on paper. I didn’t have anything pre-planned before I wrote except that Will would be the lucky lottery recipient and that I wanted there to be something more than just a story about a student winning the lottery. Hence, the concept sentence: “A quiet student wins the lottery over the holiday. When his classmates find out about his new fortune the price of wealth is realized.”
Sadly, the drama never approached the level that I envisioned for it. I never struck the balance between realistic comedy and drama that I had hoped to. But, I did get a few well-turned lines in there, and that I’m happy with.
I don’t think I stressed well enough the socially held idea that money can fill intangible gaps as well as the tangible. Will was meant to be a heroic character who knew the value of intangibles such as a friend’s regard, education, respect, etc. I cut a significant chunk out of his final rail against the students out because it began to approach the maudlin. I think the actors need to become more caricature than character. For example, I want go back and make Corrie’s character even smarmier.
In the revision I broke up some of the longer parts of dialogue. The scene where the group is firing requests at Will works much better as a staccato burst versus long-winded bits. I think the rapid fire from every direction emphasize the loss of inhibition that the students experience in the presence of Will’s new money. I originally wanted that part to be chaotic and slightly frightening. I tried to give the students a broad spectrum of requests, and I think some of the requests, though they’re supposedly serious, lend too much of a comic air to be frightening (i.e. cat hip replacement, buying the college, etc).
I don’t think I convinced anyone of the value
of my theme sentence; “Perhaps Robinson Crusoe’s father was right; it’s
better to exist in the middle of the spectrum, both poverty and great wealth
present significant burdens to people.” I think people who
would prefer the middle of the spectrum over great wealth, even if they
genuinely understood the negative side of new wealth, are scarce. I guess
placing “perhaps” at the start of the theme sentence saves it from being too
bold. Sometimes using qualifiers, or pulling the punch, doesn’t hurt.
Partial
original draft of Willpower
Revision
notes in blue.
Novo Homos Changed
title to make play on Will’s name and his willpower as well as the lack of
willpower amongst his peers. Besides that, the Latin seemed too pretentious.
In
order of appearance:
Enrique,
Will, Corrie, Jennifer, Dr. White, Jason, Reani, Robert, Robin
Scene:
Enrique follows behind Will as they leave the class on break. They are the last
students leaving the room, and Enrique sees Will drop a piece of paper.
Enrique:
Hey, Will! What’s this? [picks up the
paper]
Will:
Nothin’. Just a list of…stuff. [Reaches
for paper] I
couldn’t hear Will (or his character using “nothing.”
Enrique:
[pulls paper away from Will. Open paper
and reads aloud] Not so quick!
Pay off credit cards, buy a house, Ferrari, tropical
island, salt-water fish tank, chinchilla farm [looks
at Will, puzzled] Chinchilla farm? I
separated the instruction to pull the paper away from Will and the line “not
so quick” because I knew that the order would likely be lost in the confusion
of a long line with multiple action commands.
Will:
[Holds out hand] You mind? For
the same reason as above I heard Will say “Do you mind?” instead of the more
brief/curt “you mind?”
Enrique:
Is this your list for Santa Claus?
Will:
[turns to leave, but turns back to Enrique] If you give me
my list back I’ll tell you a secret. I
wanted to stress Enrique’s promise not to tell, since his “betrayal” later
is a significant part of the humor. Besides,
Enrique had no reason to keep the list once he read it.
Enrique:
[shrugs] Sure [returns the list to Will] Sure
didn’t have the same punch as “Of Course!”
Will:
I won the lottery over the weekend and these are the things I plan to buy.
Enrique:
No way! How much?
Another significant part of the story is the disbelief amongst the students
about Will actually having won the money and still returning to school. I
realized there was no reason to delay something I wanted to emphasize in so
short a piece of work.
Will:
$72 million.
Enrique:
Yeah, right. Come off it. Sometimes
people poke fun, or use exaggerated humor to express how difficult something is
to believe, it seemed more plausible/interesting for Enrique to crack a joke
here.
Will:
I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s true
Enrique:
Dude! You’re serious. Why are you here?
Will:
[shrugs] Why not? This isn’t as concrete as Will recognizes and
communicating that he still needs/wants an education just like everyone else.
Enrique:
No one with 72 million goes back to school or work! Another set up for the students who try to move
into Will’s world is Enrique’s semi-comical, almost not exclamation that
Will doesn’t need an education, he needs friends.
The final draft can be seen at:
SUMMARY:
It’s hard to say what my strongest genre is. I find poetry and drama the easiest to write, but despite the additional dimensions fiction requires it’s equally rewarding to write. I feel like I’m on the same level with each genre—for better or worse. I honestly feel like writing is writing whatever genre I’m dealing with. We all have different modes of speaking, which we’re usually equally proficient at (i.e. coffee shop, classroom, etc). Writing different genre doesn’t seem any different than speaking different places to me. The part of the course that I didn’t feel was my strong suite was the critiquing of other writers.
This leads me to address a topic we discussed the last day of class. Whether a writing group should comment boldly or anonymously can be successfully argued for either side. I’d like to make a case against a beginning workshop allowing anonymous comments. I don’t believe anyone would abuse the system, but I think that any serious writer is going to lose the rapport and dynamic that a writing group should foster if they critique anonymously. Criticism in a writing group shouldn’t exist in a vacuum; what I mean is the work shouldn’t stand alone, quaking in a brief spotlight while comments are anonymously hurled from all directions only to skitter offstage and huddle in isolation with the writer. Both the writer and critiquer, who is presumably a writer as well, will never develop a healthy sense of community. Sure, personifying a piece of writing is silly, but the point I want to make is that a community of writers need to respond to each other, not just words on paper.
Critiquing is tough, writing is tough, but if an individual refuses to learn how to accept complements and criticism, at least gracefully, the professional world of writing is going to be tough. I think any beginning student is doing themselves and other writers a great disservice by hiding behind anonymity. New things are often awkward and, perhaps, every serious writer should strive to find themselves out on a new, slightly uncomfortable, limb on a regular basis. If a writer can’t be bold enough to give and take, at the very least with other writers, perhaps the privacy of a garret is best after all.
I’ll hop off my soapbox now. As I said earlier, the course forced me to recognize my need for a deadline or, at least, accountability. I found both in the form of a great writing group comprised of other serious writers at UHCL. We meet every two weeks in different homes and it takes about 6 hours to run through five or six writer’s work. The intimacy does make the constructive criticism easier to deal with and, unlike the classroom, no one is allowed to, or wants to, slink out of their part.
The parts of the course I responded to the most were the guest speakers and drama presentations. The number of approaches to writing equals the number of writers in the world. I enjoyed the diversity that the speakers brought to the classroom. The dynamics and pure fun of performing the drama pieces captured my imagination. There’s something intoxicating about writing a scene and then watching it go out into so many hands and begin immediately transforming into something more, with greater possibilities than previously imagined.
So where do I go from here? Like most writers
my goal is to become published, but first I hope to just finish something. In
the meantime I’ve discovered how important reading is to writing. I plan to
kick up my quality and quantity of reading several notches. I’ll continue to
work in my writing group, participate in the local poetry scene and enter
contests. Best of luck to everyone!
Appendix A
Fiction Criticism from Peers
Liz
Here is my response for your short story e-mail exchange. I will refer to
the story by chapter and page number. Let me know if there is a better way
to do this. I thought getting into the actual text might become confusing,
but I can do it that way if it works better for you.
Overall: loved your characters. Like their contrast with each other.
No one seems alike and the characters differences play off of each other.
I think this gives the reader a clear image of Ginny and how she feels isolated
or set apart from others. I like the way you have her bust out of her home
to do something which will bring all kinds of attention to herself. You
take us from inside her head into public confrontation quickly. I really
like the way we follow her from her home where oddly enough she is very
comfortable when alone, yet she is also ashamed of it, to the Baby Box where she
quickly becomes someone else in the eyes of another character. This
rescues her from the image that another character has of her. I like the
image I got of her in the store: motorcycle girl holding a helmet stepping out
of a world that she knows people judge and the little pink dress that is part of
an image she is playing for the owner as well as a tool in which she will
manipulate the image her family has of her. I enjoyed the power of that
little pink dress in her hands.
Chapter one page one:
As Mrs. Anderson disappears from the screen door I kind of get the feeling she
is guarding something, but it is not mentioned. Later we find out more
about how she views herself in relation to another neighbor, but I wondered if
there could be an early mentioning of her "guarding" behavior as she
watches from her door. Maybe that would be too much?
The word "Greyco" distracted me. I am not sure if the word
serves well to really put forth a clear and specific image that people can
relate to or if by using it you limit the image as opposed to the word stroller
alone. Maybe the black stroller or baby blue or faded.
While Ginny is going through the trash and before, we don't really hear how she
feels about this. Later, she comments on it being "philanthropy, not
subsistence." That might work well just the way you have it, but when
I read it I didn't get into the feeling of trash digging being so bad until it
became linked with her whole image of the "bad element" of the
neighborhood. I just know that people go through trash and sometimes do
not care who sees them. I have a friend who can take old furniture from the
trash and make it look great. I guess I wasn't sure at first if going
through the neighbor's trash was that bad. I got it later.
Is manta supposed to be mantra?
I like your imagery in the "carriage cooperated."
Chapter 1 page 3
2nd to last paragraph maybe here instead of the second "I" sentence
"I hate confrontation..." You could combine them. Hating
confrontation of any flavor, I started to feel a fresh wave of itch..."
Then "Mrs. Anderson's head began nodding in a furious bobble." I
guess what I am getting at is that at this point I begin to fall out of the
action and maybe this linkage and present tense might help?
page 5
"applying and peeling" I got lost on the applying. Where
is she applying the glue, what exactly is she doing?
page 6
I am not familiar with the drugs listed here "Hydrocone and Flexoril"
are they pain killers. Could this be mentioned in some way?
I kind of wanted to combine the sentences in the 3rd or 4th paragraph.
Starting with "I picked Dante up... I wanted to know more about how
she was feeling in the beginning of that action instead of at the end
"after I made sure no one could hear me." Like this maybe
"Feeling alone and secure" or "after I made sure know one could
hear me, I picked up Dante... and then I thought maybe the sentences could be
combined with "and" after "his back." That way the
"I" could be dropped out of "I babbled."
Could "more serious topic" be elaborated upon.
I love the "Dante's little body began a slow rumble, like the distant hum
of summer insects."
Do the tenses match in "It didn't matter so much for him though, his kitty
friends don't... maybe "his kitty friends never judged him..."
Page 7
Really like her sock in her helmet.
Pager 7 chapter 2
What does she squash in lower paragraph? the helmet? could it read
"so I squashed it."
last sentence do you like "resembles or resembled"?
Page 8
Top of page: I kind of get taken out of the action again when the
character tells me how she feels awkward and unnatural. Kind of a Ferris
Beuhler thing where he faces the camera and addresses the audience. If you
want that effect, that is what I get. Or you could keep the reader in the
action by showing this through her behavior.
Anytime the store owner speaks or is mentioned I feel the need to get a more
full and vivid picture of her. This info might help contrast Ginny as
well.
Ginny addresses the reader here and there. I am not sure what works best.
I'll just suggest an alternative way to experiment with. It's certainly your
call.
For example later "Thanks" I replied feeling lame and excited. rather
than "I felt lame. And excited."
Maybe instead of her telling us she has never been a girly girl the reader could
be reminded of this wonderful image of a tough biker girl holding the pink
dress.
Page 9
Maybe don't need "Big difference there. How could I be mad? or rephrase.
I like Abby she is a great contrast to Mrs. Anderson. Both help Ginny to
form images of herself. One is stifling and the other freeing. Like
I said before I would like to have a clearer image of Abby, know more about her.
With the lines "I'm simply a non-entity. It stings." Again maybe
it's just me, but I would rather feel this with her than be told.
"The fact that bitter Mrs. Anderson could reduce me to a non-entity began
to sting deeply."
Your story is good and engaging.
I hope you will take the responses that can help you and scratch the ones that
don't bear weight. I don't particularly like it when people comment on my
writing because I like it the way I did it, but these comments serve a purpose
whether they help me indirectly or directly. Even if you don't agree with
some of my remarks here, I hope they will still give you insight to what I saw
as I read your work. I don't expect that the changes I propose are the
right ones, but I hope I have helped in some way.
Robin
I still like it. It seems you
changed the beginning a little—the part of her getting the carriage inside? Or
maybe it is just different reading it. Either way, I still like it. There are a
few typos and odd words here and there I marked in yellow. I get so caught up in
your writing that I don’t notice as much and have to read it several times to
try to look for something. Too bad you can’t make it longer so the next part
of her dressing the cat up could be added. I love that part. I will read it
again Thursday or Friday and if I find anything else, I will let you know.
Reani
Why you leave me hangin'? just a few things.
Should "Uh-huh" be Uh-uh? (pg.2)
Pg 3. "Are you accusing me of be a wastrel..."
Anyway, there are just a few more little things like that, but overall this is a great story. This is one you need to publish, but if you don't think it is ready, at least let me read the rest.
I can relate. I have known people like Mrs. Anderson. I have also been seen as the trash in the neighborhood. I can also relate to the poor cat. My daughter has a cat that she tries to dress up in doll clothes all the time.
Appendix B:
Parting Words
Writing a book is
like driving a car at night. You only see as far as your headlights go, but you
can make the whole trip that way.
E.L.
Doctorow
Fine writer should
split hairs together, and sit side by side, like friendly apes, to pick the
fleas from each other’s prose.
Logan Pearsall Smith
You never have to
change anything you got up in the middle of the night to write.
Saul
Bellow
Only presidents,
editors and people with tapeworm have the right to use the editorial “we.”
Mark Twain
In the longish life
as a professional writer, I have heard a thousand masterpieces talked out over
bars, restaurant tables and love seats. I have never seen one of them in print.
Books must be written, not talked.
Morris L. West
Don’t get it
right, get it written.
James Thurber
There are three
rules for writing the novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.
W. Somerset Maugham
Rely on the sudden
erection of your small dorsal hairs.
Vladimir Nabokov
No tears in the
writer, no tears in the reader.
Robert Frost
I have found that a
story leaves a deeper impression when it is impossible to tell which side the
author is on.
Leo Tolstoy
Don’t say the old
lady screamed—bring her on and let her scream.
Mark Twain
You can’t clobber
any reader while he’s looking. You divert his attention, then you clobber him
and he never knows what hit him.
Flannery O’Connor
The difference
between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between
lightning and the lightning bug.
Mark Twain
Exercise your words.
Try them out in new relationships.
William Sloane
It is never too late
to be what you might have been.
George Eliot
Ever tried? Ever
failed? No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail Better.
Samuel Beckett
Appendix C:
Additional excerpt from “The Baby Box"
Chapter 6
Halloween afternoon was tense. I feared Geary would never leave to go visit his friends. I faked a headache to get out of the annual biker ball he insisted I attend with him. He’s not a biker, but he hangs around with a bunch of older Harley types. As a matter of fact, Geary rides a Gold Wing. He picked the bike up cheap, because the previous owner, an aging nurse, didn’t want it any more. She had “The Nutty Nurse” painted, rather flamboyantly, on both sides of the tank. Now there were two large strips of duct tape on each side covering half the tank.
He didn’t want me to go because he loved my company, what he loved were the comments he got from all the other perverts about his young wife and her jugs. The year before I attended and knew from experience that any woman wearing more than a bikini would be overdressed. Even if I hadn’t wanted to stay home to take Dante trick-or-treating I would have still preferred a book, TV, or a debilitating migraine over the party.
“You sure you can’t go” he asked. I started to fire back a sarcastic comment, but remembered that I was suffering from a massive headache.
“I’m really sorry, I just can’t.” I lifted the wet washrag off my forehead and concentrated on looking wan.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me. Just take some of my pain killers. Or, here…” He trailed off as he knelt beside his bed. I heard him dig around in his nightstand. When he stood up he had a joint in his hand.
“I can’t Geary. It’ll make me nauseous.”
“Damn, Ginny. You knew about tonight.” Like knowing about tonight and getting a headache had anything to do with one another. Of course, this was the man who tried to scare me into believing that overdue library fines were reported to the police.
“I know, I know,” I moaned. “I can’t believe I’m missing Hob’s Biker Ball. Tell everyone I’m really sorry and that I’m sick.” He just stared at me, I imagined he was trying to see into my mind and I felt a jolt of fear.
“Maybe my headache’ll go away and I can come later.” I could have kicked myself for saying that. I’d only meant to try and appease him, to make him go away. Now he’d expect me to show for sure.
“All right.” I closed my eyes. I opened them when I saw the shadow from Geary’s body passing between me and the bare ceiling bulb. I quickly closed them again when I realized he was leaning down to kiss me. I steeled myself not to turn my face away and accepted his wet, cold kiss on the lips. I didn’t dare wipe my mouth until he left the room.
“Fucker,” I muttered under my breath. My quiet rebellion momentarily wiped the shame of his unwanted kiss away.
As soon as the noise from his bike engine was too distant to be heard I jumped out of bed and danced a jig. I reached under the bed and pulled away all the bags of junk hiding Dante’s baby clothes and costume. I planned to wear an old, white sheet over my head with two eyeholes. Geary’d never realize the holes were ripped deliberately; as a matter of fact, one “eye-hole” already existed.
“Dante! Kitty boy, come here!” Three minutes later I stopped arranging costumes and looked around. No Dante.
“Now is so not the time to hide fuzzbutt,” I yelled. “Here kitty, kitty, kitty.” I felt a jolt of alarm. What if Geary knew what I planned to do? What if he’d done something to Dante? It wouldn’t be the first time. I’d already come home once to find that he’d given away my previous cat, Tank.
I ran into the living room and checked his favorite spot behind the bookcase. I turned and nearly cried when I saw him pull himself from under the couch.
“Dante! You evil beast, you scared me!” He began nonchalantly licking and cleaning the dust bunnies from his fur.
“Shit, cat.” I scooped him up and carried him to the bedroom to put him in the cat costume. After I dressed Dante I left him on the bed and pulled my own costume on. It wasn’t elaborate, all I had to do was safety pin some old Doritos bags, banana peels, plastic grocery sacks, and aluminum foil to the hem of my sheet and I was ready.
I didn’t bother with the carriage because it would give me away too soon. Mrs. Anderson might not answer the door if she realized it was me. I started at the opposite end of the street, near Lena’s house. I decided I might as well get some free candy for my trouble.
As I neared Mrs. Anderson’s door I stayed close to a group of kids and teenagers who were making their rounds, mostly piggybacking off their efforts. As they approached Mrs. Anderson’s porch I hurried to catch up with them.
The littlest goblin in the group reached up to ring the door bell.
“I can’t see in this stupid mask,” One kid complained.
“I need to blow my nose,” said a second.
“Shut-up, butt munches. If you keep complaining I’m gonna take you home and you won’t get anymore candy.” I smiled under my sheet and fondly recalled the times I’d taken my nieces and nephews trick or treating.
“My, my who's at my door? Goblins, superheroes, and monsters! Oh dear!” I tried not to think about what reaction I might get when I reached the front of the line. I listened to her pay each child a compliment, and when my turn finally came and I stepped up under the light bulb.
“And just what are you? A ghost?” She smiled down at me, a fist full of miniature Snickers clinched in her fist.
“No, ma’am, not exactly,” I said. I lifted the hem of my costume to call her attention to the trash pinned there. “I’m the ghost of white trash, and this is my cat, Dumpster.” I dropped the hem of my costume and pulled the limp cat off my shoulders. I held him out between us determine to be sure she saw his costume.
“Hey, is that a cat in a cat costume?” It was the same teenager who told the butt-munches to shut-up.
“Yep.” I turned to show Dante off to the group of kids.
“Cool.”
“Sweet.”
“I want a cat.” The chorus of compliments from the kids lifted my spirits even higher.
“Mrs. Ward, I had hoped you would come to your senses. I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but whatever it is I want no part of it.” She deliberately opened her hand and let the handful of Snickers fall to the ground. I felt a burn of irritation because despite my desire for the candy, I knew my pride wouldn’t allow me to stoop down to pick them up.
I looked back up when I heard the bang of her screen door. The light behind her made the wisps of hair around her face glow. I couldn’t see her face, but I heard her take a deep breath just before she began to speak.
“And your costume isn’t really much of a costume at all. You’re just wearing your insides out where we can all see who you really are.” She slammed the inner door closed and I hear the bolt thrown home. I listened to the teenagers laughing at my expense as I stood unmoving. The porch light flicked off and I was left standing in the dark, alone.
The kids were a long way down the street before I turned and carefully picked my way down the porch steps and returned home.