Wednesday, January 25, 2012

"Survivor's Guilt" #2

Beyond Words. Create a brief fragment of an epiphany, a moment beyond words, beyond explaining, in which a character sees the necessity of change (59).

“Survivor’s Guilt”

The television is on but she’s not watching.  Her eyes settle on a moving spot on the wall, a palmetto bug taking refuge from the rain, its shiny-petaled wings reflecting the lamp’s yellow light. Her mind is elsewhere, lost in the destitute gully of unfeeling, where she has resided for months. Catatonic in her emotions, yet physically carrying on. She eats, she runs, she is unfeeling. She stares at the moving spot.
It is still storming; it has been storming for days, for weeks. The long strand of hurricanes off the coast sent its fury inland. Her husband, like the rest of the town, prepared by nailing boards across the windows, stocking the fridge with bottled water, a quart of ice cream, two loafs of bread. The house smells like freshly sawed wood and the windows rattle unmercifully. Somewhere in the distance, sirens blare.
The old house creaks as it resists the wind. She stares out the window between the slits in the wood, at the glorious anger of nature. She gasps as if the storm said her name; she rises as if it were calling to her. She touches her face, feels the sensation of skin on skin as if she’d just come to in a foreign body, marveling at the ability to feel. To feel anything.
She turns the television off and slips out of the warm house, crushing the scurrying bug under her heel, leaving its twitching mass smeared on the Persian rug. Her legs carry her with eager purpose into the yard. The wind whips furiously; her night gown melts around her, rain stinging the exposed skin.
She smiles and lies flat on her back in the grass, surrendering to the storm, to death. And in that moment, she vows to feel it, to feel it all—including the dead emptiness of loss, the feeling she’d been avoiding since the accident several months back. The clouds swirl and lightening illuminates her upturned face and she is awestruck with an over-whelming sense of peace. Peace because I’m ready, ready to die.
A white hot streak strikes nearby. She hears the sizzle; sees the flickering of lights in the neighborhood. Thunder booms and a freight train roars and she trembles beneath the enormous sound.
She opens her arms like an angel, waiting for fate to step in, for the mistake of her survival to be made right, for the world to exist as it should have: without her in it. She longs for death, aches for it in her bones, in her long-suffering soul. It’s time.
A large oak encompasses her in its shadow and quakes, the roots seemingly closer to the surface than before. It rocks steadily against the fierce winds and she wonders dumbly if it will fall on her. As the earth trembles beneath her, she feels fear, a foreign emotion. Unbelievably, the wind roars harder.
She silently begs for Mother Nature to make her death painless and quick. The new-found fear replaced with desperation. I can’t go on living like this. Trapped in one devastating moment; a moment she cannot bring herself to accept.
The rain is so thick she can hardly breathe with her face exposed to the heavens. She’s feeling faint, her body gradually numbing to the cold. She quivers like the oak, breathless, and resists the urge to curl, to fight. Destiny is calling.
Her beating heart is louder than the storm and she knows she’s about to die. The pelting rain washes down her nose, her mouth, stings her open eyes. She starts to cough but fights it; the rain sits heavy, stagnant, deep within her lungs.
The winds change, swirling, twirling. The air becomes hot and suddenly she is almost deafened by a sound so loud it is unrecognizable. Debris flies weightlessly, dancing strangely as it is demolished against itself. She watches with a morbid fascination. It is too late to run, even if she wanted to. But in the low-lying ground of her yard, the wind seems to caress, swirling over instead of through her. A trash can, a mail box, a lawn ornament spin in the shadow of the sky.
She clamps her eyes shut, too frightened to witness her own demise. She says goodbye to her miserable, empty life, emotions churning inside almost as violently as the storm: elation, anger, prayers for salvation, but mostly for death. May it be less painful than life.
And as quickly as the storm intensified, it dissipates. She cautiously opens her eyes and stares up into the hastily moving black clouds, dumbfounded. The storm has raged on and on for days. I was supposed to die. A bird chirps cheerily in the oak above her, every branch still intact, life emerging all around.
The rain lessens into a soft, swirling mist and, much to her immediate dismay, she can breathe again. She kicks her feet in agitation, her shoes filling with mud and grass; she pounds her fist against the earth and lets an angry growl echo in the silence. She doesn’t even startle the birds—she hears the high-pitched cheeps of a nearby nest; every creature is relieved that the worst is over—every creature except her. The miserable clouds thin to reveal a pink and blue sunset underneath. She blinks back tears and rain in confusion. I was supposed to die and I didn’t. I thought I was supposed to die. She sits up, astonished that the peace continues to linger within her. She’s staggered with relief, yet she is trembling, more afraid of life than death. She touches her face again, the sensation remains. And in a passing moment of frustration, she vows to stay in the wet, cold earth until she catches her death.
But then, as if being mocked by the Universe itself, a single ray of sunshine pierces through the sky, warming her face.

Performance Anxiety

As I mentioned before, we are required to read a loud a piece of flash fiction inspired by a prompt from our text. Today is my first round and I'm terribly, terribly nervous. Sickeningly nervous. Reading out-loud has never been my strongest skill. I'm usually a bit braver--but the sudden onset of fear has left me slightly air-headed and unfocused.

Me: What's the worst that can happen?
My Head: It'll dawn on you in the middle of your reading that your fiction is crap. It's melodramatic crap.
Me: That seems unlikely. Every time you read it, you get that strange buzzing feeling. That's a good sign.
My Head: But there is going to be one moment of complete silence once I finish. No one wants to be the first person to speak.
Me: It's a lot to digest. They're just trying to form an opinion.
My Head: That one kid's going to be a douche.
Me: Yep.
My Head: They're going to judge me. They're going to see through me.
Me: You're probably freaking out because this one scene is based in your novel. And if they hate this, you'll over-generalize and apply it to the one piece of art your sunk your heart and soul into.
My Head: Jeez, I'm such a writer.
Me: You know it's never as bad as it seems. You'll look back on this and laugh at how freaked out you were. It's going to be fine.
My Head: You always know the right thing to say. But I still want to vomit.

Jeez, I need to get a grip.

Thursday, January 12, 2012

You Can Just Call Me Sloth-Claws

There is only one word that can properly sum up the way I feel about the two classes I'm taking as my first week of classes comes to a close...



Monday nights is Contemporary Fiction Craft with a teacher who has the potential to be a mentor. I've only had male teachers and thus been dissatisfied with their short and guy-like responses to my other-wise delightful, if not slightly emotionally loaded, emails. They're just not giving me what I want. I don't want coddling--but maybe a little slight encouragement, maybe someone who believes in me, sees my potential and desires to take time out of their busy schedule to be my mentor (no pressure or anything).

This teacher  has a Ph.D and has published novels and is currently in the process of editing a novel that is to be published next year. She made reference to her friends in publishing. She told us about her novels and her style of writing. She made the annoying film major stop talking in the terribly fake British accent. She did all of this with out a hint of pretentiousness. And pretentiousness is like the minor to any creative writing student.
(Honestly, I think every writer has a touch of it. It's our defense mechanism, our furry sloth claws that help with the otherwise slow and painful process of making our mark in the literary world. It's when you corral us solitary and ego-driven writers together that the pretentiousness spreads like the bubonic plague.)

Wednesdays is Narrative Techniques. Out of the twenty people, there are maybe four I don't know. That's a great feeling--reminded me of the first (and only) semester of graduate school. By the end of the semester, we were all so tight I didn't want to leave and I still keep in touch with a few of them. I hope it's that way in the creative writing program. Three of my favorite people from Intro. to Creative Writing are taking it. About half of my Monday class is also in there (including the guy I wanted to shoot with what Anthony described as "mind bullets". "No", I corrected him, "real bullets".)

There's definitely a difference between us Creative Writing folks and those who are minoring in it. They take it a little less seriously,  try a little too hard and aren't quite as reverent about literature and writing.

For example: we took a look at "A Double Negative" by Lydia Davis. This is (seriously) all there is to this work:
''At a certain point in her life, she realizes it is not so much that she wants to have a child as that she does not want not to have a child, or not to have had a child.''

OK, so confusing, yes. But take a minute to dissect it--and you'll discover the genius behind one sentence that has conflict, theme and debatable meaning.

So the loud-mouthed-journalism-major pointed out that if she brought something like that to class, the teacher would tear it to shreds. She also mentioned that she's written things exactly like that.

(Eyes rolled around the room)

Someone pointed out that a writer has to learn the rules before they can break them. Someone else (so nicely) pointed out that a writer has to earn a reputation for being  exceptional before something like this would be widely accepted and not questioned and scrutinized for typos.

I'm glad I'm friendly with all the people in my class--because that's probably most of the socializing I'll be doing this semester. In Contemporary Fiction Craft, we have to read and journal--generally 15-20 handwritten pages of notes per novel--as we "read like a writer". Also a group presentation, mid-term and final.

In Narrative Technique, we are to turn in one creative writing piece a week. One a week! Three times this semester I'll have to read one of my pieces aloud and then be critiqued by my peers. There was an audible gasp from the back of the room (ahem, me) when that was announced. But after seeing the dynamics of the class (and all the familiar faces), I'm not near as scared as I thought I'd be. Also due, one reading response on one of the three-ish short stories we have to read a week.

It is a lot of work. But I'm really looking forward to it. Being forced to churn out something creative once a week is exactly why I returned to school. This semester is going to be a kick in the ass...

......but it's gonna hurt so good.

(Editors note: While my one reader out there may note that I am, in fact, pretentious, I would have to argue with the fact that pretentious writers don't use words like "Amaze-balls". I am thoroughly aware of my own inadequacies as a writer. Don't worry about pointing them out to me. No, really, please don't. Because then my sloth claws will have to come out and it will be on like Donkey Kong.) 


Monday, January 9, 2012

What If I’m just Spouting Nonsense?

What if what I’m doing
is for nothing?
What if there is
no
path?
Neither well-traveled,
or scarcely;
what if there is nothing--
not even woods.

I will have wasted
thousands of dollars.
Precious moments.
Years of my life
with fretting.

In my mind, it will
all work out.
A simple plan,
a simple
execution.
But life has a way
of never working out
the way I
I think
it will.

My story is laced
with epiphanies
and wisdom
from the universe.
I truly believe
she speaks
and I
listen.

But what if that’s
just crap
I invented
to have
a purpose?
To feel
special,
important,
alive?

What if I’m
nothing
but a fountain
of nonsense?

It’s not that
I can’t do this.
I feel certain
it is what
I’m meant
to
do.

I’m growing
weary
from
battle.

If only my
parents weren’t
supportive.
Or my husband
forbade me.

(That would
only encourage
me, probably).

But it’s only
the cowering
girl inside
that stops
me cold
in my
tracks.

Every word I
write is with
a jittery hand.
Deadlines loom
and I’m
gasping.
Anxieties are
plucking away
at any sense
of purpose
I’ve ever
felt.

I’ve never truly been brave.
But I’ve also never truly
felt alive
until now.

But what if
that’s
not
enough?

What if
there lurks
in the deep, blue
well of my
being
nothing—
nothing special
at all?

What will become
of me?
Who will I
be?