(story) Angels Play at Dusk
Allegory60
over it a few times, changing the ending and removing an awkward flashback.
I've also made many word substitutions.I wrote this story long before the flash
series popped into my head, but a few of these images lingered and maybe
contributed to the flash ideas. However, this story is not the same as the
overall story I'm trying to tell with the planned 50 linked flashes. A few of
you might recall this. Alaric didn't like my old ending, but I make no promises
for him on this one either.]
Angels Play at Dusk
by DH Henry
The orange horizon melted into purple as the train chugged through the valley.
Frank Coe slumped dejectedly, gazing at the sky leaking colors. He sat alone
in the last coach.
The amorous swaying of the car transported Frank to boyhood journeys by rail
with his mother. His mother. How she loved to show him off--his clothes, his
looks, and a thousand small things about him she saw as wonderful. He reigned
as her blessed Frankie. Her love warmed his life until her sudden death. Now,
twelve years later, his heart longed for such adoration. His mother's voice
still haunted him, especially at dusk, the time of her death. His last words to
her complained of her trivial problems--a light bulb that needed changing,
lettuce she needed from the grocer, a question about a news story. He brushed
aside memories of her plaintive voice, standing like a sharp snag in the river
of his conscience. How much he would give to script those last words, but
there had been no goodbyes, no comfort offered. She died alone. His best
words--those that hid beneath the calloused surface of his heart--were
unspoken.
Looking great distances to the horizon, lay the blue of his mother's eyes.
That indigo shade rested on him, a reminder of her pride and hope. Her
adoration sprouted in his reverie at dusk, and he often spoke to her as if she
was next to him in the fading light.
The engine unwound with little spasms; slowing, bending around a lake
reflecting the glowing remnant of sky. The train bumped and rumbled to a
sliding stop. He peered down the tracks. Boarding passengers, gray shimmering
forms, queued through the steamy haze. Across the lake a farmhouse blocked
against the sky. Beside the dwelling rose a barn, cathedral-like, in a sea of
undulating fields. Guarding the dwelling stood a naked oak, reaching skyward
with one thick limb extended level over the ground. From the limb a swing
twisted, as if pushed by spirits at play.
He pictured Sara when she was six, with her large-headed look that skinny
children carry, her eyes sparkling love. Dusk was the time of day they used to
tell each other stories.
Sara made up stories about angels. She believed in her own private angel named
Sam. Dusk was the only time angels played, Frank told her, as they leaned
against the wooden staircase still warm from the sun. Sara was his heart's
delight, the only child he'd ever have.
Frank tried to throw off the bittersweet visions, to think about future
miniature hopes. Some of the passengers boarding might file through to the
last coach, might join him, might at least distract his increasingly somber
focus. But there was only his wheezing chest, the sputter of the waiting
engine, and the wind brushing the windows.
The swing twisted higher, fanning against the yellow background that ribboned
the low hills.
Where did the bond go between Sara and himself? Did such love ever die? Why
had her adulation faded, as gradually but certainly as the light over the
trees?
At times Frank imagined that Sara was still little, alive somewhere, singing
her nursery songs, frolicking in a playhouse some other father had made; that
she had flown away with her Dusk Angel Sam, leaving another Sara, a grown woman
he did not know or understand.
His memories filed onto his mind's stage, a show he'd viewed countless times
from the front row of his lonely auditorium. It was mostly behind him now, his
life; old age loomed bereft of glory, the end of the line.
The coach lurched again; the train gradually built up speed. He watched the
swing as it faded, a needle twisting in the zephyrs. There'd been a swing he'd
never built, and a playhouse he'd promised. Somehow the years passed and Sara
quickly became too old for a playhouse. The tree died that would have held the
swing.
His twenties and thirties had been submerged in business striving. No fond
vestige of those efforts remained, nothing warm, nothing memorable. Practical
habits did not play on his stage of reverie. Unfulfilled promises brooded:
The swing. The playhouse. Sara's excited expression born from a playhouse
catalog; her eyes conveyed the same hope at her wedding before she flew off
with a strange young man, adoration that eclipsed her father's purpose.
Sara was back East now, with her own family. She named one son Franklin, but
seldom wrote. Was it because he hadn't built the playhouse when she was
little? Or was father love bartered to her own family?
When his wife died, he'd invested all reason for living in little Sara. His
baby girl became the Everest of his purpose, singular in her every gesture and
look. When exactly did her love erode? He couldn't pinpoint the loss before
the wedding. Sara grew so imperceptibly and mystically that he'd assumed their
bond would be unchangeable, would always be there when he needed it. It seemed
to him that love foolishly assumes immortality.
The coach jerked through switches, reviving him to the present. It was a long
trip, a tiring trip. It felt like he'd been on the train for weeks instead of
two days. Maybe in the desert he could escape the pain; he could forget the
green hills, the summer rains, the snows of the Cascades. Things didn't rust
in the desert. The heat would melt the pain of promises left undone. He could
absorb the sun's energy, and live simply.
The coach door opened and an elderly couple shambled in--festooned with
ribbons and flowers. They wore gold medals on their lapels bearing the number
fifty. Golden anniversary. The gray haireds tottered through and sat in the
back. Frank noticed how bent they were, as if cloned in some mold, their
hands supporting each other as they moved through the car.
Frank's father would have looked like this old man if he'd lived through the
war. He'd be in his eighties now, bowed and wrinkled. Frank couldn't imagine
his tall muscular father in his eighties. His father's vitality was frozen in
the awed whispers of his childhood. When his dad shipped out for the front,
Frank tried to write him, to ask questions: about the war, about life, about
things a teenager ponders and struggles with. But he could never finish the
letter; his words scrawled obscenely across the page. Frank was afraid,
somehow, to sign it "with love." If he had sent the letter, would his father
have been more careful? Would he have lived? Frank wondered what became of
the letter, tried to recall those exact words. After his father died, he
attempted to write a postscript, utter some last, great thing, but his hand
shook with grief, his halting words fell empty, unable to soften the finality
of death. What words would make any difference?
The sky was cobalt merging into black now, with Venus a persistent diamond over
the trees. In his teens he built a telescope with his younger brother Sean;
they'd spent hours on the garage roof scanning the heavens. Sean was fond of
Venus and the moons of Jupiter, and would plead for more time peering into the
lens, his hair lustrous gold in the moonlight.
When Frank left for college he gave Sean the telescope. Sean went on to become
an astronomer and used to write him about his work. Frank had been so busy in
his career that he didn't often answer. Sean's letters became an annual
holiday card. Frank always meant to go visit his brother, especially after
Sean was married, but somehow there was never enough time. They'd grown apart,
and Frank didn't like the woman Sean had married.
Those hours stargazing on the garage were the best times he'd known with his
brother. Sean trailed after him when they were kids, and Frank tried to shoo
him away. He couldn't remember anything else they'd ever done together or why
he couldn't have included Sean in goings-on with his friends. It was like he'd
been ashamed of having a younger brother. He remembered the strangeness of
that shame that precipitated into guilt.
The car door swung open and a young woman in a rose cape stepped in. She
looked at the older couple nestled in the last booth and took a seat in front
of Frank. He wondered why she'd chosen a seat so close, just as she turned to
ask the time.
"It's just after nine."
Her voice touched a chord in him, one from many years before: the memory of
Rebecca, a younger woman he'd been afraid to commit to. Declaring his love
had been too risky then. Working near Rebecca, there'd been times he'd come
close to revealing his emotions, when the need of her became overpowering.
He wrote Rebecca a year after she left, trying to confess his heart between
the lines, but she never answered. His opportunity was gone and he knew it
would never return. Rebecca would be middle-aged now, he realized, most likely
with a grown family. The eight years difference in their ages when he was
thirty didn't seem like much now, but then it tempered his longing.
The young woman thanked him and faced forward again as the train pulsed slowly
ahead. There was warmth in her manner, her expression. Perhaps she wanted to
talk. But, what would he say? That she reminded him of his lost love? Staring
at the side of her face and the tilt of her neck, he remembered stealing images
of Rebecca when she wasn't looking, holding back his touch, restraining his
words.
The night Rebecca left for Florida was his last chance. He raced to the
airport to find her, to spill out his love. From across the concourse he
spotted her buying a magazine. He stood and watched her: so pure in her youth,
so confident, yet with such delicate vulnerability. He was afraid. To marry
again after one great loss, to carry the burden of making another's life full
when his lay void, to plead without faith to bolster him--all avalanched his
path in that moment. He turned away, never to see her again, only to sleep
with regrets.
If he'd called out, would Rebecca have run to him? How much different would
his life have been! He couldn't retrace his steps any easier than the train
could run sideways. The train ran on tracks, fixed, immutable. So too, it
seemed, had his life.
A tendril of lilac scent touched him as he drew away from the memory of
Rebecca. The scent was Rebecca's favorite cologne. Had he ever been in love
with anyone else?
He focused on the young woman. Her black hair piled up on her head with
teasers hanging down to her shoulders. The grain of her thin neck hair,
sweeping to her head, softened his aloofness. He willfully looked away into
the night, fixating on the train's amber lights painting the ground as it
passed. But his eyes kept returning to the woman, who turned toward him once
more. The quality of her expression was such that it might have been her
hands, resting now on his shoulders, now on his face. Her smile flowed into him
with such warmth that he felt giddy. He wanted to return her silent assent,
but his mouth twitched as he tried to suppress a crazy grin. It was the long
dormant smirk of his courting days, and it surprised him.
Who was this delicate figure in a night railroad coach? Where was she going?
What was she leaving behind? Was it simply her lilac scent spinning these
buried visions into regrets? Or was it simply lost chances that haunted him,
wrong choices? For long minutes he wanted to speak, to say something perfect.
He wanted to warn her about failing to keep the promise of life, to bear those
yearnings that press upon the will.
She spoke first: "Are you going far?"
The four words anointed his release. He saw the words form on her lips as if
in slow motion; they caressed his ear. Was he going far? Not as far as he'd
been, a distance that trains couldn't travel. He wanted to form his thoughts
well, to bound beyond laborious pleasantries required with a stranger.
"I'm headed for Tucson--actually, a dot called Ajo, southwest of there. Desert
peace, I'm told. I'm Frank Coe." He withdrew a handkerchief to stifle the
breaking sounds of his cough.
"I've never been to Tucson," she offered apologetically. "I'm switching trains
in Phoenix and going on to Albuquerque. Do you think we'll be in Phoenix by
two?"
"I doubt it, Miss. This train hasn't been on time since I boarded in Seattle."
"I'm Jo Farley. I wonder if you'd mind company? A conversation always makes
the time pass easy."
He hesitated but she'd already seated herself across from him, folding her
hands in her lap and smiling confidently. For the next hour she talked while
he listened. She began circumspectly but soon shifted into more serious
subjects, asking him about small personal preferences, drawing him out. Still,
he enjoyed the shrinking distance of her questions.
He tried not to stare at her expressive mouth; he imagined kissing it, dreamed
of her confiding in him about matters of her past. Her rounded voice lilted in
the hollow cabin--a voice that evoked Rebecca's gentleness. He was soothed as
he listened, focusing on the soft rhythm of her voice instead of the meaning of
her words.
The moon rested on the treetops like a golden egg, and he interrupted her to
point it out. She turned to see and he admired her perfect nose and delicate
chin. When she faced him with an appreciative glance, she asked if he'd ever
been in love.
He knew this girl wouldn't understand his failure. Not wanting to explain his
loss of Rebecca, he simply nodded and looked out the window.
She was about to speak when the train entered a tunnel, and the roaring din
cut her off. When the train emerged, he felt the look in her eyes had changed
into longing; she was focused on him intently, and he sensed her thoughts
parallel to his. What was this desire pressing him? Was this meeting somehow
redemption? Or, was it just another mocking of his despair? His fear put him
back in the airport, wanting to call out, still afraid to risk.
The train slowed again, and shuddered to a stop. Jo peered out the window.
"Miss Farley, I wonder if--"
"Why are we stopping? Are we in a town?"
"They take on passengers at some of the smaller crossings. I'm afraid this
isn't an express."
"You were about to ask, Mr. Coe?"
"Please, call me Frank. I--well, I might as well say it. I rarely say what I
truly feel to anyone, especially those I've cared for most. I've been sitting
here for hours regretting things I didn't say. I wonder why it's so
difficult?"
"Maybe it's easier to be open to a stranger," she said. "There isn't the risk.
Why don't you tell me? I've noticed a certain look in your eyes--tell me
what you were thinking. Call me Jo."
"You mean, tell you why I was staring at you?"
"Yes. Why and what you were thinking. Make a game of it if you will. We won't
pass this way again, you know. If you tell me, then I'll tell you exactly how
I'm reacting. I've always believed good things come from opening ourselves
that way--it cleanses us. It might be interesting, Frank. Won't you try?"
He would try. It was one small victory his heart needed. It would make no
difference, these words. Why not? "Well, I'm drawn to you-your eyes, mostly.
You remind me of someone . . . someone I lost by my own foolishness."
"You loved her, Frank?"
"Yes."
"And you let her get away." Her eyes showed sympathy. "Did she know?"
"That's the tragedy--I never told her. I only began to see-to see how true it
was, how uniquely beautiful, when she was gone."
"I'm sorry. Love isn't ever easy, is it?"
"I've carried it with me for all these years--mourned it. I guess that's
pretty shabby."
"No, not shabby. It makes you who you are. So, you never told her? Wrote
her?"
"I wrote, but she moved and I lost track."
"Maybe you weren't meant to be with her, Frank."
"Fate? What is meant to be? I've wondered. Is now meant to be, for example?"
Frank felt his heart beat stronger from the small nibble at courage, just
comparing his lost love with meeting this woman. "And for what reason, that I
should be mocked with the memory of--"
The coach lurched forward and swung sideways, slamming over rough track. There
were several loud jolts under the wheels of the coach. Joanna fell forward
with a frightened expression. He held out a hand to steady her. In a few
moments the rail was smooth again and the two were still holding hands.
"Thank you," she said, leaving her hand in his longer than dictated, then
placing it back in her lap.
What a fool I'm making of myself, he mused. This is nothing but an illusion
of Rebecca. Why, this young woman simply wears the same scent. It's a buried
fondness coming to the surface. I need to change the subject.
"Frank? You were about to say something about us meeting when I lost my
balance."
"It's not important. I'm twice your age and, well, I sometimes rant on about
the past. When you reach a certain place in your life, there seems to be more
track behind your train than in front of it, if you know what I mean."
"I think so, yes. But we never know how much track there is left, do we? And,
I wouldn't mock you Frank. I find you sincere. I felt instantly safe with
you, or I would've moved on to a more occupied car. Safe and intrigued. Now
you know what I was thinking--see? It isn't difficult if you try."
"Intrigued?"
There was steadiness in her eyes, though short of boldness. "Because you don't
rattle on about yourself, like all the men I know. You're a gentleman. I've
known you for an hour, but I feel I can tell you anything."
"Thank you. That's a great compliment."
"Tell me, and please forgive me if I'm being too personal, but, do you think
I'm too young for a man your age?"
Frank felt heat on his neck and realized he was blushing. It wasn't something
he often did. The last time he'd blushed was with Rebecca. She'd asked him
the same question, one that had brought desire to his blood.
"And what do you think? Am I too old for a young woman your age?"
"You're catching on to this openness, Frank--oh, no. I don't think so. I
believe a good difference of years makes for a more tender, solid sort of love.
It probably has to do with the protectiveness of a man and the need for an
extended type of father for many women.'
"That's an interesting view, I wonder--"
Heavy slamming of the wheels shook the car. The lights flickered and went out,
then the two were hurled against each other. Crashing terror fell around them.
The train had derailed.
Frank remembered falling and Jo slamming into him. Jo. Rebecca. Going to Ajo.
Escaping.
---
When he came to, he couldn't feel his legs, which were pinned awkwardly. Black
silence. Strains of old songs floated through his semi-consciousness: a
picture of Rebecca, smiling up at him with a glass of wine in her hand; Sean
peering through a telescope; his father in uniform, lifting him up onto his
shoulders; his mother touching him, tears streaming down her face. The touch
grew more insistent, pushing him. Someone was calling his name. A hand felt
his face. A voice--Rebecca's? A body pressed against him. The air was full
of dust, smoke.
"Frank, Frank! Wake up!"
"Rebecca?"
"Joanna. Don't you remember? We were talking--before the crash."
"My God, are you all right?"
"My legs are trapped, but I can feel my toes. I think there's blood on your
face."
Jo's hands were free and she held tight to him. She began to cry.
"Don't worry, don't worry. Someone will come."
Her body was pressed against his in such a way that she was half on top of
him. Even though the air was close and choked with dust, he could smell
lilacs. He held her with his free arm, rubbing her shoulder for comfort. Time
passed as he moved in and out of consciousness; the images of his past mingled
with fear. He awoke once in the middle of a conversation with Rebecca, calling
out across the concourse, yelling that he loved her, pleading for her not to
go, the crowds of passengers parting in front of him like the Red Sea for the
Israelites, yet his feet remained paralyzed.
"You've been delusional Frank, talking about love. I think the wreckage has
shifted. There's a small beam of light now up there--do you see? I heard
voices a minute ago, but they were far off."
"I see it! I knew they would come. But I don't hear anyone."
The trapped couple held their breath and strained to hear: a barely
perceptible tapping. Then nothing. Joanna shifted against him and
instinctively he embraced her. The trace of light fell dimly about their
faces.
Frank tiptoed on a high emotional precipice looking down. He wanted to kiss
her, yet what would she think? Would they even survive? This wasn't Rebecca he
was holding close, this was someone he didn't really know, yet this was a
chance to feel his heart again, if ever so briefly. He was afraid of dying
without loving again. Still, he held back.
"Frank? If I don't make it, will you please wire my mother in Albuquerque? I
have no one else."
"No one?"
"My only child died of meningitis three years ago. My husband ran off with a
woman."
"I'm sorry."
"There was a reason for my question--being too young for a man like you. A
much older man jilted me; I've been running from the pain. I've been in Fresno
for a year hiding from life. Now mother is dying, so . . .."
Her head fell against his shoulder.
Her breathing was shallow; he felt her neck for a pulse: it was weak.
*Please, God, don't let her die.* He pressed his lips to hers, pushing breath
into her. When her breath came out he repeated the act. After three tries she
began to breathe deeply. The soft cushion of her mouth overcame him, and he
kissed her.
"You're being too honest," she said, weakly.
"Yes, Jo, I am. You passed out. I had to tell you my last thoughts before
the train derailed--to be open like you wanted. I know about you, about me. It
took me off guard--I didn't want to face it."
"We may not survive, so I'll forgive you, Frank. Maybe there isn't such a
thing as love at first sight, but there's first sight knowing you could love
someone. You meet a person you've always loved, even without knowing them. I
knew it when you spoke."
She kissed his face.
He had to live now; they had to make it out of this somehow. Here was a new
start, better than the end he'd resigned himself to. He understood that Ajo was
his cowardly defeat, a place he'd wanted to quit. Holding Jo, he felt like a
hero; his failures were irrelevant.
He pictured them strolling together in the mountains of New Mexico, laughing,
hand in hand, breathing clean air. How easy the movie of it flowed in his
mind. How vivid.
Thick smoke was filtering into the compartment. It was becoming harder to
breathe! This was why she'd passed out and why he felt waves of dizziness.
He pushed his legs with panicked strength against the pinning weight. He
managed to slide his torso up some, though tightness grabbed at his chest. His
effort freed her legs, but he was exhausted. When his weight fell back into
the vice that held him, the trap shifted against his ribcage, stealing room
from his lungs.
"Jo, pull yourself up to that notch below the light."
She didn't answer.
"JoAnna?" The black dizziness washed over him again and he held on to her
tighter. "Please don't die, I could love you too, Jo. I don't care if you
can't hear me. I don't care if you don't know me, or if I'm afraid anymore.
I've said it for once. I've said it."
Above them came voices, men tearing at the wreckage. There was a woman's
voice, too, familiar, or maybe he was delusional again. No, it was Joanna
talking to the rescuers but her voice sounded distant, small. The hole in the
wreckage grew larger, the light brighter. Such brilliant light. Cold air.
Arms that prodded him were lifting Joanna. Then he was alone in the smoke and
the pain while men hollered above him. He opened his mouth but couldn't speak.
Lights flashed again but they seemed smaller, as through a tunnel, receding
from them. All feeling was gone in his body.
He reached up to grip a hand, and he was pushing Sara's swing. The glow of
dusk covered her laughing face. She begged him to push her higher.
As he flung her out into the fragrant atmosphere, a restive man shouldered the
swing with him. Frank turned his head and looked at the silvery figure lifting
his Sara, flying against the moon. They were a mile above the farmhouse,
soaring over a train running sideways without rails across sun swept fields.
"It won't be long now," said the man, whose face was iridescent. "Just a push
or two more."
"Who are you?" Frank asked.
"Why, you know me, Frank. I'm Sam. I'm Sara's angel."
Svira Kurcu
Thanks for your patience and for being kind enough to crit my stuff.
the Whistler
Svira Kurcu
This is the second story of yours I'm critting today. It's completely
different from "My Brother's Keeper" and shows that you have good range.
It also shows me what lovely things can happen if a writer puts his
story away for a long time and comes back to it refreshed. This piece
has a comfortable, broken-in feel about it, like a favourite, long-worn
pair of shoes. Thanks for the lesson.
Your story is the first I've read in this NG that managed to make me
sad. I really didn't want Frank to die. But his death is made
bittersweet by the meeting with the angel, and before death comes
redemption, and death comes at exactly the right time. It's also
satisfying that Jo seems to survive and probably will remember him for
as long as people remember anything. Somehow it's important to make a
difference in someone else's life after our deaths, even if that someone
is just as perishable as we.
I like the fact that, in skillfully portraying a man whose life is
filled with loss, you've varied the losses: his mother and wife's death,
his daughter's estrangement, and Rebecca's lost opportunity. My boss
has had two wives die young of natural causes, and he was happy with
both. He only recently stopped lashing out at people under his power.
Frank never so much as utters a cross word. For that, I am fond of him.
I also like what you've done with the old train fantasy, which nowadays
is probably an elevator fantasy - the idea of finding romance on a
lightly travelled train car with a comfortable stranger. I especially
like that romance is not what Frank finds in the end, but something of
far greater value. You've done a nice job of lending dignity to a
premise that is probably more often found in pornography.
Although she's fully developed, Jo does come across as a little bit of a
device. Her own life story comes out in too much of a rush, but is
appropriately placed. I peg Jo as well-educated, probably in one of the
helping professions.
There is a bit of didacticism in the story about openness and honesty,
which the experts no longer view as universal good things that should be
available in unlimited supply. It fits with Jo's educated speech, but
not with Frank's. I get a bit of disquiet about her indocrinating him.
The story would work better without that element.
Unlike "Keeper," this story is consistently written from top to bottom
and has a lyrical quality appropriate to the subject matter. There are
few, if any, self-indulgences, and the lyricisms are not pretentious. I
liked the development of Frank's character through reminiscences and
exposition. Jo has a satisfying but unusual speaking style that I can't
place geographically or in time, but it too is consistent. The
characters are believable. I found the train wreck melodramatic and
wished Frank had met his maker in some other way.
There were two loose ends: the elderly couple, who drop off the face of
the earth after they're mentioned, and Frank's bad lungs, which make a
few bashful appearances but don't fit into the story or contribute to
it. The elderly couple I deal with below, but the cough should either
become meaningful or go away.
Stylistically, I've noticed in both stories that you have a tendency to
use awkward turns of phrase. I have pointed them out in some of the
detailed comments and nits below. Thanks for posting.
Allegory60 wrote:
<snip>
>
> Angels Play at Dusk
> by DH Henry
>
> The orange horizon melted into purple as the train chugged through the valley.
> Frank Coe slumped dejectedly, gazing at the sky leaking colors. He sat alone
> in the last coach.
The contrast between the beautiful sunrise/sunset and his dejected mood
makes for a good hook. I want to know what's bothering this man.
<snip>
> Looking great distances to the horizon, lay the blue of his mother's eyes.
> That indigo shade rested on him, a reminder of her pride and hope. Her
> adoration sprouted in his reverie at dusk, and he often spoke to her as if she
> was next to him in the fading light.
The first sentence is awkward and unclear. It sounds as if the blue of
his mother's eyes is looking great distances to the horizon, but the
blue is iris, and it's the pupil that does the looking.
<snip>
> His memories filed onto his mind's stage, a show he'd viewed countless times
> from the front row of his lonely auditorium. It was mostly behind him now, his
> life; old age loomed bereft of glory, the end of the line.
I like the train image at the end of that last sentence. Sometimes
writers need to know that readers notice these things too.
<snip>
> The coach jerked through switches, reviving him to the present. It was a long
> trip, a tiring trip. It felt like he'd been on the train for weeks instead of
> two days. Maybe in the desert he could escape the pain; he could forget the
> green hills, the summer rains, the snows of the Cascades. Things didn't rust
> in the desert. The heat would melt the pain of promises left undone. He could
> absorb the sun's energy, and live simply.
The image of pain as something frozen is inventive, but doesn't work for
me. Isn't pain always hot? And I would say "promises left
unfulfilled," since you don't "do" a promise.
>
> The coach door opened and an elderly couple shambled in--festooned with
> ribbons and flowers. They wore gold medals on their lapels bearing the number
> fifty. Golden anniversary. The gray haireds tottered through and sat in the
> back. Frank noticed how bent they were, as if cloned in some mold, their
> hands supporting each other as they moved through the car.
The elderly couple disappears after this point. I can see why the story
needs them, but some later mention of them would be more satisfying.
Have the old lady cough and distract the main characters. Have the old
man's weak cries be audible in the wreck until he is rescued.
<snip>
> Those hours stargazing on the garage were the best times he'd known with his
> brother. Sean trailed after him when they were kids, and Frank tried to shoo
> him away. He couldn't remember anything else they'd ever done together or why
> he couldn't have included Sean in goings-on with his friends. It was like he'd
> been ashamed of having a younger brother. He remembered the strangeness of
> that shame that precipitated into guilt.
The last sentence is one of your awkward turns of phrase. It sounds
like it should be two sentences.
<snip>
> "It's just after nine."
>
> Her voice touched a chord in him
Another awkward piece of writing. After she asks for the time, and
someone speaks, it sounds as if it was her voice that said "It's just
after nine." Given the long fallow period and the revision, you have
probably missed this because you're too close to the story, and it's a
perfect reason to post a story for critique - so people can point out
this kind of thing to us.
<snip>
> The night Rebecca left for Florida was his last chance. He raced to the
> airport to find her, to spill out his love. From across the concourse he
> spotted her buying a magazine. He stood and watched her: so pure in her youth,
> so confident, yet with such delicate vulnerability. He was afraid. To marry
> again after one great loss, to carry the burden of making another's life full
> when his lay void, to plead without faith to bolster him--all avalanched his
> path in that moment. He turned away, never to see her again, only to sleep
> with regrets.
Here, you are straining for effect a bit. "...to find her, to spill
out" sounds affected. On the other hand, the three parallel clauses
after "To marry" sound perfectly natural and resonate. If others are
reading this, please let me know if you agree with me.
<snip>
> Who was this delicate figure in a night railroad coach? Where was she going?
> What was she leaving behind? Was it simply her lilac scent spinning these
> buried visions into regrets? Or was it simply lost chances that haunted him,
> wrong choices? For long minutes he wanted to speak, to say something perfect.
> He wanted to warn her about failing to keep the promise of life, to bear those
> yearnings that press upon the will.
Way too many infinitive parallelisms. This paragraph sounds too
oratorical. I realize the paragraph deals with serious things, but it
makes me want to append the following: "To poop, to wipe your butt." I
mean, really.
<snip>
> "I doubt it, Miss. This train hasn't been on time since I boarded in Seattle."
<laugh> You've ridden the train before, haven't you, Mr. Henry? I
thought so. Seriously, these little touches, such as trains being
chronically late, really bring things home to people who know trains.
You never really know who'll be reading your work and how it will affect
him.
<snip>
> He hesitated but she'd already seated herself across from him
It wasn't clear where she was sitting before, although I assume on the
seats beside him across the aisle. Nyet?
<snip>
> "You were about to ask, Mr. Coe?"
One would almost expect Frank to retreat back into himself after his
halting attempt to open up is rudely interrupted by a tunnel. This is
the only part of the story I don't find believable, him continuing with
what he had intended to say.
<snip>
> "I think so, yes. But we never know how much track there is left, do we? And,
> I wouldn't mock you Frank. I find you sincere. I felt instantly safe with
> you, or I would've moved on to a more occupied car. Safe and intrigued. Now
> you know what I was thinking--see? It isn't difficult if you try."
Jo is *very* sharp. Her assessment of Frank is exactly the same as
mine. I wonder what it is about this NG and all the smart female
characters. My stories have them too. Even stories written by women
around here feature them. Are we all expressing some kind of longing we
hide from ourselves? I'm tempted to challenge the NG to write a story
about a stupid woman; even the characters of "A Friendly Fascination"
weren't truly stupid, just not brilliant.
<snip>
> Heavy slamming of the wheels shook the car. The lights flickered and went out,
> then the two were hurled against each other. Crashing terror fell around them.
> The train had derailed.
Good action writing. I just wonder if the lights would go out before
the train goes all canty.
<snip>
> Jo's hands were free and she held tight to him. She began to cry.
Crying seems out of character for this lady. I'm not talking about what
a real person like her would do, but about what looks believable to a
reader; there is a difference.
<snip>
> Her breathing was shallow; he felt her neck for a pulse: it was weak.
> *Please, God, don't let her die.* He pressed his lips to hers, pushing breath
> into her. When her breath came out he repeated the act. After three tries she
> began to breathe deeply. The soft cushion of her mouth overcame him, and he
> kissed her.
The old mouth-to-mouth joke about kissing, but given dignity through a
tasteful presentation. You have a real knack for lending innocent grace
to things that are ribald in others' hands. I just don't like the "soft
cushion," because it makes me think of sofas and not lips.
>
> "You're being too honest," she said, weakly.
Now, this does sound in character. I would say "she said through a weak
smile" or "she said, smiling weakly," since the comment seems to call
for a jocular expression.
<snip>
> "Why, you know me, Frank. I'm Sam. I'm Sara's angel."
Lovely last paragraph.
the Whistler
Allegory60
>different from "My Brother's Keeper" and shows that you have good range.
Thanks. Maybe my range is too good, meaning I should stick to one sort of
writing and try to excel?
> It also shows me what lovely things can happen if a writer puts his
>story away for a long time and comes back to it refreshed. This piece
>has a comfortable, broken-in feel about it, like a favourite, long-worn
>pair of shoes.
Time is the great underestimated element in writing. At least for me it is.
>Your story is the first I've read in this NG that managed to make me
>sad. I really didn't want Frank to die.
Yes, I know. I've written that ending many times, but this is the only way I
could see it working.
>But his death is made
>bittersweet by the meeting with the angel, and before death comes
>redemption, and death comes at exactly the right time. It's also
>satisfying that Jo seems to survive and probably will remember him for
>as long as people remember anything.
I'm happy you took this from the story.
>Somehow it's important to make a
>difference in someone else's life after our deaths, even if that someone
>is just as perishable as we.
>
This is something youth doesn't think much about, but when middle age strikes,
it looms over a sensitive heart.
> I especially
>like that romance is not what Frank finds in the end, but something of
>far greater value. You've done a nice job of lending dignity to a
>premise that is probably more often found in pornography.
Thanks.
>
>Although she's fully developed, Jo does come across as a little bit of a
>device. Her own life story comes out in too much of a rush, but is
>appropriately placed. I peg Jo as well-educated, probably in one of the
>helping professions.
An intelligent woman. I pictured her as a nurse.
>There is a bit of didacticism in the story about openness and honesty,
>which the experts no longer view as universal good things that should be
>available in unlimited supply. It fits with Jo's educated speech, but
>not with Frank's. I get a bit of disquiet about her indocrinating him.
> The story would work better without that element.
Perhaps. I'll consider softening that a bit. I'm not sure I'd say she was
exactly indoctrinating him, but somewhat curious about him. She chose to sit
near and to speak to him, so she's not a shrinking violet. The man must have
seemed intriguing to her, sitting there deep in thought.
>Unlike "Keeper," this story is consistently written from top to bottom
>and has a lyrical quality appropriate to the subject matter. There are
>few, if any, self-indulgences, and the lyricisms are not pretentious. I
>liked the development of Frank's character through reminiscences and
>exposition. Jo has a satisfying but unusual speaking style that I can't
>place geographically or in time, but it too is consistent. The
>characters are believable.
This last thing has been the most difficult in my 3 and a half years of writng
fiction. I came to fiction very late in life, never having read much except the
normal stuff in school. I had to flush the academic and business style writing
out of my system and to use exposition carefully. As a result many of my early
stories lack fully rounded characters. Nearly 70 short stories later, I'm
seeing how important characterization is. Many readers have felt that earlier
versions of this are overly melodramatic, overwritten and pretentious. I've had
to soften it some, but it will always be a rather slow moving, lyric tale of
regret, redemption and hope.
>I found the train wreck melodramatic and
>wished Frank had met his maker in some other way.
Well, there was a hint of a heart attack in there.
>
>There were two loose ends: the elderly couple, who drop off the face of
>the earth after they're mentioned, and Frank's bad lungs, which make a
>few bashful appearances but don't fit into the story or contribute to
>it. The elderly couple I deal with below, but the cough should either
>become meaningful or go away.
I had cut a bit about the 50 year medallion hanging from the wreckage over
their heads just prior to the crash. Some said it was too much, that the old
couple would assume to be fatalities in such a wreck. What do you think about
reinserting that? I know readers hate loose ends, if this is one.
As for Frank's cough, I don't make a big deal about it. Think it's only in
there once to show he isn't strong physically.
>Stylistically, I've noticed in both stories that you have a tendency to
>use awkward turns of phrase.
This is SO true! I work at rooting these little buggers out and cannot even see
them until much later. I've worked hard at self-editing, so I'm making some
progress. I appreciate you pointing such awkward phrasing out. I think for me
these are the result of trying too hard, if that makes sense.
>Looking great distances to the horizon, lay the blue of his mother's eyes.
>> That indigo shade rested on him, a reminder of her pride and hope. Her
>> adoration sprouted in his reverie at dusk, and he often spoke to her as if
>she
>> was next to him in the fading light.
>
>The first sentence is awkward and unclear. It sounds as if the blue of
>his mother's eyes is looking great distances to the horizon, but the
>blue is iris, and it's the pupil that does the looking.
I will work on this one. I want him to be reminded of the blue of his mother's
eyes when he looks out into the horizon.
> He remembered the strangeness of
>> that shame that precipitated into guilt.
>
>The last sentence is one of your awkward turns of phrase. It sounds
>like it should be two sentences.
Yes, I'll have to think on this one, but initially I feel it might work better
as:
He remembered the strangeness of that shame, shame that precipitated into
guilt.
Which would give it some parallel feeling.
>"It's just after nine."
>>
>> Her voice touched a chord in him
>
>Another awkward piece of writing. After she asks for the time, and
>someone speaks, it sounds as if it was her voice that said "It's just
>after nine."
a tag is needed, perhaps.
>Here, you are straining for effect a bit. "...to find her, to spill
>out" sounds affected.
I agree. I'm cutting that phrase and just leaving: He raced to the airport to
find her.
>Who was this delicate figure in a night railroad coach? Where was she going?
>> What was she leaving behind? Was it simply her lilac scent spinning these
>> buried visions into regrets? Or was it simply lost chances that haunted
>him,
>> wrong choices? For long minutes he wanted to speak, to say something
>perfect.
>> He wanted to warn her about failing to keep the promise of life, to bear
>those
>> yearnings that press upon the will.
>
>Way too many infinitive parallelisms. This paragraph sounds too
>oratorical. I realize the paragraph deals with serious things, but it
>makes me want to append the following: "To poop, to wipe your butt." I
>mean, really.
I'm sorry but I don't get your last part at all. I can shorten the question
list by one or so, but, you're correct in saying this paragraph deals with
important questions. Perhaps you might clarify?
>
>> "I think so, yes. But we never know how much track there is left, do
we?
>And,
>> I wouldn't mock you Frank. I find you sincere. I felt instantly safe with
>> you, or I would've moved on to a more occupied car. Safe and intrigued.
>Now
>> you know what I was thinking--see? It isn't difficult if you try."
>
>Jo is *very* sharp. Her assessment of Frank is exactly the same as
>mine. I wonder what it is about this NG and all the smart female
>characters. My stories have them too.
>Even stories written by women
>around here feature them. Are we all expressing some kind of longing we
>hide from ourselves? I'm tempted to challenge the NG to write a story
>about a stupid woman; even the characters of "A Friendly Fascination"
>weren't truly stupid, just not brilliant.
Perhaps it is because the women here are the glue that holds this place
together, not the most prolific male posters who posture endlessly in
testosterone soaked posts. The women are wiser than I am, than any male here.
They simply contribute and don't add friction, or usually respond to it except
in a soft, motherly manner. The women of AFO are the hope of this place.
>Jo's hands were free and she held tight to him. She began to cry.
>
>Crying seems out of character for this lady. I'm not talking about what
>a real person like her would do, but about what looks believable to a
>reader; there is a difference.
Oh, I don't know. Women and even men cry when death is near. I find tears for
her perfectly believable.
>
>tasteful presentation. You have a real knack for lending innocent grace
>to things that are ribald in others' hands. I just don't like the "soft
>cushion," because it makes me think of sofas and not lips.
Hmm..how about her soft sofa of a mouth overcame him? Ha :)
>
>> "Why, you know me, Frank. I'm Sam. I'm Sara's angel."
>
>Lovely last paragraph.
>
>the Whistler
>
When I was a boy there was a radio program on I always listened to that gave me
bad dreams, called "The Whistler." HE walked by night, and knew all things.
Eerie opening music with a whistle. You that old? :)
Thank you for a sensitive and honest review of my work. I appreciate it. I
wasn't sure about you when you first showed up, but I feel now you're a great
member to have around. I will only give you one word of advice: there are some
here who will attack you, string you up for innocent remarks. It's best to
avoid them, filter if you have to. It's the only way I've been able to stomach
staying around. And I've been in and out of this place since early 2000, when I
wrote my first story. They'll beat on me more for saying this, but at least I
won't hear or see the worst of them.
Good luck. Hope I can return the favor soon.
Hank
Alaric
> wasn't sure about you when you first showed up, but I feel now you're a
great
> member to have around. I will only give you one word of advice: there are
some
> here who will attack you, string you up for innocent remarks. It's best to
> avoid them, filter if you have to. It's the only way I've been able to
stomach
> staying around. And I've been in and out of this place since early 2000,
when I
> wrote my first story. They'll beat on me more for saying this, but at
least I
> won't hear or see the worst of them.
Professional victim.
Alaric
If you look at AFO Weekly, you'll find your Story Of The Week. So I'm NOT
picking on you. Just your snippy attitude, which surfaces every couple of
months or so.
--
"Whether you think you can or you think you can't, you're right."
HENRY FORD
"Alaric" <alar...@btinternet.com> wrote in message
news:bhttj3$7i9$1...@hercules.btinternet.com...
Svira Kurcu
Allegory60 wrote:
>
> Thanks. Maybe my range is too good, meaning I should stick to one sort of
> writing and try to excel?
That's a decision only you can make. I'm too new at this to advise you.
There was, however, a subthread elsewhere in the NG where people
talked about "one-trick pony" writers and whether it was better to write
in a wide variety of ways or stick to one thing. Just logically,
general readers don't like being bushwhacked; so if they bought an
action adventure book by an author and enjoyed it, they will buy his
next book expecting the same thing; and may be annoyed and feel betrayed
if it's a leisurely romance. A new writer like me who is still
experimenting and learning will want to try a whole bunch of different
things.
> >Somehow it's important to make a
>
>>difference in someone else's life after our deaths, even if that someone
>>is just as perishable as we.
>
> This is something youth doesn't think much about, but when middle age strikes,
> it looms over a sensitive heart.
I must admit that I love reading about sensitive men who are still
masculine. Men are not members of a different species; we're human
beings too, and have the same qualities as all humans do. Popular
culture forgets it all the time.
I'm only 38, but a heavy smoker, and I feel the time slipping away
faster the more of it passes. But I have only contempt for fame and
renown as it exists today. Perhaps the best thing is to start an oral
tradition, or pass my works down to a few contacts who appreciate it,
and whose grandchildren will consider them heirlooms and read them to
their grandkids. Screw the hamster wheel.
> An intelligent woman. I pictured her as a nurse.
And it's very tasteful of you not to just blurt out that she's a nurse.
Educated people, especially in the helping professions, are subtle
about inseminating others with their way of thinking. It's natural and
expected that Jo would even conceal her line of work.
> This last thing has been the most difficult in my 3 and a half years of writng
> fiction. I came to fiction very late in life, never having read much except the
> normal stuff in school. I had to flush the academic and business style writing
> out of my system and to use exposition carefully. As a result many of my early
> stories lack fully rounded characters. Nearly 70 short stories later, I'm
> seeing how important characterization is. Many readers have felt that earlier
> versions of this are overly melodramatic, overwritten and pretentious. I've had
> to soften it some, but it will always be a rather slow moving, lyric tale of
> regret, redemption and hope.
Thanks for letting me know that I'll probably have to write 70 stories
before I'm anywhere near good. It doesn't feel daunting. I think I
will be overjoyed to have completed 70 stories, and happy as a dog
sniffing poo doing it.
> Well, there was a hint of a heart attack in there.
Sorry I missed that. Maybe I wasn't as attentive as I should have been.
> I had cut a bit about the 50 year medallion hanging from the wreckage over
> their heads just prior to the crash. Some said it was too much, that the old
> couple would assume to be fatalities in such a wreck. What do you think about
> reinserting that? I know readers hate loose ends, if this is one.
I would reinsert it, but that's just my taste. The people who advised
you to take it out may be right. Even in flash I'm not comfortable with
cameo appearances by a cloudy sky. I just don't like loose ends either.
>>Stylistically, I've noticed in both stories that you have a tendency to
>>use awkward turns of phrase.
>
>
> This is SO true! I work at rooting these little buggers out and cannot even see
> them until much later. I've worked hard at self-editing, so I'm making some
> progress. I appreciate you pointing such awkward phrasing out. I think for me
> these are the result of trying too hard, if that makes sense.
It makes lots of sense. For some reason, trying too hard is like
sprouting a mole on your nose. Everybody notices it. It's almost as
much the kiss of death as being self-indulgent.
> Yes, I'll have to think on this one, but initially I feel it might work better
> as:
>
> He remembered the strangeness of that shame, shame that precipitated into
> guilt.
>
> Which would give it some parallel feeling.
Parallelisms always make the writing feel oratorical. If you feel a
need to hustle things along in that passage, you can do it that way.
I'm racking my brain to think of an alternative, but I can't; it's your
story, and I'm just a reader.
> I agree. I'm cutting that phrase and just leaving: He raced to the airport to
> find her.
Which is a short sentence that also moves things along. Beware of
speeding up the pace of the story too much.
One thing I missed when I read your story originally: It's an excellent
touch for Frank to look for more than trite train-ride conversation. It
makes him more likeable.
>>Way too many infinitive parallelisms. This paragraph sounds too
>>oratorical. I realize the paragraph deals with serious things, but it
>>makes me want to append the following: "To poop, to wipe your butt." I
>>mean, really.
>
> I'm sorry but I don't get your last part at all. I can shorten the question
> list by one or so, but, you're correct in saying this paragraph deals with
> important questions. Perhaps you might clarify?
I was just making a crude joke. Once in a while I do that. The short
sentence I wrote above makes fun of oratorical writing and speech. It
contains a parallelism while dealing with very un-oratorical subject
matter. I've had it go through my head while listening to people make
speeches containing too many parallelism. But never mind those
windbags, because your story puts all of them to shame, and their
vacuous blowhard crap isn't fit to lick your story's shoe.
>>Jo is *very* sharp. Her assessment of Frank is exactly the same as
>>mine. I wonder what it is about this NG and all the smart female
>>characters. My stories have them too.
>>Even stories written by women
>>around here feature them. Are we all expressing some kind of longing we
>>hide from ourselves? I'm tempted to challenge the NG to write a story
>>about a stupid woman; even the characters of "A Friendly Fascination"
>>weren't truly stupid, just not brilliant.
>
> Perhaps it is because the women here are the glue that holds this place
> together, not the most prolific male posters who posture endlessly in
> testosterone soaked posts. The women are wiser than I am, than any male here.
> They simply contribute and don't add friction, or usually respond to it except
> in a soft, motherly manner. The women of AFO are the hope of this place.
If generalized to the wide world, that becomes a touch idealistic. The
sexes are converging. I find my brother's 20-ish female friends to be
far more masculine than women of my generation. Even the latter have a
secret world that I've been privileged to get a glimpse of, and it
contains what a reasonable person would expect from human beings in
general. Estrogen affects women the way testosterone affects us, but
we're not culturally trained to notice them losing control to their
instincts. In the end, however, I find women easier to get along with
and am lucky to have almost no male coworkers. But only one woman in my
life has not found me innocuous and unthreatening, and that lasted 11
weeks. You take the good with the bad.
>>tasteful presentation. You have a real knack for lending innocent grace
>>to things that are ribald in others' hands. I just don't like the "soft
>>cushion," because it makes me think of sofas and not lips.
>
> Hmm..how about her soft sofa of a mouth overcame him? Ha :)
Oh my. You could make a killing if you wrote pastiches of boilerplate
romance fiction. I see a future in it.
> When I was a boy there was a radio program on I always listened to that gave me
> bad dreams, called "The Whistler." HE walked by night, and knew all things.
> Eerie opening music with a whistle. You that old? :)
I wish I had been around to hear "The Shadow." Born in '65, came to
Canada at age 10. But mental problems age a person like a ghost's
touch, so I might come across like someone 40 years older, just minus
the arthritis.
> Thank you for a sensitive and honest review of my work. I appreciate it. I
> wasn't sure about you when you first showed up, but I feel now you're a great
> member to have around. I will only give you one word of advice: there are some
> here who will attack you, string you up for innocent remarks. It's best to
> avoid them, filter if you have to. It's the only way I've been able to stomach
> staying around. And I've been in and out of this place since early 2000, when I
> wrote my first story. They'll beat on me more for saying this, but at least I
> won't hear or see the worst of them.
It's a newsgroup. I had an idealistic impression of AFO when I first
came here because I only got feedback from mature and helpful people.
But we're writers, and writers have to have ego. Biographies tell me
that abrasive people even tend to write better. I just don't like some
people's namecalling and open insults; the quality of their fiction,
which is high, doesn't quite make up for it...and I almost named names.
Better not.
>
> Good luck. Hope I can return the favor soon.
Here's your chance. "Milk and Beads" has been posted, and it should be
to your taste.
>
> Hank
>
the Whistler
Allegory60
>experimenting and learning will want to try a whole bunch of different
>things.
>
Ditto. I still feel very much like a new writer.
>
>I must admit that I love reading about sensitive men who are still
>masculine. Men are not members of a different species; we're human
>beings too, and have the same qualities as all humans do. Popular
>culture forgets it all the time.
>
My first collection of stories that I self-published (a couple have since been
done elsewhere) boiled down to a theme of men and boys facing moral dilemmas or
challenges in their life that often changed them. Until I had to put the back
cover material together and write the theme for marketing purposes, I didn't
even realize that this was the common thread in nearly all of the 20 stories.
I used to have a website with the book on it but when I closed my company I
took the server down. Now I think it's still available on Amazon.
It was a very fun excercise and I was able to break even on it, but nearly all
of the stories have been revised since. Sometimes I wonder if a story is ever
really finished.
>I'm only 38, but a heavy smoker, and I feel the time slipping away
>faster the more of it passes.
Pardon me for saying so, it slips a helluva lot faster when you breathe in
smoke.
>Thanks for letting me know that I'll probably have to write 70 stories
>before I'm anywhere near good. It doesn't feel daunting. I think I
>will be overjoyed to have completed 70 stories, and happy as a dog
>sniffing poo doing it.
Well, I didn't really start out to focus on the short story. I assumed that
like many writers I'd want to do a novel. I had an editor for awhile who
continually pushed me toward the novel form. I outgrew her advice on writing
after awhile, and although she still loves my stories, I never did want to
write a novel. Go figure.
Most of the time I'm only focussing on one story. I've never done more than 3
concurrently, although I'm continually looking back and pulling out stories
like this one to improve. As I learn more I want to apply it to past work, to
fix what now seems obviously wrong.
>For some reason, trying too hard is like
>sprouting a mole on your nose. Everybody notices it. It's almost as
>much the kiss of death as being self-indulgent.
For me this often happens in drafting, when I let the "critic" editor into the
room. If I just let the draft unfold without concern for all the writing and
stylistic matters, then I don't tend to insert these overblown sentences that
want to hang around through revision. Not sure if that's clear, but if my
creative side just drafts without the edit side messing with it, the prose can
be revised later with benefit.
>> Which would give it some parallel feeling.
>
>Parallelisms always make the writing feel oratorical.
I suppose it might, but think this would depend on the skill of the writer. I
know parallelism is given high standing by many fiction experts.
>One thing I missed when I read your story originally: It's an excellent
>touch for Frank to look for more than trite train-ride conversation. It
>makes him more likeable.
Yes, I think it's because he's had the time to reflect on his life, on those
major regrets that still haunt him. He's escaping, really, quitting far before
he should. Old age, mental old age, has begun to overtake him.
>But never mind those
>windbags, because your story puts all of them to shame, and their
>vacuous blowhard crap isn't fit to lick your story's shoe.
>
Well, thanks. The story's come a long way, but one thing I never do is compare
my work with others. Unless they're dead.
>The women of AFO are the hope of this place.
>
>If generalized to the wide world, that becomes a touch idealistic.
Sure. I'm glad AFO isn't the wide world.
> The
>sexes are converging.
The roles are doing some of that. But I see this as a pendulum, driven mosty by
a vocal minority of women and a few men. It will swing back in time.
>In the end, however, I find women easier to get along with
>and am lucky to have almost no male coworkers. But only one woman in my
>life has not found me innocuous and unthreatening, and that lasted 11
>weeks. You take the good with the bad.
All of my life friends have been women. I'm not sure why this is, but perhaps
they're more accessible, open and honest without being abrasive. I'm blessed to
have the best of all women under my roof, and for nearly 20 years now. After a
rocky start with marriage and such, I've come to understand what it takes
because she has shown me day to day.
>>
>> Hmm..how about her soft sofa of a mouth overcame him? Ha :)
>
>Oh my. You could make a killing if you wrote pastiches of boilerplate
>romance fiction. I see a future in it.
>
I've wanted to do a parody of romantic bodice rippers. Maybe I will someday.
>
>I wish I had been around to hear "The Shadow."
The Shadow recordings are out there. For oldtimers who can remember radio shows
before television, they were wonderful in stimulating the imagination, much
like fiction does. As a young boy I'd lie in front of the big speakered cabinet
and "see" everything that went on from a dozen different programs we listened
to. TV came in here in 1952, and we got our first set in 1954, but I've always
remembered how vivid and true the pictures of those shows were. I can still see
them.
>
>It's a newsgroup. I had an idealistic impression of AFO when I first
>came here because I only got feedback from mature and helpful people.
>But we're writers, and writers have to have ego. Biographies tell me
>that abrasive people even tend to write better. I just don't like some
>people's namecalling and open insults; the quality of their fiction,
>which is high, doesn't quite make up for it...and I almost named names.
> Better not.
Egos are fine. Egos don't lead to namecalling and invective. Shrunken souls do
that. Self anger directed outward. When you have the sense of humor that I do,
it's best not to throw it around like everyone is an old college pal. IT does
seem some live for the animosity, but that's no longer my concern. A wise man
worries only about what he can control, and I can control my house and my
writing, even if it takes 100 revisions and years of effort to do! :)
>> Good luck. Hope I can return the favor soon.
>
>Here's your chance. "Milk and Beads" has been posted, and it should be
>to your taste.
Will look forward to it.
Hank
Alaric
souls do
> that. Self anger directed outward. When you have the sense of humor that I
do,
> it's best not to throw it around like everyone is an old college pal. IT
does
> seem some live for the animosity, but that's no longer my concern. A wise
man
> worries only about what he can control, and I can control my house and my
> writing, even if it takes 100 revisions and years of effort to do! :)
Is there going to be one of these attacks from Mr. Passive Aggressive in
every thread now?
You just don't know how to let go, do you?
Sense of humour? You don't live within a continent of one.
Wind River
>
> Perhaps it is because the women here are the glue that holds this place
> together, not the most prolific male posters who posture endlessly in
> testosterone soaked posts. The women are wiser than I am, than any male here.
> They simply contribute and don't add friction, or usually respond to it except
> in a soft, motherly manner. The women of AFO are the hope of this place.
Hank, I'm female, but I'm not wiser than anyone else here. I'm just me,
seeing the world through my own experiences. I look at everyone as an
individual, and their gender doesn't matter. There are probably more
males than females here who contribute and don't add friction. Please
don't try putting any of us on a pedestal -- we're afraid of heights. :)
-Sue
Harper
<< Perhaps it is because the women here are the glue that holds this place
together, not the most prolific male posters who posture endlessly in
testosterone soaked posts. The women are wiser than I am, than any male here.
They simply contribute and don't add friction, or usually respond to it except
in a soft, motherly manner. The women of AFO are the hope of this place. >>
Hi, Hank <stretches legs encased in green Lycra hotpants>. I believe you're on
to something here. Personally, I prefer to be soft and yielding, as befits my
sex. <"Torrey! where the fuck you put my rolling papers?"> I have many ladylike
pursuits, and I like to apply myself to them with feminine grace and fortitude
<picks nits out of hair with gunsite>. I'm pleased to be in the service of men
<"when the sam hill are you gonta finish washing those dishes, Bob? your
apron's on crooked. bring me a bon bon.">, for nothing gives me greater
pleasure <inspects belly, scratches>. Wise in ways only a woman can be <points
gun to head, cackles>, I am able to intuit what people need <"bought you a
present, ma. penthouse.">, and in this way, I bring forth my joy into the world
<what the KEY-riste is that rottweiler barking about now? >>
Yours in the harmony of the Goddess,
Miss Harper <swigs scotch from plastic liter bottle>
--
Sonny Maou
> alleg...@aol.com (Allegory60) wrote:
>
> << Perhaps it is because the women here are the glue that holds this place
> together, not the most prolific male posters who posture endlessly in
> testosterone soaked posts. The women are wiser than I am, than any male
here.
> They simply contribute and don't add friction, or usually respond to it
except
> in a soft, motherly manner. The women of AFO are the hope of this place.
>>
>
<some snippage occurred>
> Yours in the harmony of the Goddess,
>
> Miss Harper <swigs scotch from plastic liter bottle>
Gol darn it!!! This was a dern funny post, Harpy- I mean Harper.
Allegory60
>Hi, Hank <stretches legs encased in green Lycra hotpants>.
Funny, but you can't fool me. You have a spiritual side that shines through
nearly everything you say. Of course, to present that openly to these heathen
might invite some ridicule, but a cupcake like you should be able to turn that
aside with a wiggle of your nose, eh?
Hankus
Allegory60
>seeing the world through my own experiences. I look at everyone as an
>individual, and their gender doesn't matter. There are probably more
>males than females here who contribute and don't add friction. Please
>don't try putting any of us on a pedestal -- we're afraid of heights. :)
>
>-Sue
To be female is to be the wisdom that males lack, which is what I meant
sillyhead.
(plus, if I put you on a pedestal it's easier to look up your skirt)
Hankerooni
Allegory60
>> Miss Harper <swigs scotch from plastic liter bottle>
>
>Gol darn it!!! This was a dern funny post, Harpy- I mean Harper.
>
See, Sonny? These dames is even funnier than us'ns.
Hankhillbilly
Wind River
I don't wear skirts, Busterooni!
Wind River
Cupcake? I thought she was a Sweettart, Toots. ;)
Wind River
>
Hi Hank,
This was originally posted three months before I discovered AFO, so it's
all new to me.
> Angels Play at Dusk
> by DH Henry
>
> The orange horizon melted into purple as the train chugged through the valley.
> Frank Coe slumped dejectedly, gazing at the sky leaking colors. He sat alone
> in the last coach.
>
> The amorous swaying of the car transported Frank to boyhood journeys by rail
> with his mother. His mother. How she loved to show him off--his clothes, his
> looks, and a thousand small things about him she saw as wonderful. He reigned
> as her blessed Frankie. Her love warmed his life until her sudden death. Now,
> twelve years later, his heart longed for such adoration. His mother's voice
> still haunted him, especially at dusk, the time of her death. His last words to
> her complained of her trivial problems--a light bulb that needed changing,
> lettuce she needed from the grocer, a question about a news story. He brushed
> aside memories of her plaintive voice, standing like a sharp snag in the river
> of his conscience. How much he would give to script those last words, but
> there had been no goodbyes, no comfort offered. She died alone. His best
> words--those that hid beneath the calloused surface of his heart--were
> unspoken.
I'm not sure about "best words". I keep wanting to simplify the last
sentence. If my rewrite suggestions irritate you, let me know, and I'll
stop doing it, but sometimes it's easier for me to explain by example. I
was thinking something like, "She died alone, and his unspoken words hid
beneath ..."
> Looking great distances to the horizon, lay the blue of his mother's eyes.
> That indigo shade rested on him, a reminder of her pride and hope. Her
> adoration sprouted in his reverie at dusk, and he often spoke to her as if she
> was next to him in the fading light.
I like the way he speaks to her.
> The engine unwound with little spasms; slowing, bending around a lake
> reflecting the glowing remnant of sky. The train bumped and rumbled to a
> sliding stop. He peered down the tracks. Boarding passengers, gray shimmering
> forms, queued through the steamy haze. Across the lake a farmhouse blocked
> against the sky. Beside the dwelling rose a barn, cathedral-like, in a sea of
> undulating fields. Guarding the dwelling stood a naked oak, reaching skyward
> with one thick limb extended level over the ground. From the limb a swing
> twisted, as if pushed by spirits at play.
Nice paragraph. It captures the dreamy feeling and the protag's lost
youth. Sweet-sad.
<snipped>
> At times Frank imagined that Sara was still little, alive somewhere, singing
> her nursery songs, frolicking in a playhouse some other father had made; that
> she had flown away with her Dusk Angel Sam, leaving another Sara, a grown woman
> he did not know or understand.
Sad.
> His memories filed onto his mind's stage, a show he'd viewed countless times
> from the front row of his lonely auditorium.
Nice line.
> The coach lurched again; the train gradually built up speed. He watched the
> swing as it faded, a needle twisting in the zephyrs. There'd been a swing he'd
"needle twisting in the zephyrs" doesn't seem to fit with the melancholy
words surrounding it. Maybe to technical sounding?
<snipped>
> The sky was cobalt merging into black now, with Venus a persistent diamond over
> the trees. In his teens he built a telescope with his younger brother Sean;
> they'd spent hours on the garage roof scanning the heavens. Sean was fond of
> Venus and the moons of Jupiter, and
Maybe a "he" here or delete the comma before "and"
> would plead for more time peering into the
> lens, his hair lustrous gold in the moonlight.
>
> When Frank left for college
It's probably a stylistic choice, but I'd put a comma after "college"
> he gave Sean the telescope. Sean went on to become
> an astronomer and used to write him about his work. Frank had been so busy in
> his career that he didn't often answer. Sean's letters became an annual
> holiday card. Frank always meant to go visit his brother, especially after
> Sean was married, but somehow there was never enough time. They'd grown apart,
> and Frank didn't like the woman Sean had married.
>
<snipped>
> "Why, you know me, Frank. I'm Sam. I'm Sara's angel."
I love the ending, and the way you bring Sam back into it. The ending
was very satisfying, bringing love into his life before it ends. The
foreshadowing of the tracks ahead is a nice touch too. I feel sorry for
Jo. She was dumped, then this. Enjoyable story, Hank.
-Sue
Allegory60
>was very satisfying, bringing love into his life before it ends. The
>foreshadowing of the tracks ahead is a nice touch too. I feel sorry for
>Jo. She was dumped, then this. Enjoyable story, Hank.
>
>-Sue
Thanks, Sue. Sometimes I feel this story is too melodramatic, too slow. Other
times it seems poignant, vivid. So, I don' t know, really.
BTW I have no objection to you suggesting a rephrase or two. No problem at all.
What I find to be rude by anyone is rewriting a whole paragraph or two. That
goes a bit too far, usually, although there might be exceptions.
Thanks for your read and remarks. You've left me pretty unscathed. Maybe I
should take a year and a half to write all my stories. Ha.
Hank
Wind River
>
> >I love the ending, and the way you bring Sam back into it. The ending
> >was very satisfying, bringing love into his life before it ends. The
> >foreshadowing of the tracks ahead is a nice touch too. I feel sorry for
> >Jo. She was dumped, then this. Enjoyable story, Hank.
> >
> >-Sue
>
> Thanks, Sue. Sometimes I feel this story is too melodramatic, too slow. Other
> times it seems poignant, vivid. So, I don' t know, really.
It was a little slow to me when he was talking with Jo, but I didn't
comment on it because I think it needs to have a buildup. Plus, if it
were a story intended to move faster, you would have had it on a jumbo
jet instead.
> BTW I have no objection to you suggesting a rephrase or two. No problem at all.
> What I find to be rude by anyone is rewriting a whole paragraph or two. That
> goes a bit too far, usually, although there might be exceptions.
I worry about being too intrusive, but I'm a visual person, and
sometimes it's easier for me to show rather than tell.
-Sue
Svira Kurcu
Allegory60 wrote:
>>A new writer like me who is still
>>experimenting and learning will want to try a whole bunch of different
>>things.
>
> Ditto. I still feel very much like a new writer.
That dashes my hopes a little bit, because I was hoping that, after 70
stories, I wouldn't feel so new any more. But my academic "success"
(jocularly intended) was on the non-scientific side of things, so I
didn't have so many inappropriate habits to break. My biggest struggle
is not to sound like a lawyer posing a deposition question.
>>I must admit that I love reading about sensitive men who are still
>>masculine. Men are not members of a different species; we're human
>>beings too, and have the same qualities as all humans do. Popular
>>culture forgets it all the time.
>
> My first collection of stories that I self-published (a couple have since been
> done elsewhere) boiled down to a theme of men and boys facing moral dilemmas or
> challenges in their life that often changed them. Until I had to put the back
> cover material together and write the theme for marketing purposes, I didn't
> even realize that this was the common thread in nearly all of the 20 stories.
> I used to have a website with the book on it but when I closed my company I
> took the server down. Now I think it's still available on Amazon.
> It was a very fun excercise and I was able to break even on it, but nearly all
> of the stories have been revised since. Sometimes I wonder if a story is ever
> really finished.
I would like to read the book. Can you post the ISBN?
In my brief experience, I've also found that themes don't pop into my
head until at least the first draft has been written, and then only
because other people's crits make me think about them. This might be
the best way to avoid strained "message" fiction, which I have a strong
distaste for. Didacticism just seems to make a story fall apart.
As for a story never being really finished, I mentioned Malcolm Lowry
somewhere else. He held strongly to that theory. Some of his notes,
published by scholars, show protean, flowing plots where the end of one
note can contradict the beginning. Finishing is only important if you
intend to publish, although it is possible to over-revise and wreck the
story.
>>I'm only 38, but a heavy smoker, and I feel the time slipping away
>>faster the more of it passes.
>
> Pardon me for saying so, it slips a helluva lot faster when you breathe in
> smoke.
It's well established that 90 percent of schizophrenics smoke. New
research shows that severely impaired schizophrenics (I'm exceptionally
high-functioning) have better motor control and clearer, more realistic
ideation when they smoke than when they don't. I really should cut down
from two and a half packs a day to maybe one, but the cigarettes may be
part of what prevents me from destabilizing. I don't mind trading a few
years of life for a few better years.
> Well, I didn't really start out to focus on the short story. I assumed that
> like many writers I'd want to do a novel. I had an editor for awhile who
> continually pushed me toward the novel form. I outgrew her advice on writing
> after awhile, and although she still loves my stories, I never did want to
> write a novel. Go figure.
How do you feel about John's insistence that (1) writing for anything
other than publication is foolish; and (2) there is no way to make a
living in short stories any more? You already know how I feel.
>
> Most of the time I'm only focussing on one story. I've never done more than 3
> concurrently, although I'm continually looking back and pulling out stories
> like this one to improve. As I learn more I want to apply it to past work, to
> fix what now seems obviously wrong.
Like one regular here, I tend to have a bunch of projects on the go at
the same time. Different people's minds and talents work differently.
>>For some reason, trying too hard is like
>>sprouting a mole on your nose. Everybody notices it. It's almost as
>>much the kiss of death as being self-indulgent.
>
>
> For me this often happens in drafting, when I let the "critic" editor into the
> room. If I just let the draft unfold without concern for all the writing and
> stylistic matters, then I don't tend to insert these overblown sentences that
> want to hang around through revision. Not sure if that's clear, but if my
> creative side just drafts without the edit side messing with it, the prose can
> be revised later with benefit.
Then the best thing for you might be to just go full steam ahead and
write the story, then re-read it after it's finished. I tend to
underwrite *and* be too wordy in first drafts, if you can imagine that.
>>Parallelisms always make the writing feel oratorical.
>
> I suppose it might, but think this would depend on the skill of the writer. I
> know parallelism is given high standing by many fiction experts.
Ever seen an expert give testimony in court? <gag> I don't put too
much faith in experts of any stripe.
>>One thing I missed when I read your story originally: It's an excellent
>>touch for Frank to look for more than trite train-ride conversation. It
>>makes him more likeable.
>
> Yes, I think it's because he's had the time to reflect on his life, on those
> major regrets that still haunt him. He's escaping, really, quitting far before
> he should. Old age, mental old age, has begun to overtake him.
When all the options seem to be gone, there is a tendency to withdraw
from life. But there is always a bit of life force struggling to
express itself. All it needs are the right conditions of existence. In
Frank's case those are the conversation of a sensitive, perceptive woman
and a dramatic event that threatens death. I still haven't decided
whether it is a good thing that Frank died full of new hope. But
without it, there would have been no story.
> Well, thanks. The story's come a long way, but one thing I never do is compare
> my work with others. Unless they're dead.
Comparing one's own work with that of others, if they're published, only
leads to frustration. I've read so much rotting crap in paperback that
I'd go crazy if I compared my own work to it. At the other extreme,
some people's work can make me feel humble and hopeless. But what is
the basis for comparison? It may be specious, and the standards may
need to be abstract.
>>The women of AFO are the hope of this place.
>>
>>If generalized to the wide world, that becomes a touch idealistic.
>
> Sure. I'm glad AFO isn't the wide world.
In some ways, it is. It's a community like any other. There is great
variety in the people who gather here.
> All of my life friends have been women. I'm not sure why this is, but perhaps
> they're more accessible, open and honest without being abrasive. I'm blessed to
> have the best of all women under my roof, and for nearly 20 years now. After a
> rocky start with marriage and such, I've come to understand what it takes
> because she has shown me day to day.
It's nice to meet someone who is built for lifelong relationships and is
able to make marriage work. I've met extremely few.
> I've wanted to do a parody of romantic bodice rippers. Maybe I will someday.
Do it right now! There might be a huge market for it, waiting unfulfilled.
> Egos are fine. Egos don't lead to namecalling and invective.
I think they do. What else would you say does it?
the Whistler
Svira Kurcu
Alaric wrote:
> Is there going to be one of these attacks from Mr. Passive Aggressive in
> every thread now?
>
> You just don't know how to let go, do you?
>
> Sense of humour? You don't live within a continent of one.
>
>
Alaric:
I contrast your helpful, honest crit of my fiction with these personal
attacks and have trouble reconciling them to one person. I'd love to
know what your objection to another human being can be. Pretend that
"Mr. Passive Aggressive" is a story and crit him. I'm listening.
the Whistler
Wind River
Whistler,
Some things go way back. Try Google, if you're interested, or take it to
email, but please don't open it up here. You came here while Alaric was
on vacation; otherwise, you'd know how much he cares for this group.
He's a special man.
I don't mean to offend, just inform.
-Sue
Alaric
As you offer me some advice, I'll offer you some.
There's no reason why you shouldn't assess personalities, but I'd only
suggest you might want to do some research, particularly on involvement in
assisting newcomers and involvement in trouble before you express them.
You've been here a couple of weeks. You've known Hank a couple of weeks.
You've known me a couple of days. Don't you think wisdom is to get past page
4 before you decide who the murderer is? Unlike J.T. Edson books, you can't
always read folks by the colour of hats they wear when they come over the
horizon, and a wise man, knowing nothing of the history and the intent of
the remarks I'm reacting to, might choose to keep his powder dry and at
least wait for the ice cream and the interval - apart from today's post, you
might note that every one of mine has been a RESPONSE to an attack, not an
attack - without the history, you might not interpret that.
When you arrived, I wasn't here. You'll see, I hope, that some here,
including I hope me, have a consistent record of helping newcomers, and in
that context I'm looking forward to covering your stories. You'll see that
someone else takes the view that a newcomer should be ignored until they've
contributed substantially. You might want to check who that was. Then you
might want to wonder why Svira Kurcu and the newcomers of the last two weeks
were an exception to that rule. Here's a clue. It was summer holiday time.
Take as you find, by all means. But y'know the old saying - he who ignores
the past is condemned to repeat it.
Hank will e-mail you on this. I won't. Hank's a politician. I'm not. I deal
on group. WYSYWYG.
--
"Whether you think you can or you think you can't, you're right."
HENRY FORD
"Svira Kurcu" <viathna...@sympatico.ca> wrote in message
news:rh21b.5446$c_.1...@news20.bellglobal.com...
Allegory60
>
>That dashes my hopes a little bit, because I was hoping that, after 70
>stories, I wouldn't feel so new any more. But my academic "success"
>(jocularly intended) was on the non-scientific side of things, so I
>didn't have so many inappropriate habits to break. My biggest struggle
>is not to sound like a lawyer posing a deposition question.
Yeah, this might be like unlearning your habits. Probably learning new habits
tends to fade the old ones, like erased phrases on a blackboard that you can
still see the chalky outline of. It may be impossible to completely erase the
old messages, but you can make the new ones vivid and meaningful.
>Now I think it's still available on Amazon.
>> It was a very fun excercise and I was able to break even on it, but nearly
>all
>> of the stories have been revised since. Sometimes I wonder if a story is
>ever
>> really finished.
>
>I would like to read the book. Can you post the ISBN?
>
ISBN 0-9714868-0-8
Tree House Tales by DH Henry 2001
And please understand these were from my first full year of effort.
>In my brief experience, I've also found that themes don't pop into my
>head until at least the first draft has been written, and then only
>because other people's crits make me think about them. This might be
>the best way to avoid strained "message" fiction, which I have a strong
>distaste for. Didacticism just seems to make a story fall apart.
Yes. I don't see how you can start with a theme or gospel without sounding off.
It should always be about the story and the story should always be about the
characters.
>Finishing is only important if you
>intend to publish, although it is possible to over-revise and wreck the
>story.
I don't think I've ever done this. I start to leave it alone mostly after
several reworks, and only go back after many months to reread it again as a
reader, not as a critic. If I sail through but can see a few spots that might
be better, I generally leave them alone. Depends upon my overall take on the
story. If I see downright errors, I wade in and fix them. If the overall
impression is a general weakness, depending on how old the story is, I do a
rewrite. I keep all hard copies of a story in one story file, along with a
floppy disk back up of it. So, if I need to go back and reinsert something cut,
or just to follow the revision process, I can easily rekey something back in.
I back up all the story folders on a CD about once every couple of months and
store it off site. Old habits from a computer whiz I guess. You always back up
and you always guard against a fire destroying your whole place.
> I never did want to
>> write a novel. Go figure.
>
>How do you feel about John's insistence that (1) writing for anything
>other than publication is foolish; and (2) there is no way to make a
>living in short stories any more? You already know how I feel.
John who?
First, if it's foolish, then it's the writer who has a right to claim his own
foolishness. Publication is where the sheep are separated from the goats, but
too many assume that since they've been published that this means they're a
great writer. All it means is that some editor/publisher thinks they can make
money printing your stuff. There are one or two writers I know who write
wonderfully, but they write on such gross topics with such gutter stuff that
they can't get published. When I suggest they write something that isn't full
of pain, anguish and death, they say that isn't them. We all make choices.
Second, who in their right mind would look at writing as a way to make a
living? If you figure it out by the hour, and the long odds against success,
and the many years of apprenticeship needed, I'd dare say digging ditches would
pay better. I'm sure you could point to many exceptions. Stephen King starved
a few years before he made it. But there are few Kings running around. Maybe
it's wiser to see writing as a great creative enterprise that may, under ideal
conditions, supplement your income. Make a living somewhere else, but write.
Being a short story enthusiast, and having well over 100 anthologies, histories
of the short form, criticisms, and such, and having written over 70 shorties
myself, I know too well that there is an even slimmer market for short stories.
You slave to get your stuff in some lit mag, all of which are rather obscure,
and what do you have? Piles of dough? You have satisfaction, is all, and
achievement that your peers may recognize. If you don't hanker to novels, the
truth is you stand an extremely long shot of having a pub put out a short story
collection. They all feel there's no market for short stories, but this is a
pendulum thing, because back in the 1970s and 80s Ray Carver was doing well
with the short form. There have been others, but today, publishers wouldn't
look much at them.
So, ultimately, I do it for love. Love of the unique form that is the short
story. I write to please both my reader and myself.
>Like one regular here, I tend to have a bunch of projects on the go at
>the same time. Different people's minds and talents work differently.
Just make sure you finish projects on time. I advise writers to finish at least
the rough draft before picking up another project.
> I
>> know parallelism is given high standing by many fiction experts.
>
>Ever seen an expert give testimony in court? <gag> I don't put too
>much faith in experts of any stripe.
Perhaps "experts" is the wrong word. Teachers, great writers, and those in the
know, not self-styled experts, but those who are wise about the craft. Being a
great writer does not mean a person is a great teacher, and vice versa.
>When all the options seem to be gone, there is a tendency to withdraw
>from life. But there is always a bit of life force struggling to
>express itself. All it needs are the right conditions of existence. In
>Frank's case those are the conversation of a sensitive, perceptive woman
>and a dramatic event that threatens death. I still haven't decided
>whether it is a good thing that Frank died full of new hope. But
>without it, there would have been no story.
I agree. Frank needed redemption and it was offered. He finally took that last
step, that risk that he'd avoided with others. IF he had not taken that step,
the story would have been even more depressing.
>> Well, thanks. The story's come a long way, but one thing I never do is
>compare
>> my work with others. Unless they're dead.
>
>Comparing one's own work with that of others, if they're published, only
>leads to frustration. I've read so much rotting crap in paperback that
>I'd go crazy if I compared my own work to it. At the other extreme,
>some people's work can make me feel humble and hopeless.
The hopeless and humble part I understand. I don't spend more than a page or
two with the other stuff. Another benefit from staying with short forms, I'd
say.
I find it interesting that I can read someone like Updike and be blown away and
hopeless about ever being that good, but then read someone like Flannery
O'Connor or Richard Ford or Eudora Welty and be charmed and impressed, but more
importantly, feel recharged to write. NOT that I consider myself on the level
of any of these folks, but I like to read stories that make me want to go
write, that touch an old memory in me or an idea. Sometimes I take a thought in
a story and develop it into my own what-if set, and out comes a rough draft of
something. Like last night, for instance:
I had bought a couple of books at Dalton's and sat down after dinner to begin
one from Gotham Writer's Workshop. It has an early section called "See the
Seeds." About two paragraphs into this writing craft book, an old story idea
about my grandfather losing a strawberry crop in a hailstorm in Arkansas
reoccurred to me. I wasn't alive then and my father wss just a boy, but Dad
has told about the incident a couple of times and mentally I've tucked it away
to use down the road somewhere. If it hadn't been from his personal experience
and my knowledge and remembrance of my grandfather, I would have probably had
to jot it down in my writer notebook to save it. Anyway, for whatever reason,
this incident popped out while I was reading: "In the beginning is an idea.
Ideas are seeds from which the mimosa tree or watermelon or delphinium of a
story will arise." Watermelon. Strawberries. Grandpa's loss. His character
shift with that loss--all came into my mind. I listen to these imaginings when
they happen because they usually lead me to a story.
Well, sure enough the first sentence of a story came into my head right then
and I stopped reading. Within a word or two here is that sentence:
The berries on our place were heavy clustered and peeked rose the day nature
flung it's evil whimsy at Crawford County and changed my Pa forever.
I was telling the story from a boy's (my Dad's) POV. Well, I HAD to walk over
to my computer and put that sentence down. Then another and another and I was
up late. I'm about to pick up the story again, and have 1500 words down in a
rough first draft. I awoke with the story in my mind and 3 or 4 great ideas
about a climatic scene came to me. I reached to the night stand and jotted them
down. (if i dont do this they evaporate!) and now I'm about to go at it again.
Reading can generate writing.
>> Sure. I'm glad AFO isn't the wide world.
>
>In some ways, it is. It's a community like any other. There is great
>variety in the people who gather here.
This is true. Like a subway, though, there are always a few best left alone.
>> I've wanted to do a parody of romantic bodice rippers. Maybe I will
>someday.
>
>Do it right now! There might be a huge market for it, waiting unfulfilled.
First things first. I'm hot on the trail of this strawberry tale. Finish what I
start, is my motto.
>> Egos are fine. Egos don't lead to namecalling and invective.
>
>I think they do. What else would you say does it?
>
>the Whistler
Self dislike or even hatred. Inability to handle life's pain, so that it's
radiated outward. Being a Christian with somewhat similar weaknesses to the
apostle Peter, I have a tendency to wrangle and argue with some people. In
real life I can turn away and focus on those who I don't have this weakness
with. Here, I have to filter them out and skip threads where I see only the top
of the post and their name being quoted. How many post here? 20? 50? Hard to
say. If there are 3 or 4 who I have to filter, and I can get along with the
rest, I'd say I'm satisfied with that. Of course I don't filter anyone until
they've displayed they're simply unsafe folks to interact with, or they seem to
love expressing animosity to others more than they love to write and review.
Most of the troublemakers move on, but not all. Learning to deal with that sort
of person creatively is a great challenge, but at some point time is wasted.
Time is all we have.
Hank
Allegory60
>> Egos are fine. Egos don't lead to namecalling and invective.
>
>I think they do. What else would you say does it?
>
>the Whistler
PS. Sorry to leave out the spiritual element. Many souls are lacking that.
Disbelief even to the point of ridiculing someone's faith by those who would
preach diversity is the order of the day. Ultimately, to answer your question,
such enmity is a sin, and as such it always begins in the heart with a poor
spiritual relationship to God. That's my belief about why some endlessly engage
in namecalling and invective.
Alaric
news:20030821130914...@mb-m28.aol.com...
Robert, Alaric and Bart are spiritually empty.
I don't know why you can't see this, Svira. There's no other reason for
including the last line. Insulting without the simple human courage to do it
openly.
R. Westermeyer
Eat shit, Godfucker.
--R
******
All things move toward their end
On that you can be sure.
---NC
Allegory60
I meant to say "in time" not "on time." Thank God there's no clock running.
Hank
michael
"Wind River" <wind...@voyager.net> wrote in message
news:3F44BAE1...@voyager.net...
Damn right.
For what it's worth, Svira, Alaric's done more for AFO in the time I've been
here (10 months now, still a relative newbie) than anyone.
You've dropped into AFO and contributed marvellously, and I'm glad. But,
and this is only one opinion, but a popular one - without Alaric, this place
would - and will now, sadly - be a damn sight worse for all. I wouldn't have
stayed for the near-year I've been here, that's for sure.
By all means, don't take my, or Sue's, word for it - make your own mind up.
But base that opinion on history, not on the brief period since you've
signed up.
Svira Kurcu
Allegory60 wrote:
> Yeah, this might be like unlearning your habits. Probably learning new habits
> tends to fade the old ones, like erased phrases on a blackboard that you can
> still see the chalky outline of. It may be impossible to completely erase the
> old messages, but you can make the new ones vivid and meaningful.
The thing is that I don't want to completely erase my past. It has
helped make me what I am. I would rather not have gone through the crap
I've gone through, but having gone through it, I like myself the way I
am now and am content to speak with my real voice - which is built on
all that personal history. Sometimes it's hard to isolate a bad writing
habit and root it out without tearing apart the delicate structure that
are a person's conditions of existence. The bad habit can be
intertwined or even growing out of so much that is essential.
> ISBN 0-9714868-0-8
> Tree House Tales by DH Henry 2001
Thanks very much. I'll look it up as soon as I have spare cash.
> I back up all the story folders on a CD about once every couple of months and
> store it off site. Old habits from a computer whiz I guess. You always back up
> and you always guard against a fire destroying your whole place.
My hard drive currently contains nine stories, if the unfinished "The
Secret" is counted as one of them. They don't add up to enough for me
to waste a CD on, although I do back up on floppy. Yes, these days,
floppies are more expensive than CDs, but I'm a DOS whelp and still have
old-fashioned qualms about wrecking a 700-meg storage medium with 400K
of data. It's another one of those things that might be essential to my
perspective and which I'm reluctant to tamper with.
> John who?
Seymour Grass
Thanks for the detailed perspective. I've quoted it in case others want
to pipe up with their own. These things are very helpful to me, because
I'm far from the point of needing to do market research.
> Just make sure you finish projects on time. I advise writers to finish at least
> the rough draft before picking up another project.
The absence of deadline pressure is one of the things I most enjoy about
writing short stories for fun. Unless someone is waving cash under my
nose, I refuse to put my fiction writing on a timetable. There is
enough time pressure in the rest of life.
Yesterday I went for lunch and wrote the first five or six paragraphs of
a story. After getting home I expanded it to about 1,800 words, but it
was far from finished. I forgot to bring a hardcopy with me to work
today, so at lunch I simply started another story, and have finished it
at about 1,800 words since I got home. The incomplete story hasn't been
abandoned, and neither have any of my rewrites. I'll get back to them
when they get back to me. I actually enjoy the way life sometimes makes
me do things I don't intend or expect. BTW, out of consideration for
the people on this NG, the finished story won't be posted until I've put
it aside for a few days and have had a chance to read it with fresh
eyes. If you want to see the first draft, I can email it.
> Perhaps "experts" is the wrong word. Teachers, great writers, and those in the
> know, not self-styled experts, but those who are wise about the craft. Being a
> great writer does not mean a person is a great teacher, and vice versa.
I see great teachers as being fundamentally selfless; their focus is
other human beings, their students. Great writers, by contrast, are
self-ful - opinionated, idiosyncratic, sometimes egomanic. Teaching and
writing strike me as opposites. Of course, I'm talking about spiritual
guides rather than elementary school teachers or the such.
My efforts at teaching have been clumsy and unsuccessful. Of the new
hires I trained at the office, about 40% ended up quitting in the first
four weeks. My vanity and occasional pompousness are evident, but I see
them as either conditions or same-source outgrowths of what makes me
able to write fiction.
> I find it interesting that I can read someone like Updike and be blown away and
> hopeless about ever being that good, but then read someone like Flannery
> O'Connor or Richard Ford or Eudora Welty and be charmed and impressed, but more
> importantly, feel recharged to write.
One writer, in a book on writing, said everyone has their meat and their
poison. It's a very individual thing. I've had to watch carefully what
I read in the last little while lest the wrong material squech my voice.
<snip>
Thanks for the detail on that building story. It looks like it can go
places. Do you plan to post any parts of it here?
> Self dislike or even hatred. Inability to handle life's pain, so that it's
> radiated outward. Being a Christian with somewhat similar weaknesses to the
> apostle Peter, I have a tendency to wrangle and argue with some people. In
> real life I can turn away and focus on those who I don't have this weakness
> with. Here, I have to filter them out and skip threads where I see only the top
> of the post and their name being quoted. How many post here? 20? 50? Hard to
> say. If there are 3 or 4 who I have to filter, and I can get along with the
> rest, I'd say I'm satisfied with that. Of course I don't filter anyone until
> they've displayed they're simply unsafe folks to interact with, or they seem to
> love expressing animosity to others more than they love to write and review.
> Most of the troublemakers move on, but not all. Learning to deal with that sort
> of person creatively is a great challenge, but at some point time is wasted.
> Time is all we have.
I would consider myself anti-spiritual. My belief system is highly
vernacular, suitable only for myself, and drat-awfully depressing for
anyone else, so I keep silent about it. Sorry we can't discuss this
issue any further, but I don't want to disclose my beliefs, and can't
find a way to respond to yours without doing so.
>
> Hank
>
the Whistler
Alaric
Zoetrope. It's better. It still has an oversweet feel, but the prose is
smooth. I'd like to see a harder edged ending.
--
"In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out.
It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another
human being. We should all be thankful for those people
who rekindle the inner spirit."
Albert Schweitzer
"Allegory60" <alleg...@aol.com> wrote in message
news:20030816193519...@mb-m10.aol.com...
> [I posted an early draft of this here back in Feb. of '02. Since then I've
been
> over it a few times, changing the ending and removing an awkward
flashback.
> I've also made many word substitutions.I wrote this story long before the
flash
> series popped into my head, but a few of these images lingered and maybe
> contributed to the flash ideas. However, this story is not the same as the
> overall story I'm trying to tell with the planned 50 linked flashes. A few
of
> you might recall this. Alaric didn't like my old ending, but I make no
promises
> for him on this one either.]