[August challenge] "Inspiration" 1500 words
Dave Allyn
mention of sex, but nothing explicit.
hapy now Sue? :)
Inspiration
Copyright 2004 Dave Allyn
a.f.o. August 2004 Challenge
When she first rented the studio apartment four floors up overlooking
the park, Samantha knew the scenery below and the sky above would
inspire her to create paintings that would one day become famous.
Spacious skylights opened up most of the ceiling to the heavens, and
on a full moon lit night, Samantha could read with little auxiliary
light. Most of the area around her block shut down at night, and the
resulting darkness gave such a view of the stars above, that her seven
year old nephew would camp out in her apartment, where they would make
s'mores over candles until the wee hours of the morning.
The skylights lent themselves to less innocent events as well. Not
two weeks after moving in, her now former boyfriend had made love to
her during such an intense thunderstorm, with the full spectacle of
lightning above, that neither partner could say for certain where the
storm ended and the lovemaking began.
That was then, as the saying goes, and this is now. The inspiration,
once so plentiful, was now a distant memory. Her boyfriend set her on
a downward spiral when he took up residence with a young artist down
the street. In parting, he cut deep with his statement: "At least SHE
knows how to paint."
What should have been only a passing insult thrown in the heart of
battle, festered inside Samantha, and began to grow into increased
self-doubt. As her mood darkened over the period of snow and ice, the
inspiration she so needed to harness appeared to abandon her as her
boyfriend had not long before. The more Samantha's self-esteem
worsened, the more her painting followed suit. In the end, she was
forced to take a job at a coffee house just to pay the bills.
A friend of a friend managed to get Samantha a commission to create a
four foot wide portrait of a fifties era locomotive. The painting was
to hang in the central subway station of a distant city for all to
see.
Samantha had doubts about her abilities. It was only due to the
intense begging on the part of her friend, and a little persuasion on
the part of Jose Curvo, that Samantha relented and signed the offered
contract. She only had three days remaining to finish a painting she
had yet to begin. Such a feat would have been a challenge months
before her decent into depression, and now the task seemed next to
impossible. For reasons known only to her, in Samantha's mind, this
painting represented her future. Should she fail, she was prepared to
tuck her tail and return to a normal life with a normal job, admitting
to the world the defeat of her dreams and ambitions.
However, should she succeed, this painting could become the drive to
regain her inspiration, and help her get her career back on track, so
to speak.
Determined to, at minimum, fulfill her contractual obligations;
Samantha knew she had no more time to wait for inspiration to make an
appearance in her life again. The picture she saw in her mind was
tainted by her mental state, and was a gloomy, depressing image of a
locomotive chugging up a mountain, it's single headlight shining faint
ahead, as a beacon for the eyes of the viewer.
In her studio, however, the sunlight pouring past those wondrous
skylights, now threatened to scorch everything in sight. The
resulting brightness on her canvas did not lend well to the scene
Samantha was attempting to create. When she opened a skylight to
relieve the unbearable heat cause by the incessant sunshine, a bird's
song found her ears, and the crisp melody did not play off her mood in
any way that can be described as positive. Even the children's
voices, joined in unison by whatever game they had discovered,
accomplished nothing for Samantha but a scowl.
Returning to the canvas, Samantha began to fill in the ominous clouds
in the background of the painting. As the clouds grew thicker and
darker in her work, the clouds outside vanished from the sky as if
they could not exist in both places. The struggle between the
painting inside, and reality outside came to a temporary cease-fire
when Samantha realized she needed more black paint.
The art supply store lay on the other side of the park. Indeed, the
proximity was a contributing factor in her decision to live at her
current location. Samantha donned a wide brimmed straw hat in a vain
attempt to keep the afternoon sun out of her eyes, and headed across
the park.
Samantha, once a girl often found painting flowers and sunsets in the
great outdoors, had become the sort of person who now preferred the
gloom of a cloudy day and the hum of a florescent light. She was the
type of person who despised all outside activities, and summer most of
all. Contrary to years past, her bathing suit remained tucked away
with most of the remainder of her summer clothes. She had no
intension of showing enough of herself to anyone to justify the
effort. There would always be times when movement outside could not
be avoided. At these times, Samantha would hide beneath her hat, and
move at a brisk pace with her head down as not to draw attention to
herself.
On this occasion, she was walking faster than usual, and was lost in
her own world of despair and self-pity. It was not until she heard a
shout of warning from somewhere nearby that she looked up. Her mind
registered the flash of color in the air, and her only thought was in
remembering she was suppose to paint the locomotive red.
Before her inspiration was replaced with depression, Samantha had been
full of life. Her circle of friends and acquaintances knew few
bounds. When she was not painting or drawing, she spent her time on
the beach, partaking of any activities the season offered. It should
have come as no surprise; therefore, when her body reacted as her mind
could not. The shiny circle of plastic was plucked out of midair and
returned to its former caretaker in the same method she received it.
The recipient of the disc flashed Samantha a smile. Much to her
mind's horror, she found herself returning his gesture.
As she continued on the path that would take her near the art store,
she could not shake the image of that man and his smile. A moment of
reflection in the store allowed her battered heart to place several
bright shades of red on the counter next to the black.
Stepping out of the store, she placed her hat in the bag and inhaled,
filling her lungs by way of her nose. The aromas assaulting her
consciousness carried back memories she thought she had lost.
Sunscreen mixed with sweat flooded her mind with the beach. Scanning
the park, she took note of a group of people playing volleyball as
speakers on the ground nearby blasted songs long since off the charts.
Another generous inhale and her eyes traced farther up the street to
the hot dog vendor crying out his wares, begging the casual passer-by
to sample his delights. As her head tracked on upwind, the distinct
smell of rich, roasted beans reminded her of obligations tomorrow, and
that in turn, reminded her of obligations waiting at home.
As her thoughts of painting returned, her heart leapt with renewed
inspiration. Nearing the entryway to her apartment, an odd feeling
compelled her to turn around. Midway into the park, the man she
exchanged looks with less than an hour prior raised his hand in silent
greeting. Smiling to herself, she found her own hand rising in
response. Satisfied for now, and thoughts of the urgency of the
project waiting for her upstairs still on her mind, Samantha sighed
and entered through her doorway.
Samantha had placed the final brush stroke on her masterpiece when the
dawn peeked its head over the wall and through the skylight above.
The painting presented was different than the dark canvas last seen.
The clouds were still dark, but the image of the sun peaking from
underneath the storm was beginning to show itself on the left edge of
the canvas. The locomotive was the brightest of reds, leading the
viewer to believe a fresh coat of paint had been applied just for this
occasion. The lamp on the front of the train was not dull as
intended, but shined bright enough to illuminate the entirety of the
track before it. This portrait showed hope instead of despair and
perseverance instead of defeat. The event in the park, minor as it
was, had begun Samantha's transformation. Finding the red, plastic
disc filled with flowers and a phone number on her doorstep the next
morning had continued it. Only Samantha, however, could complete the
change. With a smile on her face, she took one last look at her
painting, and picked up the phone.
catchmerevisited
dally...@yahoo.com wrote on 8/11/04 2:20 AM:
Very nice. The narrative was smooth and continuous, and the moods
represented were 'painted' rather well. I was swept up into the story.
Egad
A few little things.
"Dave Allyn" <dally...@yahoo.com> wrote in message
news:q0pjh0llafdgkgkfu...@4ax.com...
> Okay, this entry is a bit ... thick. Not a light read and there is a
> mention of sex, but nothing explicit.
>
> hapy now Sue? :)
>
>
> Inspiration
> Copyright 2004 Dave Allyn
> a.f.o. August 2004 Challenge
>
> When she first rented the studio apartment four floors up overlooking
> the park, Samantha knew the scenery below and the sky above would
> inspire her to create paintings that would one day become famous.
Really nice opening.
> Spacious skylights opened up most of the ceiling to the heavens, and
> on a full moon lit night, Samantha could read with little auxiliary
> light.
First, auxiliary doesn't seem to fit here. It brought my awareness of
writing up a notch. Just a suggestion, but being ableb to read by the
ambient light seems like it may fit a little better. Ambient seems to fit a
painter better than auxiliary.
Most of the area around her block shut down at night, and the
> resulting darkness gave such a view of the stars above, that her seven
> year old nephew would camp out in her apartment, where they would make
> s'mores over candles until the wee hours of the morning.
<snip>
<
> However, should she succeed, this painting could become the drive to
> regain her inspiration, and help her get her career back on track, so
> to speak.
>
The little 'so to speak' tacked on to the end bugs me. Instead of hearing
the story, I hear a writer chuckling at his own cleverness.
The second sentence seems a little too academic for this piece. proximity
contributing factor. sounds like a scientific journal. I bet you can find a
more lyrical way of stating this.
> Samantha, once a girl often found painting flowers and sunsets in the
> great outdoors, had become the sort of person who now preferred the
> gloom of a cloudy day and the hum of a florescent light. She was the
> type of person who despised all outside activities, and summer most of
> all. Contrary to years past, her bathing suit remained tucked away
<snip>
on her doorstep the next
> morning had continued it. Only Samantha, however, could complete the
> change. With a smile on her face, she took one last look at her
> painting, and picked up the phone.
>
Really good story Dave. I think you captured the mood and transition well.
Thanks for posting.
E
Robert
wrote:
>Okay, this entry is a bit ... thick. Not a light read and there is a
>mention of sex, but nothing explicit.
>
>hapy now Sue? :)
>
>
>Inspiration
>Copyright 2004 Dave Allyn
>a.f.o. August 2004 Challenge
>
This was very enjoyable, Dave. Just luscious, and every sense
caressed. And the train itself, woven in and like her mood, into
tunnel and back out into the light of day.
I do believe this is the sort of story Sue's after this month.
--Robert
Seymour Grass
Subject: {Story} Rampage! {4,179 words}
Date: Sunday, August 08, 2004 3:59 AM
What with the steep rise in oil prices of late, and the Market taking a
bearish turn, which served to burn up all my invested income, in a few short
words, I was busted. It had seemed such a swell idea to take our retirement
savings out of that IRA and put it all into one of those so very promising
high-tech stocks. I bought the stock some six months ago for 3 cents the
share. Monday of the week before last it had dropped to one third of a cent
and wiped us out. Come Tuesday of last week some crumb-bum from a collection
agency drove away in our Chevy Blazer, and my wife, who was bravely
soldiering on despite having nothing to cook but a soup of grass clippings
gleaned from the lawn mower mulch bag, was beginning to look at me with eyes
that said, "I wonder how much more of this I can take?"
Two days after the car had been impounded, the lawnmower ran out of gas, and
for the first time in our marriage of some 25 lovely years, my wife started
packing--and she was taking that collection of commemorative quarters of the
States that she'd been saving from her own purse these past few years, plus
that page of Elvis stamps we bought about ten years ago, for our first
speculative, stock market type investment--yes, and all that was going with
her. She was getting the Elvis stamps, and me? Well, how about a five-acre
ranchito, with the payments, insurance, taxes, all the bills coming due, and
an electric submersible well pump that got smoked by a lightning strike two
weeks ago. So, I had to thank my lucky stars for that old hand dug well out
behind the house, and for the bucket, plus a length of rope long enough to
hang myself, if I like--unless she decides to take that with her too.
Did I mention the Tupperware? Well that had been hers coming into this
thing; wasn't a joint investment like the Elvis stamps. Yes, that was going
right along with her very collectible set of Magnolia Blossum pottery
dinnerware, the loss of which was leaving me with nothing to cook and drink
my grass soup from but an old '49 Buick hub cap that has been laying around
here ever since we first moved in.
By Wednesday of just this past week, she was all packed and ready to go,
Magnolia dishes, Elvis stamps, the whole works. Next day, being Thursday, so
I must assume, or would freely suppose had she not taken our Sweeny's Seed &
Feed calendar down off the wall, and packed that too--anyway, that day had
arrived, and now it was time to act!
As we live in a rural county of Southwestern Missouri, a sort of
over-extended bedroom community of the city of Joplin, most of the property
around here is in acreage such that you've got no more than an average of
five families per the square mile. It's a mighty pretty region as it meets
the eye, all rolling hills interspersed with ash, hickory, more ash,
sycamore and oak, and a lot more ash; all so very green and lush in these
stream watered valleys or 'hollers'--as such are like to be called,
hereabout.
Hollers. I will always smile at the thought of that local colloquialism for
the word "hollow". But this is just as hill and country people are so apt to
do, they must always for some reason choose to eschew the jarring urban
industrial sound of a hard vowel like that 'oh' on the end of 'hollow'.
Thus, at first, in these hills it was always "hollah" long before it ever
became "holler", a change which came much further on down the line with the
next major wave of immigration to this country from Down East.
During the Great Oil Boom going on just across the border, when a new wave
of adventurers from the Eastern Seaboard, Boston, New York, Brooklyn and
Yonkers started to flood into this area, why then "hollah" got Boston baked,
"Bean Towned" Pittsburghed, Flatbushed and Hobokened into "holler". That
hard industrial 'r' got on there, thanks to the way somebody from Boston,
for some hard industrial reason, always wants to bury the sound of a nice,
soft rural 'ah' vowel with that clanging, screeching iron-forged consonant
'r'; they've just got to have that hammer ring sort of thing on the end of
it there--and now it need only be added that there has been reason for this
seeming digression, as we are soon to see.
I went out on that Thursday, early, just after breakfast of some re-fried
grass fritters and leached acorn 'coffee'--a trick my wife learned from a
Cherokee squaw down Okopotowatame way, saw her in an oak grove one cool,
crisp autumn morn, gathering acorns to the apron of a fawn-skin skirt held
high over pretty thighs, red as a pair of sockeye salmon on the run, but the
acorns were brown; acorns that she took down in the holler to grind in a
hollow of the bedrock risen from the brook, there to wash and mortar the
meal, with a stone for a pestle under a flow of many waters. Ever since that
day, my wife has known the secret Cherokee trick for making coffee from
acorns, what I had in my cup that morning which I continue to assume was
Thursday without a shred of evidence from a calendar to support it, but that
was some fine, rich roasted acorn coffee steaming under my nose, brewed from
the grind remaining of the fixings for Wednesday night's supper of acorn
fritters and grass soup--you just sort of switch those around, from nuts to
soup or vice-versa, from patties of grass to fritters of acorn, coffeee to
broth and back again, and all for variety's sake. I went out that morning
determined to save my marriage and that Tupperware, not to mention those
lovely enameled magnolias on the dishes--I shudder to mention the Elvis
stamps and the quarters, but there you are.
On that Thursday, I figured that if I could get some credit at the Jordan's
Corners filling station for a couple gallons of gas, then we might have
another week's worth of grass in the mulch bag. As might easily be seen,
due to hunger and the resultant panic, or perhaps some overdose of B-vitamin
from all that grass in my system, my mind had got so sodden that I could not
even so much as conceive of simply tearing the grass out of the lawn with my
bare hands--it just had to come out of that mulch-bag, or there was nothing
for it. I was not thinking "out of the box" as they say, or "mulch-bag", if
you will.
After I'd walked about five miles with that bright red 2-gallon plastic gas
container in hand, it happened that I was passing through a region of
perfect strangers. On both sides the road it was all land tract
developments. It was one of these deals where some speculator comes along
and buys a 360 from some weak-willed farmer with a yen to get rich quick.
That speculator, usually an upstate St. Louis or K.C. Yankee, or some Down
Easterner with a lot of hard 'r's stuck to the end of everything he's got to
say--well, that sort comes in here and subdivides everything he can lay
hands on, into 5, 10 and 20 acre parcels for other alien interlopers to buy
and build on as they may see fit.
So now, we've got these hordes of urban immigrants once again streaming into
Southwestern Missouri to escape the ravages of urban sprawl up North and out
East; people coming in as flotsam and jetsam on the receding wave of this
latest Bear Market, strangers who managed to get out from Saint or San
Somewhere U.S.A. with the minimal bucks needed to grab a parcel of cheap
land, a mobile home, a deep well water pump and a riding mower.
So you can always tell who these people are, this latest wave of New York,
Boston and Philadelphia immigrants by the way they pronounce, "holler".
They say, "Hollah". Well, there it is! Naturally! Because no Easterner ever
pronounces the 'r' on the end of anything--even if was one of them who put
it there in the first place. I'm sure you get the picture, as to how we can
tell a difference between these two waves of Easterners we got around here,
as to reiterate very briefly: that first bunch of them had to put that 'r'
on the end of "hollah", and now the second's got it off again and back to
the original Southern way of saying "Hollow" which is "Hollah".
If truth be told, these are not always such friendly folk come in around
here of late, really nothing at all like the original Ozarkers of French
Trapper, Old Chisholm Trail bull-whacking Louisiana Purchase stock, the sort
of people who proudly declare that they "have never met a stranger." Or,
no--that's the corrupt form of it, as these Easterners have fouled it up.
The original Old Chisholm Trail way of it is to say that they "have never
*known* a stranger". That's it. And if you ever stop one of these Old
Chisholm trail types still bull-whacking around hereabout to ask them how
anybody could be a stranger if somebody did know them, they will just rear
back, whip in hand and look at you like you were some kind of green-horned
lowland riverboat slicker who never took the first thought to what he might
be talking about.
But I was indeed a stranger to these people of that new tract through which
I was passing, gas can in hand on that Thursday. This was a subdivision of
the old Stanley Place, which is now officially designated: "Ash Hole Acres".
It got such a charming name as that because Ash Hollow or 'Hollah' or
'Holler', whatever may be your habit to call it, runs right through it. But
following upon a big noisy fuss up at the County Board of Governors over how
that word, "hollow" is supposed to be pronounced, it finally fell out that
they would arrive at the one, and the only possible, dream-up-able
compromise amenable to all parties, which is that sort of contraction of it
which you just saw, officially now to be found on the sign that reads, "Ash
Hole Acres".
You might well suppose what some of the local jokesters have managed to make
of that name, and of the residents designated by it--so far as a general
perception of these new Eastern immigrant folk goes hereabout. On that day
as I passed by from mobile home and A-frame to geodesic dome, inquiring as
to whether any would be kind enough to save me a further walk of the
remaining 6 miles to the nearest filling station at Jordan's Corners, upon
one rejection after another, I must admit that my own perception of this
Third Wave of Eastern folk, was getting to be not far different from that of
my neighbors, when it comes to what can be made of the two words, "Ash" and
"Hole" in just that sequence when it comes to these new people living out
there now on the old Stanley Place.
As the trek of that morning continued apace, my panic about the situation at
home had been on the increase with almost every succeeding step--except I
had to go round a squashed possum or crunched armadillo to my dire
distraction, before going on to think, to mourn, to grieve over the ruins of
a happy marriage of some 25 years. Oh, it was making me blue, to think of
losing my faithful life's companion my beloved wife and all those
commemorative quarters she had so lovingly saved--and it's not that I
dreaded losing the money she had salted away to those little blue holes in
that folder. No. Rather, it's just that I've always been so fond of *her*
for doing something like that, always going through the pockets of my pants
whether I had them on or off, hoping to find the state of Louisiana or
Maryland down there next to my leg, on a brand new shiny commemorative
quarter. It's just the fact that *she* was doing that; one of those little
things that you get to love about a person--and now she was leaving me in
the lurch without so much as the state of Delaware in my pants, with nothing
really but a lot of nearly worthless stock sticking out of my pockets and a
bowl of grass soup; taking it all away with her, she was, everything I loved
about her, too--the Tupperware, the Magnolias on her dishes, and our jointly
owned full sheet of Elvis stamps, right along with my heart.
I came upon the last tract before you're out of Ash Hole Acres where it
finally peters out up against a vast 640, and the biggest hay-field in this
southern part of McDonald County. Here was a woman of some sixty odd years
and some two hundred and fifty pounds who had pulled me over on her driveway
with her riding mower, blocking any further ingress. She spoke up with one
of those comically unconvincing Meta-Ozark Accents affected hereabout by
people around here who are not from around here and who can't get that
Yankee or Eastern inflection out of their voice. What it is, they have a
tough time getting their tongues around "y'all" just right without slipping
in some vestige of that hard urban 'u' after the 'y'--and so you can always
tell. As she sat there astride that mower she said, "Something I can do to
help you-all?"
Well, that right there is a real faux pas because you really are pretty darn
silly to think there is any part of an 'all' to just one person standing
there. It happens that "y'all" is plural, as in an earlier day, "ye" was to
"you", for a purpose of distinguishing between singular or plural when it
comes to addressing just one, or more than one person in the second person.
Indeed, it is the case that here along the Mason-Dixon line and going all
the way South from it, the word "you" in the singular, little would any
Yankee or Easterner know, is in use, here, just as in the rest of the
English speaking world to a purpose of speaking to or about just one
person--but these newcomers just don't know that, and it often takes a
couple generations of their stock to be living on this land before they do
finally know that.
Now just as y'all can well imagine, the tone of that 'help' she was offering
was hardly sounding like anything of the sort. When some people come to say
that, it tends to have the tone of something a lot more like, "Is there some
way I can help you to know that I'd just as soon be talking to a big fat
toad as to anything so strange and unwelcome to my eyes as you, Mr.
Trespasser?"
Just right then, I'd heard that tone one time too many for one morning, as
in the extremity of my circumstances I was now continually being jolted by
flash images of my dear wife sadly trudging down the road toward the bus
stop at Jordan's Corners with nothing but her Tupperware and commemorative
quarters, those Elvis stamps to go with her, only this to show for 25 years
of married life with me. The grief of it all had at last brought me to the
edge.
It was something in the way this woman sat there gunning the handle-bar
throttle on that mower with an attitude looking mean as Lee Marvin out of
the *Wild Ones*, and that grim look on a face with jowls all a-jiggle from
lawn-mower vibrated urgency, and as my eyes were pressing closer upon her
cold gray stare, I said, "Lady? Let me tell you something about 'help', and
do listen well, for it may be that I can help you: it's not 'you-all', when
you're talking to just one person around here. Do you realize what a silly
spectacle you make of yourself in this way?"
The look in her eye was fierce, hair-raising to say the least, and it became
all the more so as she moved to throw that mower into reverse to assault me
with a spatter of crushed limestone that felt like a load of rock-salt fired
at the crotch of my pants. Amazed was I to see with what speed she got
zoomed back off the road and away from me in that thing before jamming into
a forward gear to come mowing straight for me.
I jumped clear of her path, lost my balance and wound up on my rump! She
was coming on again, bearing down with a gritty Death's head grin on her and
a shriek seething through those clenched dentures that so freaked me that I
was up on my feet and two feet further in the air on one leap from the
ground, a feat, I feel assured, I could repeat never again in but one
lifetime.
Upon whizzing past me, she went into a U-turn some twenty feet up toward the
highway and there she paused in neutral, blocking the road and any egress I
might make by it. She sat there like the Great Nebraska Muse of Charlie
Starkweather with a squinty blue glint in her eye, and a curl to her lip
that made the one on my Elvis Stamps look like some sweet sassy smile at a
Selena Kansas Sunday School picnic.
I stepped to the grass off the road where a fence ran some ten feet to my
left. She threw into gear and came mowing southward to block me once again.
There she sat, rotating that handle to make those rider-mower pipes rap like
Hollywood Glasspacks; like some crazy hopped up hot-rod kid she lowered her
brow and spat in the grass. I was stepping through the barbed strands, when
she poured it on again; like Gangbusters she came with a roar, mowing a path
down along the fence and dead at me, the machine scraping and screeching
along the barbed wire all the way.
My next move was instinctive, done purely out of a drive for
self-preservation; this I know because I hadn't been aware that was even so
much as doing it until it was over, and I was riding away on the mower,
while her fat ass was in the grass. By the time I got to the highway, she
was up and coming, but she was too heavy on her feet to make more than five
or six steps without having to stop for breath. Like John Dillinger or
Pretty Boy Floyd, I was off to a clean getaway, on the lam, on the run and
as the old song goes, was "gone, long-gone, like a turkey through the corn
with his long-johns on."
Turning north to the highway from her drive in the direction of Jordan's
Corners, I saw that she was standing there frantically dialing her cell
phone. This called for some fast thinking on my part. Mowing my way north
down in the gully beside the road, going along the boundary of that big 640,
I kept my eyes peeled for an opening, any kind of gate or weak place in the
fence which would let me into that big hayfield. Luck of the Irish being
what it is, and me not being Irish from any part of my line, I had to go a
good half-mile before I found the unlocked gate I was hoping to see.
Once I was into the hay, it was smooth going as I kept to a due northward
course. I still had my empty gas can and thank God for that. When I had got
all the way across that hayfield and through an old rail gate into the
pasture to the north of it, only then when I'd come to the top of a slope
heading the beautiful green valley of Jordan Creek, did I see the County
Sheriff's chopper clearing the leafy crest of a line of sycamore and headed
straight for me.
There I was, a helicopter overhead and me sitting on that high-jacked riding
mower being blown six ways from the Third Sunday in Advent under the fierce
wind of that prop wash. I had a very strong sense that the jig was up, and
all the more obvious had this become when the bullhorn sounding from the
hovering aircraft barked, "This is the County Sheriff! You are ordered to
raise your hands and come down out of that lawnmower immediately. If you do
not exit that lawnmower, we will be forced to blow you out of it!
Acknowledge that you understand by waving your hands over your head!"
Just a few hours later, when it came to court, I entered a plea of *no lo
contendre* which is to say, so to speak, "Guilty but with good cause." If
the explanation you give to the judge seems reasonable, then you stand a
chance of getting off with a minimal sentence or maybe none at all. I
explained to the judge that I'd only been acting in self-defense. I even
raised my hand to show him my gas can to prove that all I had wanted from
that mean woman was the loan of a gallon or two of gas, and to explain to
her, for the benefit of herself and those neighbors of hers that "you don't
say "you-all" to just one person, not in Ash Holler and not nowhere in
McDonald County, let alone anywhere else in Southern Missouri, where Frank
and Jesse James and the Younger Brothers once rode."
"But you're not Cole Younger, nor any son of the mother of Frank and Jesse
James are you?" asked the Judge.
"No, your Honor," I conceded.
"And they weren't going around this county shooting up the place from the
saddle of somebody else's lawnmower, were they?"
"No sir," I had to admit. "They certainly were not."
"And after you had informed this woman as to the right way to say *y'all*,
she then tried to mow you down. Is this what we are to understand?"
"Yes, your honor."
The judge then lowered his reading spectacles and peered right over them at
me. "So you somehow managed to get her dislodged from the seat of her mower,
and ride away on it over Anderson's 640 and Petersen's Cow Pasture, is this
correct?"
"That is just so, your Honor. I was only trying to save my life."
"Because you could see that any minute your ass would be grass, is that
about it?"
"Yes, your Honor."
"Well, let us be very clear on one point. Just how did this woman from Ash
Holler pronounce it when she said, *y'all*?"
"She pronounced it, 'you-all', your Honor."
"That's what she said?" asked the Judge. "You-all?"
"Yes, your honor."
"You are one hundred percent sure of it?"
"No question about it."
He turned to his bailiff, shook his head and said, "That's those people from
Ash Hole Acres for you, Caleb." He slammed down the gavel. "On that
technicality, you are free to go and get your gas. But don't let us ever
catch you riding in here on nobody else's lawnmower but your own from here
on in. You hear?"
With great relief, I assured the judge that I could hear him very well,
indeed. The friendly old Swede who runs the filling station at Jordan's
Corners was more than happy to put a couple gallons of gas on credit for me.
It was about five o'clock in the afternoon when I finally got home just in
time to mow the lawn for supper.
Tonight, as I pause over this memoir of the past day to consider it, knowing
that those two gallons of gas will be good for keeping my wife and her
Magnolia Blossom dishes home with me for no less than another week or so, I
realize how much truth there is to the old saying that, "Tomorrow is another
day." And sure as you never know what the stock market might do, as I think
on that, I believe in the wisdom of it more than ever. Tomorrow *is* another
day, but as to which day it will be remains to be seen, while I wait for my
loving wife to take that Sweeney's Seed and Feed calendar, ever so fondly,
back out of her suitcase.
--
JP
Mike Bandy
wrote:
>hapy now Sue? :)
Happy, not hapy. Hey, I don't have too many nits, so I didn't want an
opportunity to go to waste.
>When she first rented the studio apartment four floors up overlooking
>the park, Samantha knew the scenery below and the sky above would
>inspire her to create paintings that would one day become famous.
"The scenery below and the sky above" doesn't ring quite right to my
ears. After all, the sky is scenery, too.
>What should have been only a passing insult thrown in the heart of
>battle, festered inside Samantha, and began to grow into increased
>self-doubt. As her mood darkened over the period of snow and ice, the
>inspiration she so needed to harness appeared to abandon her as her
>boyfriend had not long before.
The period of snow and ice? It just doesn't sound natural to me.
>On this occasion, she was walking faster than usual, and was lost in
>her own world of despair and self-pity. It was not until she heard a
>shout of warning from somewhere nearby that she looked up. Her mind
>registered the flash of color in the air, and her only thought was in
>remembering she was suppose to paint the locomotive red.
She was supposed to. We pronounce it as you have it written, because
the d of "supposed" meshes with the t of "to."
>As she continued on the path that would take her near the art store,
I think she was on the path that would take her to (not just near) the
art store.
>As her thoughts of painting returned, her heart leapt with renewed
Her heart leaped. Since you're using American spelling with other
words, you should be consistent.
>With a smile on her face, she took one last look at her
>painting, and picked up the phone.
I enjoyed your delightful story. Thanks for posting in AFO.
--
Mike Bandy
Wind River
>
> Okay, this entry is a bit ... thick. Not a light read and there is a
> mention of sex, but nothing explicit.
Well gosh, your first line does that. :)
> hapy now Sue? :)
Yes!!!
For the challenge stories, I'm wasn't planning on nitting word choices
or grammar. I wanted to immerse myself in the scene as a reader to
experience the moods and colors, but it's not easy to turn the internal
editor off when reading on AFO.
I enjoyed this story, and it fits the challenge well. It's very nice. I
liked the way you worked the train into it.
I know the "thickness" is what you were going after, so I'm hesitant to
suggest alternatives, but I think it's worth setting the challenge aside
and continuing to work with the story. I'd love to see it pared it down,
yet still retain the moodiness. I don't know if you're interested in
exploring it further, because it would become a more serious story, but
I think, also, a more powerful one. If you do decide to take it in that
direction, Dave, I'd be glad to do a thorough line-by-line after the
challenge. There are other people here, too, who would be able to help a
lot with this kind of story. Michael and Hank, in particular, are good
with short, atmospheric stories.
Thank you for posting it. It's a good one.
-Sue
Dave Allyn
<catchmerev...@yahoo.ca> wrote:
>Very nice. The narrative was smooth and continuous, and the moods
>represented were 'painted' rather well. I was swept up into the story.
Thank you. I'm glad you enjoyed it. :)
dave
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
email: dallyn_spam at yahoo dot com
In the words of Abe Lincoln when asked to review a book
he didn't care for:
"For the people that like that sort of thing, I think it's
just the sort of thing they would like."
Dave Allyn
wrote:
>Great job Dave,
>
>A few little things.
Fire away...
>> When she first rented the studio apartment four floors up overlooking
>> the park, Samantha knew the scenery below and the sky above would
>> inspire her to create paintings that would one day become famous.
>
>Really nice opening.
Thanks. for whatever reason I have been drawn to long openings lately.
I think it has to do with Bart challenge a couple of months ago.
>> Spacious skylights opened up most of the ceiling to the heavens, and
>> on a full moon lit night, Samantha could read with little auxiliary
>> light.
>
>First, auxiliary doesn't seem to fit here. It brought my awareness of
>writing up a notch. Just a suggestion, but being ableb to read by the
>ambient light seems like it may fit a little better. Ambient seems to fit a
>painter better than auxiliary.
I tried a whole mess of words in that spot. The feeling I was trying
to convey is something along the lines of: "The moonlight was almost,
but not quite enough to read by." Getting that thought into the style
of the rest of the piece didn't go so well. Suggestions welcome.
>> However, should she succeed, this painting could become the drive to
>> regain her inspiration, and help her get her career back on track, so
>> to speak.
>>
>
>The little 'so to speak' tacked on to the end bugs me. Instead of hearing
>the story, I hear a writer chuckling at his own cleverness.
agreed. look for a change in a future revision.
>> The art supply store lay on the other side of the park. Indeed, the
>> proximity was a contributing factor in her decision to live at her
>> current location. Samantha donned a wide brimmed straw hat in a vain
>> attempt to keep the afternoon sun out of her eyes, and headed across
>> the park.
>>
>
>The second sentence seems a little too academic for this piece. proximity
>contributing factor. sounds like a scientific journal. I bet you can find a
>more lyrical way of stating this.
Yeah, it turned out a little more ... dry ... than I liked. I might
try to do something with this too.
>Really good story Dave. I think you captured the mood and transition well.
Thanks. stories like this for me either flow out onto the paper, or
they don't happen. My mood at the time helps alot as well.
>Thanks for posting.
Thanks for reading.
Dave Allyn
wrote:
>This was very enjoyable, Dave. Just luscious, and every sense
>caressed. And the train itself, woven in and like her mood, into
>tunnel and back out into the light of day.
The metaphor worked well. Thanks to Sue for the challenge!
>I do believe this is the sort of story Sue's after this month.
I hope so. I figure currently I'm garenteed at least second place!
(until more get posted anyway.. :) )
Dave Allyn
<MikeB...@hotmail.com> wrote:
>>hapy now Sue? :)
>
>Happy, not hapy. Hey, I don't have too many nits, so I didn't want an
>opportunity to go to waste.
oopps... :)
>>When she first rented the studio apartment four floors up overlooking
>>the park, Samantha knew the scenery below and the sky above would
>>inspire her to create paintings that would one day become famous.
>
>"The scenery below and the sky above" doesn't ring quite right to my
>ears. After all, the sky is scenery, too.
Granted, I was trying to tie into the skylights giving a view an
apartment usually doesn't have.
>>What should have been only a passing insult thrown in the heart of
>>battle, festered inside Samantha, and began to grow into increased
>>self-doubt. As her mood darkened over the period of snow and ice, the
>>inspiration she so needed to harness appeared to abandon her as her
>>boyfriend had not long before.
>
>The period of snow and ice? It just doesn't sound natural to me.
I wrestled with this a couple of times. It doesn't sound natural to
me either, but I like the way it shows the cold better than just
"winter" Maybe I'll axe it..
>>On this occasion, she was walking faster than usual, and was lost in
>>her own world of despair and self-pity. It was not until she heard a
>>shout of warning from somewhere nearby that she looked up. Her mind
>>registered the flash of color in the air, and her only thought was in
>>remembering she was suppose to paint the locomotive red.
>
>She was supposed to. We pronounce it as you have it written, because
>the d of "supposed" meshes with the t of "to."
Yeah, my spelling is generally horrible. I rely on spell-check a bit
more than I generally should. Consider it fixed.
>>As she continued on the path that would take her near the art store,
>
>I think she was on the path that would take her to (not just near) the
>art store.
I'll have to clarify this in the story, or just change it. the path
winds though the park, but does not go exactly to the art store, but
close to it. As this has no bearing on the rest of the story, I'll
probably just axe it as well.
>>As her thoughts of painting returned, her heart leapt with renewed
>
>Her heart leaped. Since you're using American spelling with other
>words, you should be consistent.
Agreed. See above about my use of a spell-checker.
>>With a smile on her face, she took one last look at her
>>painting, and picked up the phone.
>
>I enjoyed your delightful story. Thanks for posting in AFO.
Thanks for reading/criting.
Dave Allyn
wrote:
>Dave Allyn wrote:
>>
>> Okay, this entry is a bit ... thick. Not a light read and there is a
>> mention of sex, but nothing explicit.
>
>Well gosh, your first line does that. :)
is that good? ;)
>For the challenge stories, I'm wasn't planning on nitting word choices
>or grammar. I wanted to immerse myself in the scene as a reader to
>experience the moods and colors, but it's not easy to turn the internal
>editor off when reading on AFO.
I know the feeling. sometimes I feel I lose the story anymore because
i'm looking at word choice et al... Even when I read my daughter a
story or read a novel, etc...
>I enjoyed this story, and it fits the challenge well. It's very nice. I
>liked the way you worked the train into it.
Thanks. I was looking for something different than just a train
setting. I think it worked.
>I know the "thickness" is what you were going after, so I'm hesitant to
>suggest alternatives, but I think it's worth setting the challenge aside
>and continuing to work with the story. I'd love to see it pared it down,
>yet still retain the moodiness. I don't know if you're interested in
>exploring it further, because it would become a more serious story, but
>I think, also, a more powerful one. If you do decide to take it in that
>direction, Dave, I'd be glad to do a thorough line-by-line after the
>challenge. There are other people here, too, who would be able to help a
>lot with this kind of story. Michael and Hank, in particular, are good
>with short, atmospheric stories.
yeah, this storyline would almost work as flash even. I might give
that a try just for the fun of it. no promises though. :)
>Thank you for posting it. It's a good one.
Thank you for reading!
Wind River
>
> On Wed, 11 Aug 2004 17:54:26 GMT, "Egad" <eg...@sbcglobal.invalid>
> wrote:
>
> >Great job Dave,
> >
> >A few little things.
>
> Fire away...
>
> >> When she first rented the studio apartment four floors up overlooking
> >> the park, Samantha knew the scenery below and the sky above would
> >> inspire her to create paintings that would one day become famous.
> >
> >Really nice opening.
>
> Thanks. for whatever reason I have been drawn to long openings lately.
> I think it has to do with Bart challenge a couple of months ago.
>
> >> Spacious skylights opened up most of the ceiling to the heavens, and
> >> on a full moon lit night, Samantha could read with little auxiliary
> >> light.
> >
> >First, auxiliary doesn't seem to fit here. It brought my awareness of
> >writing up a notch. Just a suggestion, but being ableb to read by the
> >ambient light seems like it may fit a little better. Ambient seems to fit a
> >painter better than auxiliary.
>
> I tried a whole mess of words in that spot. The feeling I was trying
> to convey is something along the lines of: "The moonlight was almost,
> but not quite enough to read by." Getting that thought into the style
> of the rest of the piece didn't go so well. Suggestions welcome.
How about, " ... Samantha could almost read by its light." ?
-Sue
eve...@hotmail.com
Servo
Hi Dave:
The story is overloaded with nonfunctional description (does not
advance plot or character) and stiff, overexplaining phrases.
I'm just going to critique two paragraphs.
Before posting this, I read some other reviews. I see that other
readers see it very differently. VERY differently. I guess diver-
gence of opinion is what makes the world go 'round--all I can do
is call it as honestly and candidly as I know how. My motive is
to help you be a better writer, and I offer this review to that
end.
Servo
> Inspiration
> Copyright 2004 Dave Allyn
> a.f.o. August 2004 Challenge
>
> When she first rented the studio apartment four floors up overlooking
> the park, Samantha knew the scenery below and the sky above would
> inspire her to create paintings that would one day become famous.
> Spacious skylights opened up most of the ceiling to the heavens, and
> on a full moon lit night, Samantha could read with little auxiliary
> light. Most of the area around her block shut down at night, and the
> resulting darkness gave such a view of the stars above, that her seven
> year old nephew would camp out in her apartment, where they would make
> s'mores over candles until the wee hours of the morning.
This is filled with unproductive description, Dave.
Does it really advance the plot of the characterization to mention:
"first (rented)" (When she rented it, it was "first" by definition.)
"four floors up"
"the scenery below"
"the sky above" (Even if the scenery and sky were worth mentioning here,
must you say they're "below" and "above"?)
"that would one day become famous"
"opened up most of the ceiling to the heavens"
"moon lit night" (Of course it's night.)
"Most of the area around"
"the resulting"
"Samantha could read with little auxiliary light."
"that her seven year old nephew would camp out in her apartment,
where they would make s'mores over candles until the wee hours of
the morning."
I'll experiment with a rewrite, to illustrate how the paragraph
looks without fat, as bare bones, adding what's in the brackets:
-----
When she rented the apartment overlooking the park, Samantha knew
[this was a place to] create [great] paintings. [Through] spacious
skylights she could [almost read by the full moon.] Her block
[darkened] at night, and the stars [made her feel like she was in
the open country.]
-----
Dave, this is leaner, but it misses the point. As I read your story,
the first paragraph is really about Samantha's ASPIRATIONS, not an
apartment. Talking about the apartment, the sky, reading by auxiliary
light, making s'mores with her nephew, all these are beside the point
and add little or nothing to plot or character, in my view.
I'm going to take the meat of the paragraph and experiment with it,
off the top of my head (don't expect Hemingway), using much of the
SAME DETAIL and some I might add, and make it speak to the point,
her aspirations:
-----
An artist knows when a place is right. When she rented the apartment
overlooking the park, Samantha knew she belonged there. Here was a place
where she would no longer struggle to set her beautiful visions free,
a place which by its nature would gently draw forth paintings, great
paintings. Here she saw trees swaying in the park as brushes stroking
the sky; through spacious skylights, and by the grace of a neighborhood
which extinguished most nocturnal illumination, here the moon was her
personal muse, the glorious stars nature's minimalist pointillism placed
there solely for her inspiration. Here she could breathe.
-----
Dave, ignore the fact that this is MY off-the-top writing (and maybe
a bit OVER the top) and try to extract the principles I'm trying to
illustrate.
1. The paragraph is no longer about an apartment and various distrac-
tions. It is now SOLELY about what Samantha really wanted from this
place, and how it made her feel.
Even a mundane fact like "Most of the area around her block shut
down at night" has been converted into a more poetic example of how
the world was cooperating to lay this inspiration at Samantha's feet.
One can present a fact, and one can present a fact in a way which
does double duty.
2. I removed the nonworking description. I added ideas and description.
The result is about the same length, but EVERYTHING works to advance
plot and character.
3. I open and close the paragraph with short, pithy sentences, which
have more drawing and dramatic power than a description of an apart-
ment.
> Samantha, once [a girl] often found painting flowers and sunsets [in the
> great outdoors,] [had become the sort of person who] now preferred [the
> gloom of] a cloudy day and the hum of a florescent light. She [was the
> type of person who] despised all outside activities, and summer most of
> all. [Contrary to years past,] her bathing suit remained tucked away
> [with most of the remainder of her summer clothes.] She had no
> intension of showing [enough of] herself to anyone [to justify the
> effort.] [There would always be times when movement outside could not
> be avoided. At these times,] (When she went out,) Samantha would hide
> beneath her hat, and move [at a] brisk(ly) [pace] with her head down
> [as not to draw attention to herself.]
At about the middle of your story, Dave, the writing begins to feel
like an expanded outline to me, where lots of nonworking words are
stuffed into sentences which could say the same thing simply and with
more feeling. Never use ten words to say what five will say. If you
use ten words, make sure they say much more than the five they replace.
I've bracketed words where you: explain the obvious, use ten words
where one will do, and introduce needless details. I won't rewrite
this, as you stick to the point in this one. You just need to cut
the fat and loosen up a bit.
I fear this month's challenge will induce some to write stories
where details are simply pumped in and pumped up, rather than
actually doing story work. Hope not. I consider detail for its
own sake rather worthless, but know that not all share my view.
Servo
Dave Allyn
wrote:
>The story is overloaded with nonfunctional description (does not
>advance plot or character) and stiff, overexplaining phrases.
My intent was not to create a consise narative, but to use flowing
descriptions that may or may not advance the story in the way you are
thinking. In reality, this story could very well be turned into
something alone thse lines:
Samantha rented an apartment. her boyfriend dumped her and she became
depressed. She had to paint a locomotive, ran out of paint, and sent
to the store to get some. On the way to the store, she almost got hit
by a frisbee, caught it instead and fell in love with the guy that
tossed it. Now she is happy.
The problem is that the above doesn't really do anything for me.
that's what this story is about. The character as well as emotions:
hers and the reader's. There isn't a big plot behind this story.
some would argue there isn't ANY plot behind it. The plot isn't
nessesary IMO.
I once asked my uncle (over 400 shorts published last count) what the
differerence was between genre fiction and literary fiction.
Here is a couple of excerpts of his reply:
Begin quote:
Literary fiction is generally considered to be character-driven rather
than action-driven -- the characters take center stage, and the plot
is just something that’s there to give the characters something to do.
Literary fiction is more concerned with emotions and relationships and
human nature and beliefs and attitudes. Another definition of
literary fiction is that during the story, the main character almost
always changes (emotionally) – he/she is a different person at the end
of the story than he/she was at the beginning. The character is
usually searching for peace or happiness or the meaning of life, or
sometimes all three. And in the end he/she usually either finds it or
finds the reason that it can’t be attained.
Examples of literary fiction: The short stories of John Cheever and
Eudora Welty and William Faulkner, movies/novels like The Great
Gatsby, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, The Shipping News, Driving
Miss Daisy, Dead Poet’s Society, The Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men,
The Graduate, Fried Green Tomatoes, Ordinary People, About Schmidt, As
Good As It Gets. And anything by Pat Conroy or James Joyce or John
Irving.
Genre fiction, on the other hand (also known as commercial fiction or
“popular” fiction”), is action-driven rather than character-driven.
(Genre stories are usually categorized as mystery, thriller, romance,
fantasy, SF, Western, etc.) Plot and action are the driving forces in
genre fiction; the characters are sometimes less well developed, and
are only there to move the plot forward. And the main character
sometimes doesn’t change at all throughout the story; James Bond or
Indiana Jones, for instance, is pretty much the same person,
emotionally, at the end of the story as he is at the beginning. Genre
stories focus on action and excitement and intrigue and (sometimes) a
lot of plot twists. Examples of genre fiction are the
stories/novels/movies of Tom Clancy, John Grisham, Louis L’Amour, Mary
Higgins Clark, Peter Benchley, Danielle Steel, Harlan Coben, Michael
Crichton, Sidney Sheldon, Nelson DeMille, Elmore Leonard, Lawrence
Block, Sue Grafton, Stephen King, Nevada Barr, Ian Fleming, Ken
Follett, etc.
end quote.
I guess I saw this story as more of a literary piece, and the way I
read the challenge requirements, that is more of what Sue is looking
for. My Uncle goes on to say the BEST stories are the ones that
incorporate the best of both types: Great charaters with a great
plot.
>Before posting this, I read some other reviews. I see that other
>readers see it very differently. VERY differently. I guess diver-
>gence of opinion is what makes the world go 'round--all I can do
>is call it as honestly and candidly as I know how. My motive is
>to help you be a better writer, and I offer this review to that
>end.
I would rather have honesty than flattery any day of the week. there
is no need to justify or explain yourself. differing opinions is what
makes this group so good. what works for you may not work for someone
else. and vice versa.
thanks for the read.
Jeff Howell
Hi there Dave
>mention of sex, but nothing explicit.
Aww!
>Inspiration
>Copyright 2004 Dave Allyn
>
>When she first rented the studio apartment four floors up overlooking
>the park, Samantha knew the scenery below and the sky above would
>inspire her to create paintings that would one day become famous.
This is heavy for an opening sentence. You could say 'the *view* would inspire'
and 'to create *famous paintings.'*
>Spacious skylights opened up most of the ceiling to the heavens, and
>on a full moon lit night, Samantha could read with little auxiliary
>light.
Try: 'Large skylights filled the ceiling, that the full moon shone through,
almost bright enough to read by. '
>The skylights lent themselves to less innocent events as well.
This sentence is redundant.
>That was then, as the saying goes, and this is now.
So is this one.
>In parting, he cut deep with his statement: "At least SHE
>knows how to paint."
This is a poignant element of the plot. It would be better as an isolated
paragraph bracketed with a longer build-up and a more detailed reaction.
>What should have been only a passing insult thrown in the heart of
>battle, festered inside Samantha, and began to grow into increased
>self-doubt.
What did she say to provoke such spite? I am looking at Samantha from too far
away.
>A friend of a friend managed to get Samantha a commission to create a
>four foot wide portrait of a fifties era locomotive.
This sounds contrived. How did the chain of communication work? What aspect of
her work were they attracted by? All we know about her is that she paints.
>intense begging on the part of her friend, and a little persuasion on
>the part of Jose Curvo, that Samantha relented and signed the offered
>contract.
You introduce Jose Curvo by name, as if we should know him. I would be more
interested in her mysterious, influential friend.
> She only had three days remaining to finish a painting she
>had yet to begin.
OK, now you introduce that essential element of conflict. You could do this in
the opening paragraph too, to grab the reader.
> For reasons known only to her,
Umm, well, it's rather obvious what the reason might be, so this cliche is
superfluous.
in Samantha's mind, this
>However, should she succeed, this painting could become the drive to
>regain her inspiration, and help her get her career back on track, so
>to speak.
Wordy, and another pair of cliches stagger drunkenly off the end of the line
(urk!).
>Determined to, at minimum, fulfill her contractual obligations;
You can do better - something like 'The spectre of her contract had become a
spiteful, soulless goad.'
>tainted by her mental state, and was a gloomy, depressing image of a
>locomotive chugging up a mountain, it's single headlight shining faint
>ahead, as a beacon for the eyes of the viewer.
This is a great scene.
>In her studio, however, the sunlight pouring past those wondrous
wondrous?
>relieve the unbearable heat cause by the incessant sunshine, a bird's
What time of year is it? You imply late spring at the earliest, yet you mention
snow and ice earlier.
>accomplished nothing for Samantha but a scowl.
how do you accomplish a scowl?
>Returning to the canvas, Samantha began to fill in the ominous clouds
>in the background of the painting.
.. fill the background with dark clouds.
>darker in her work, the clouds outside vanished from the sky as if
You said the sunlight was pouring in.
>when Samantha realized she needed more black paint.
I imagine she would realise the paint was running low long before she ran out.
>proximity was a contributing factor in her decision to live at her
proximity influenced her decision
>current location. Samantha donned a wide brimmed straw hat in a vain
>attempt to keep the afternoon sun out of her eyes, and headed across
I would think a wide-brimmed hat would work rather well, unless the sun was on
the horizon. Not 'vain' at all.
>Samantha, once a girl often found painting flowers and sunsets in the
>great outdoors, had become the sort of person who now preferred the
>gloom of a cloudy day and the hum of a florescent light.
fluorescent. 'had become the sort of person' is redundant.
>shout of warning from somewhere nearby that she looked up. Her mind
'from somewhere nearby' is redundant.
>Before her inspiration was replaced with depression, Samantha had been
>full of life.
This background seems misplaced. Is she recalling this? If so, what has inspired
the recollection?
>.. It should
>have come as no surprise;
Redundant, and odd.
>The recipient of the disc flashed Samantha a smile. Much to her
>mind's horror, she found herself returning his gesture.
Now I can see where you were going. A pivotal event.
>As she continued on the path that would take her near the art store,
>she could not shake the image of that man and his smile. A moment of
>reflection in the store allowed her battered heart to place several
>bright shades of red on the counter next to the black.
I prefer my hearts braised ;-)
A consequence of the event above, which deserves elaboration.
>smell of rich, roasted beans reminded her of obligations tomorrow, and
Struggling here. What happens tomorrow? (If this is the contract date, you have
not said so.)
>.. Midway into the park, the man she
>exchanged looks with less than an hour prior raised his hand in silent
>greeting. Smiling to herself, she found her own hand rising in
>response. Satisfied for now, and thoughts of the urgency of the
>project waiting for her upstairs still on her mind, Samantha sighed
>and entered through her doorway.
Time to get from the park to the doorway is lost by running sentences in the
same para.
>The clouds were still dark, but the image of the sun peaking from
peeking
>underneath the storm was beginning to show itself on the left edge of
not 'beginning to'. It could be 'pushing back' etc.
>the canvas. The locomotive was the brightest of reds, leading the
>viewer to believe a fresh coat of paint had been applied just for this
..reds, as if a fresh ...
>occasion. The lamp on the front of the train was not dull as
>intended, but shined bright enough to illuminate the entirety of the
>track before it. This portrait showed hope instead of despair and
>perseverance instead of defeat.
This is a powerful, uplifting finish.
>The event in the park, minor as it
>was, had begun Samantha's transformation.
Obvious to the reader - omit this sentence.
> Finding the red, plastic
>disc filled with flowers and a phone number on her doorstep the next
>morning had continued it.
Hmm. How did he know where she lived?
Overall. The plot itself is interesting. I really love the description of the
painting itself, and especially the way it evolves as a mirror of her mood.
However. There is chronic redundancy. This piece suffers from a repetition of
facts, and the critical events are too easily submerged in them. The character
of Samantha (her motivation, and where it derives from) emerges too late to
engage me.
My humble suggestion is that you pick out the key events and make them the
focus of the story, as you do at the end. Some dialog would help you do that.
Perhaps in the art shop, or when she returns the frisbee, or when her boyfriend
walks out, or when she is persuaded to take the contract. (Lots of
opportunities!)
And afo??
Duh. Folks differ, clearly. Thanks, Servo, for showing that I'm not the only one
who was not mesmerised by the descriptive overload. As a challenge entry, of
course, it gets a big tick in every box.
Regards, Jeff
http://website.lineone.net/~jeff.howell
MJ
> Inspiration
> Copyright 2004 Dave Allyn
> a.f.o. August 2004 Challenge
>
> When she first rented the studio apartment four floors up overlooking
> the park, Samantha knew the scenery below and the sky above would
> inspire her to create paintings that would one day become famous.
Woah there, tiger! Wordy it is.
"When she rented the studio apartment overlooking the park, Samantha knew
the scenery would inspire paintings that one day would become famous." Did
I miss anything?
> Spacious skylights opened up most of the ceiling to the heavens, and
> on a full moon lit night, Samantha could read with little auxiliary
> light.
A nice idea and image, but wordy again. "Spacious" is redundant as you tell
us most of the ceiling was open. Why did you tell us fourth floor earlier
and not say "top floor"?
"On a clear night, Samantha could read by moonlight."
> Most of the area around her block shut down at night, and the
> resulting darkness gave such a view of the stars above, that her seven
> year old nephew would camp out in her apartment, where they would make
> s'mores over candles until the wee hours of the morning.
I have no idea what s'mores are though they were mentioned in Toy Story.
This is a nice paragraph, the better for being spare.
> The skylights lent themselves to less innocent events as well. Not
> two weeks after moving in, her now former boyfriend had made love to
> her during such an intense thunderstorm, with the full spectacle of
> lightning above, that neither partner could say for certain where the
> storm ended and the lovemaking began.
I have no idea what you mean.
> That was then, as the saying goes, and this is now.
please avoid cliches like the plague.
> The inspiration,
> once so plentiful, was now a distant memory. Her boyfriend set her on
> a downward spiral when he took up residence with a young artist down
> the street. In parting, he cut deep with his statement: "At least SHE
> knows how to paint."
That motherfucker. Good para.
> What should have been only a passing insult thrown in the heart of
> battle, festered inside Samantha, and began to grow
grew
> into increased
> self-doubt. As her mood darkened over
over? through? during?
> the period of snow and ice, the
> inspiration she so needed to harness appeared to abandon her as her
> boyfriend had not long before. The more Samantha's self-esteem
> worsened, the more her painting followed suit. In the end, she was
> forced to take a job at a coffee house just to pay the bills.
>
> A friend of a friend managed to get Samantha a commission to create a
> four foot wide portrait of a fifties era locomotive. The painting was
> to hang in the central subway station of a distant city for all to
> see.
ah-ha! nicely done.
> Samantha had doubts about her abilities.
we know
> It was only due to the
> intense begging on the part of her friend, and a little persuasion on
> the part of Jose Curvo,
Cuervo
> that Samantha relented and signed the offered
> contract. She only had three days remaining to finish a painting she
> had yet to begin. Such a feat would have been a challenge months
> before her decent
descent
> into depression, and now the task seemed next to
> impossible. For reasons known only to her, in Samantha's mind, this
> painting represented her future. Should she fail, she was prepared to
> tuck her tail and return to a normal life with a normal job, admitting
> to the world the defeat of her dreams and ambitions.
it's a shame you haven't shown her & friend having a conversation about this
instead of just telling.
> However, should she succeed, this painting could become the drive to
> regain her inspiration, and help her get her career back on track, so
> to speak.
cliche
> Determined to, at minimum, fulfill her contractual obligations;
> Samantha knew she had no more time to wait for inspiration to make an
> appearance in her life again.
wordy
> The picture she saw in her mind was
> tainted by her mental state, and was a gloomy, depressing image of a
> locomotive chugging up a mountain, it's
no apostrophe
> single headlight shining faint
> ahead, as a beacon for the eyes of the viewer.
>
> In her studio, however, the sunlight pouring past those wondrous
surely through, not past
> skylights, now threatened to scorch everything in sight. The
> resulting brightness on her canvas did not lend well to the scene
> Samantha was attempting to create. When she opened a skylight to
> relieve the unbearable heat cause by the incessant sunshine, a bird's
> song found her ears, and the crisp melody did not play off her mood in
> any way that can be described as positive. Even the children's
> voices, joined in unison by whatever game they had discovered,
> accomplished nothing for Samantha but a scowl.
you can't accomplish a scowl,. provoked nothing in Samantha... works better
> Returning to the canvas, Samantha began to fill in the ominous clouds
> in the background of the painting. As the clouds grew thicker and
> darker in her work, the clouds outside vanished from the sky as if
> they could not exist in both places.
excellent
> The struggle between the
> painting inside, and reality outside came to a temporary cease-fire
> when Samantha realized she needed more black paint.
>
> The art supply store lay on the other side of the park. Indeed, the
> proximity was a contributing factor in her decision to live at her
> current location.
so wordy! no need to tell us this now anyway. "the other side of the park"
is fine.
> Samantha, once a girl often found painting flowers and sunsets in the
> great outdoors, had become the sort of person who now preferred the
> gloom of a cloudy day and the hum of a florescent
fluorescent
nice work
cute ending.
Didn't enjoy the style of your story. Really heavy going, like wading
through it rather than reading. Paragraph of prose after paragraph of
prose, no light, no dialogue, just heavy description. I realise Sue's
challenge imposes limits, but I think a few striking images are better than
paragraphs laden with heavy stuff. You have all the material here to do
it - the apartment, the view, the weather, the picture - but it needs to be
sharper. The biggest issue is your tendency to write wordy sentences where
you could cut it to a shorter punch and help, not hinder, the story flow.
It's down to Sue as moderator, but she said "pull me into the story". Reams
of prose like this have the opposite effect on me. But that's me. Anyway, at
least I hope the nits are useful.
Michael
Servo
> On Thu, 12 Aug 2004 17:17:04 -0700, "Servo" <divi...@zero.moc>
> wrote:
> >The story is overloaded with nonfunctional description (does not
> >advance plot or character) and stiff, overexplaining phrases.
>
> My intent was not to create a consise narative, but to use flowing
> descriptions that may or may not advance the story in the way you are
> thinking.
Just to make sure there's no misunderstanding, Dave, I HAVE ABSOLUTELY
NOTHING AGAINST FLOWING DESCRIPTIONS. What I advise against are flowing
descriptions which do nothing to build the story. Consider the following
sentence from your story:
"Samantha, once [a girl] often found painting flowers and sunsets [in the
great outdoors,] [had become the sort of person who] now preferred [the
gloom of] a cloudy day and the hum of a florescent light."
Did telling us that Samantha was once a girl add anything?
Did telling us that flowers and sunsets are outdoors and that the outdoors
is great add anything?
Did telling us that she "had become the sort of person who" add?
(That last one sounds like your Lincoln quote.)
None of these, in my view, do any story work at all. They are not
"flowing description" but are instead useless details over which
many readers will actually stumble.
Revised: "Once Samantha could be found outdoors painting flowers and
sunsets, but now she sought refuge in clouds and muted lighting."
Compare "had become the sort of person who preferred" with my suggested
"now she sought refuge in." Half the words with manyfold the descriptive
power. The revision is even more 'flowingly descriptive.'
> In reality, this story could very well be turned into
> something alone thse lines:
>
> Samantha rented an apartment. her boyfriend dumped her and she became
> depressed. She had to paint a locomotive, ran out of paint, and sent
> to the store to get some. On the way to the store, she almost got hit
> by a frisbee, caught it instead and fell in love with the guy that
> tossed it. Now she is happy.
>
> The problem is that the above doesn't really do anything for me.
> that's what this story is about. The character as well as emotions:
> hers and the reader's. There isn't a big plot behind this story.
> some would argue there isn't ANY plot behind it.
What do you mean, there isn't a plot? Any human circumstance can be
presented in a boring, matter-of-fact way. But with a slight shift
in viewpoint, it's one of the oldest and most moving stories imaginable:
One person's struggle to find love and creative fulfillment.
I fear that your inability to see the exciting plot you have there is
what's tempted you to paper it over with "flowing description" which
does little to make the plot come to life.
> The plot isn't nessesary IMO.
Maybe comedy doesn't require much of a plot to be funny, but drama
is pretty boring without it. Pretty descriptions don't make stories
interesting, in my view. Without tension and conflict, we may as well
be describing a doily.
> I once asked my uncle (over 400 shorts published last count) what the
> differerence was between genre fiction and literary fiction.
>
> Here is a couple of excerpts of his reply:
>
> Begin quote:
> Literary fiction is generally considered to be character-driven rather
> than action-driven -- the characters take center stage, and the plot
> is just something that's there to give the characters something to do.
> Literary fiction is more concerned with emotions and relationships and
> human nature and beliefs and attitudes.
This is a potentially misleading way to put it, though. Emotions and
relationships (particularly strained or tenuous relationships) can
provide as much "action" as a runaway horse or a falling comet. This
sort of bifurcation in fiction can lead writers to believe that all
they have to do is write "complex" characters, when in fact it is the
tension within or between characters which constitutes the "action."
Plot doesn't disappear, as the words of your uncle might suggest, but
moves from outside the characters to within them.
Consider again your sentence:
"Samantha, once [a girl] often found painting flowers and sunsets [in the
great outdoors,] [had become the sort of person who] now preferred [the
gloom of] a cloudy day and the hum of a florescent light."
The action or conflict here is internal; she has withdrawn and become
morose. Your reader is wondering if or how she will solve her struggle
with her condition. Your words can either advance that concept, or lie
there doing nothing.
[Snip interesting quote.]
> I guess I saw this story as more of a literary piece, and the way I
> read the challenge requirements, that is more of what Sue is looking
> for. My Uncle goes on to say the BEST stories are the ones that
> incorporate the best of both types: Great characters with a great
> plot.
Nothing your uncle says really contradicts my point. Where the "action"
or tension or conflict or interest--however we choose to characterize
it--comes from, our words either further it or distract from it.
It doesn't matter whether the action is driven by a falling comet
or arises internally in the misery of a lost love. Calling something
"literary" doesn't make nonfunctional words do more work in the reader's
mind. Fluff is fluff and fat is fat.
The exception to this would be work where the writer's words and view-
point are really the object of interest, where the description is as
much an end in itself as a means to an end. This is particulaly true
for humor, which may ramble to good effect.
All this is especially true for the short story, where there's little
room for waste.
> >Before posting this, I read some other reviews. I see that other
> >readers see it very differently. VERY differently. I guess diver-
> >gence of opinion is what makes the world go 'round--all I can do
> >is call it as honestly and candidly as I know how. My motive is
> >to help you be a better writer, and I offer this review to that
> >end.
>
> I would rather have honesty than flattery any day of the week. there
> is no need to justify or explain yourself. differing opinions is what
> makes this group so good. what works for you may not work for someone
> else. and vice versa.
>
> thanks for the read.
Glad to.
Servo
Wind River
>
> nice work
>
> cute ending.
>
> Didn't enjoy the style of your story. Really heavy going, like wading
> through it rather than reading. Paragraph of prose after paragraph of
> prose, no light, no dialogue, just heavy description. I realise Sue's
> challenge imposes limits, but I think a few striking images are better than
My challenge is limitless. Well, it inspires me anyway. :)
> paragraphs laden with heavy stuff. You have all the material here to do
> it - the apartment, the view, the weather, the picture - but it needs to be
> sharper. The biggest issue is your tendency to write wordy sentences where
> you could cut it to a shorter punch and help, not hinder, the story flow.
I'm not sure if it was Dave's intention, but I took this story as
somewhat of a parody on this type of writing, and it works well when
judged in that light. To make it a more serious story, it would need
paring down, imo, and that's why I suggested he might give that a try.
It would be a good exercise anyway. I usually don't like stories this
thick at all, but somehow this one seems to fit the character and her
tempermental personality.
-Sue
catchmerevisited
on 8/14/04 2:18 PM:
>
> Dave Allyn <dally...@yahoo.com> wrote in message
> news:l4hrh09ra5tgiblf1...@4ax.com...
>> On Thu, 12 Aug 2004 17:17:04 -0700, "Servo" <divi...@zero.moc>
>> wrote:
>>> The story is overloaded with nonfunctional description (does not
>>> advance plot or character) and stiff, overexplaining phrases.
>>
>> My intent was not to create a consise narative, but to use flowing
>> descriptions that may or may not advance the story in the way you are
>> thinking.
>
> Just to make sure there's no misunderstanding, Dave, I HAVE ABSOLUTELY
> NOTHING AGAINST FLOWING DESCRIPTIONS. What I advise against are flowing
> descriptions which do nothing to build the story. Consider the following
> sentence from your story:
>
> "Samantha, once [a girl] often found painting flowers and sunsets [in the
> great outdoors,] [had become the sort of person who] now preferred [the
> gloom of] a cloudy day and the hum of a florescent light."
[a girl] is a good time reference, indicating when (how long ago) Samantha
found brightly painted landscapes, where? [the great outdoors].
VERY relevant to the reader, imo.
"GLOOM" is a very good mood descriptor, particularly as the challenger
suggested "painting" the story.
>
> Did telling us that Samantha was once a girl add anything?
[[[[[[[[[missed the context, I think.]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]
> Did telling us that flowers and sunsets are outdoors and that the outdoors
> is great add anything?
[[[[[[[preferred scenes of the painter]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]
> Did telling us that she "had become the sort of person who" add?
> (That last one sounds like your Lincoln quote.)
[[[[[[[[[[[transformation]]]]]]]]]
>
> None of these, in my view, do any story work at all. They are not
> "flowing description" but are instead useless details over which
> many readers will actually stumble.
[[[[[[[[[[[[[I disagree]]]]]]]]]]]
>
> Revised: "Once Samantha could be found outdoors painting flowers and
> sunsets, but now she sought refuge in clouds and muted lighting."
[[[[[[[[[[[[[*yawn*]]]]]]]]]]]]
>
> Compare "had become the sort of person who preferred" with my suggested
> "now she sought refuge in." Half the words with manyfold the descriptive
> power. The revision is even more 'flowingly descriptive.'
[[[[[[[[[[[[[[imo; tomato/tomatoe. A choice of dialect, which no towe
authors may agree on]]]]]]]]]]]
>
>
>
>> In reality, this story could very well be turned into
>> something alone thse lines:
>>
>> Samantha rented an apartment. her boyfriend dumped her and she became
>> depressed. She had to paint a locomotive, ran out of paint, and sent
>> to the store to get some. On the way to the store, she almost got hit
>> by a frisbee, caught it instead and fell in love with the guy that
>> tossed it. Now she is happy.
>>
>> The problem is that the above doesn't really do anything for me.
>> that's what this story is about. The character as well as emotions:
>> hers and the reader's. There isn't a big plot behind this story.
>> some would argue there isn't ANY plot behind it.
>
> What do you mean, there isn't a plot? Any human circumstance can be
> presented in a boring, matter-of-fact way. But with a slight shift
> in viewpoint, it's one of the oldest and most moving stories imaginable:
> One person's struggle to find love and creative fulfillment.
>
> I fear that your inability to see the exciting plot you have there is
> what's tempted you to paper it over with "flowing description" which
> does little to make the plot come to life.
>
>> The plot isn't nessesary IMO.
>
> Maybe comedy doesn't require much of a plot to be funny, but drama
> is pretty boring without it. Pretty descriptions don't make stories
> interesting, in my view. Without tension and conflict, we may as well
> be describing a doily.
[[[[the challenge makes the descriptors almost a prequisite]]]]]]
And the author does a commendable job redeeming himself in later paragraphs.
>
>
> [Snip interesting quote.]
>
>
>> I guess I saw this story as more of a literary piece, and the way I
>> read the challenge requirements, that is more of what Sue is looking
>> for. My Uncle goes on to say the BEST stories are the ones that
>> incorporate the best of both types: Great characters with a great
>> plot.
>
> Nothing your uncle says really contradicts my point. Where the "action"
> or tension or conflict or interest--however we choose to characterize
> it--comes from, our words either further it or distract from it.
> It doesn't matter whether the action is driven by a falling comet
> or arises internally in the misery of a lost love. Calling something
> "literary" doesn't make nonfunctional words do more work in the reader's
> mind. Fluff is fluff and fat is fat.
[[[[[[["fluff" is something a newspapre columnist, or technical writer,
might wish to avoid; to a non-fiction writer, I think "fluff" is essential
(btw I think you're looking for the near-archaic term "embroidery", which
was primarily a printing term used after the invention of the moveable
printing press, and the hand-etched plates pressed imprinted upon the pages
became an unnecesary expense and inefficient waste of space).
>
> The exception to this would be work where the writer's words and view-
> point are really the object of interest, where the description is as
> much an end in itself as a means to an end. This is particulaly true
> for humor, which may ramble to good effect.
humour must be quick, as well as relevant.
The audience to whom the joke, riddle, etc. is told, has a shorter attention
span than the audience of a narrator or writer.
>
> All this is especially true for the short story, where there's little
> room for waste.
Again, I think it is the author's personal style which dictates which to
trim and what to keep.
Just my opinions. :D
Servo
catchmerevisited <catchmerev...@yahoo.ca> wrote
> > Compare "had become the sort of person who preferred" with my suggested
> > "now she sought refuge in." Half the words with manyfold the descriptive
> > power. The revision is even more 'flowingly descriptive.'
> [[[[[[[[[[[[[[imo; tomato/tomatoe. A choice of dialect, which no towe
> authors may agree on]]]]]]]]]]]
Just what is your purpose in using the all the brackets?
Well, you're entitled to your opinion. I won't argue each individual
point with you, but I will argue the principle. Let me put it like
this:
If your writing is loaded with expressions like "she had become the
sort of person who preferred" instead of "she now," YOU WILL PROBABLY
NOT BE PUBLISHED, while the writer who chooses the concise expression
probably WILL be published, all else being equal and adequate.
You may call it opinion or dialect or preference or art or genre or
flowing description. Most editors will call it fat and fluff and
unreadable. Not only that, most readers will agree.
Why? It's very simple. People who say things concisely and with
verbal frugality actually say MORE in 1000 words than others say
in 1500 or 2000 words.
> [[[[the challenge makes the descriptors almost a prequisite]]]]]]
The challenge makes description necessary. But there is description which
ADVANCES a story, and there is description which is useless or relatively
so.
So, what's it to be? Detail which is pumped in to puff up a story,
largely irrelevant, or descriptive detail which builds the character
and the drama?
> > All this is especially true for the short story, where there's little
> > room for waste.
>
> Again, I think it is the author's personal style which dictates which to
> trim and what to keep. Just my opinions. :D
OK, there is no absolute standard for relevance. I may not be able to
point with certitude to a particular adjective and say, "This must go!"
What I CAN say with certainty is some forms of description work better
than others, make for better writing and for better stories, as most
people perceive them. I can say with certainty that there IS such a
thing as "wordy" and "over-described" and "verbose." I leave it to
you to discover, if you disagree with my evaluation, just what would
qualify for these descriptions.
You may call ineffective description "style" if you wish. Dave may
call it a literary form. My position is simple: it is less effective
writing than it otherwise could be.
Since that's a matter of perception, though, and I can't offer logical
proof.
Servo
Patrick Null
"Dave Allyn" <dally...@yahoo.com> wrote in message
news:q0pjh0llafdgkgkfu...@4ax.com...
> Okay, this entry is a bit ... thick. Not a light read and >there is a
> mention of sex, but nothing explicit.
>
> hapy now Sue? :)
>
>
> Inspiration
> Copyright 2004 Dave Allyn
> a.f.o. August 2004 Challenge
>
> When she first rented the studio apartment four floors >up overlooking
> the park, Samantha knew the scenery below and the >sky above would
> inspire her to create paintings that would one day >become famous.
Way too wordy. I looked at some crits and you already got some great
suggestions. Nevertheless, I don't think you need the fact it's four floors
up and the part about the scenery below and the sky above.
> Spacious skylights opened up most of the ceiling to the >heavens, and
> on a full moon lit night, Samantha could read with little >auxiliary
> light.
"full moon lit night" is cumbersome. If it's a full moon, it's obvious it's
night.
>Most of the area around her block shut down at night, >and the
> resulting darkness gave such a view of the stars above, >that her seven
> year old nephew would camp out in her apartment, >where they would make
> s'mores over candles until the wee hours of the >morning.
I don't know if I completely subscribe to the theory that everything must
advance the plot(that type of thinking seems awfully narrow minded and
formulaic), but I was starting to get bored here with all the details.
Maybe if you can streamline them somehow? Or something? You're right--it
is thick. Without dialogue or something to break up the flow, I get bogged
down.
>Not
> two weeks after moving in, her now former boyfriend
Um...you don't need "now", I think.
> That was then, as the saying goes, and this is now. The >inspiration,
> once so plentiful, was now a distant memory. Her >boyfriend set her on
> a downward spiral when he took up residence with a >young artist down
> the street. In parting, he cut deep with his statement: >"At least SHE
> knows how to paint."
>
> What should have been only a passing insult thrown in >the heart of
> battle, festered inside Samantha, and began to grow >into increased
> self-doubt. As her mood darkened over the period of >snow and ice, the
> inspiration she so needed to harness appeared to >abandon her as her
> boyfriend had not long before. The more Samantha's >self-esteem
> worsened, the more her painting followed suit. In the >end, she was
> forced to take a job at a coffee house just to pay the >bills.
>
> A friend of a friend managed to get Samantha a >commission to create a
> four foot wide portrait of a fifties era locomotive. The >painting was
> to hang in the central subway station of a distant city for >all to
> see.
She needs a confidant, Dave, someone she can talk to on the telephone, and
then most of this backstory can come out. It would make it more engaging.
Don't take the easy way out by saying "a distant city"--tell us which one it
is, and you will get more respect as readers go "wow, he has actually
thought through these details."
>
> Samantha had doubts about her abilities.
Here's your hook. It's too bad it's buried down this far.
>Such a feat would have been a challenge months
> before her decent into depression, and now the task >seemed next to
> impossible.
descent
>For reasons known only to her, in Samantha's mind, this
> painting represented her future.
Delete "in Samantha's mind"--this part is obvious.
> Should she fail, she was prepared to
> tuck her tail and return to a normal life with a normal >job, admitting
> to the world the defeat of her dreams and ambitions.
>
> However, should she succeed, this painting could >become the drive to
> regain her inspiration, and help her get her career back >on track, so
> to speak.
This goes without saying, and I think it's cliche anyway.
>
> Determined to, at minimum, fulfill her contractual >obligations;
> Samantha knew she had no more time to wait for >inspiration to make an
> appearance in her life again.
Comma, not a semi-colon.
> In her studio, however, the sunlight pouring past those >wondrous
> skylights, now threatened to scorch everything in sight.
scorch is a little OTT.
>The
> resulting brightness on her canvas did not lend well to >the scene
> Samantha was attempting to create. When she opened >a skylight to
> relieve the unbearable heat cause by the incessant >sunshine, a bird's
> song found her ears, and the crisp melody did not play >off her mood in
> any way that can be described as positive. Even the >children's
> voices, joined in unison by whatever game they had >discovered,
> accomplished nothing for Samantha but a scowl.
This is extremely overwordy. Condense, be concise.
>
> Returning to the canvas, Samantha began to fill in the >ominous clouds
> in the background of the painting.
You don't need "of the painitng"--you just told us she returned to the
canvas.
>As the clouds grew thicker and
> darker in her work, the clouds outside vanished from >the sky as if
> they could not exist in both places.
Grrr....you're trying too hard to convince us, Dave. Delete everything
after "sky", and let us come to our own conclusions. What is left unsaid
often makes a story stronger.
> The art supply store lay on the other side of the park. >Indeed, the
> proximity was a contributing factor in her decision to >live at her
> current location.
You don't need this second sentence. It does nothing...at all.
>Contrary to years past, her bathing suit remained >tucked away
> with most of the remainder of her summer clothes.
most of her summer clothes is more concise.
>At these times, Samantha would hide beneath her hat, >and
> move at a brisk pace with her head down as not to >draw attention to
> herself.
Delete everything after "down"--the context makes it clear why.
>
> On this occasion, she was walking faster than usual, >and was lost in
> her own world of despair and self-pity.
What a likeable character. She is a cliche, Dave. It seems like
painter/artists are always angry, in despair, or self-pittying, or some
other negative emotion.
>It was not until she heard a
> shout of warning from somewhere nearby that she >looked up. Her mind
> registered the flash of color in the air, and her only >thought was in
> remembering she was suppose to paint the locomotive >red.
>
> Before her inspiration was replaced with depression, >Samantha had been
> full of life.
Please don't stop the action with more backstory. Do you have any idea what
kind of a negative effect that has on a story? It destroys it by boring the
reader, slowing it down, stopping the action and tension.
>The lamp on the front of the train was not dull as
> intended, but shined bright enough to illuminate the >entirety of the
> track before it.
Delete "entirety of the"
>This portrait showed hope instead of despair and
> perseverance instead of defeat.
Nice line.
> The event in the park, minor as it
> was, had begun Samantha's transformation. Finding the >red, plastic
> disc filled with flowers and a phone number on her >doorstep the next
> morning had continued it. Only Samantha, however, >could complete the
> change. With a smile on her face, she took one last >look at her
> painting, and picked up the phone.
This is way too mushy for my tastes, Dave. Maybe the challenge requires
that we write like this, but it's too neat for me--Woman is depressed, woman
meets man, woman is attracted to man, woman decides to call him. Even if
she was just looking at the phone number, pondering whether to call him
might help because I can't believe a woman who has lived a part of her life
depressed would all of a sudden change overnight because she meets some guy
in the park. It's too sudden, and there's no build up to it.
This story, for the most part, is backstory, and I can't get into that type
of structure. You can paint a picture, while still keeping us engaged.
You're overwordy, and often say things in ten words that can be said in
five. You also have a tendency to be redundant in a few places.
There's no dialogue, so right there, the opportunity for us identifying with
the character is lost, and the story has to carry through entirely on
excellent prose, and I don't think yours hits the mark.
I don't think this worked for me, Dave. Sorry I couldn't be more positive.
Take care.
Wind River
>
> This is way too mushy for my tastes, Dave. Maybe the challenge requires
> that we write like this,
I think I've confused people.
The challenge was left open to any genre. It doesn't have to be romance
or death. The contrasting character doesn't even have to be human.
The colors and brushstrokes don't have to be painted thickly. They can
be a wash of watercolor.
I love atmosphere that can be brought out in few choice words. Barry's
western did this. We can taste the dry air and feel the heat of the
dusty trails. He should shorten it and put a train in the distance.
I hope this clarifies some.
-Sue