It's almost time for NaNoWriMo. Many affectionately call it “NaNo,” for short. “Nano” is also short for “mind-numbingly short” as in nanosecond, and “really, really, ridiculously small,” as in nanoparticles.
In the spirit of all things nano, I've got a challenge for you. It's the Non-NaNoWriMo Writing Challenge (try typing that ten times at top speed…).
Write for one hour, uninterrupted. No distractions, no breaks, no excuses. In one hour, write something start to finish.
In linear time, that's sixty minutes, 3,600 seconds, or 3.6E+12 nanoseconds. In the non linear, sacred time we covered two weeks ago, the exact volume of time will depend on how you use it.
Ready at the keyboard?
Photo by Ming Thein
Ah, but the starting gun hasn't fired! Hang on, let's put down a little context on our fresh new track first.
Goal Horizon
First, if you haven't done so yet, read my post on sacred time for writers. It'll give you a different perspective on what you can do in one hour.
Second, choose your hour. Yes, you get to choose when to hit that ‘start' button. Otherwise, it wouldn't really be fair, would it, if I arbitrarily set the time. Some of you would be just waking up, peeling your cheek off the keyboard from the night before, while others would have already had their morning jet fuel and would be ready to take off. (Hint: make the hour within your stretch of sacred time)
Third, choose your coordinates. As they say, location, location, location. (p.s. Make sure it's far, far away from distractions, family & loved ones who mean well, and people who tap their feet, pencils, or other objects sans cesse. Also see fourth step below.)
Fourth: Lock down that wi-fi. Change your password to your email and walk away. Tether your browser to your dog and leave them both at home. Read: NO DISTRACTIONS!
Identify. Focus. Write.
Now that you're all set with the externalities, choose your poison. That is, what are you going to write?
- Are you in the middle of a novel or a memoir? Then pick a scene you need to finish, or a chapter, or a stretch of dialogue.
- Are you working on a short story, an essay, or an article? Try to finish it in that hour, or write a substantial chunk.
- What about a poem? Can you write a poem in one hour?
- If you've already penned your magnum opus and are twirling your hair waiting for one of the Big Five to ring, why not put together that jaw-dropping, we-want-to-sign-you-now pitch.
Whatever it is, pick one thing to write during that one hour, and one thing only.
Why do I ask you to choose instead of suggesting a theme? Because. If I ask you to spend an hour writing, that hour is sacred and should be used to advance your work. (Granted, themed writing exercises have their merit, and we'll do those too–all in due time.)
One More Thing
Oh, there's one more thing. Little present for you. For those of you anywhere in or near Northern California, or the means to get here on November 8 – 10: my friends at the Algonkian Writer Conferences have authorized me to give away 5 heavily discounted spots to the “Write to Market” conference in Corte Madera, 20 minutes north of San Francisco. The 3-day conference is normally $395; this discount will get you in for $195, or, if you're willing to write a review about the event, $95. SWEET DEAL.
Plus, I'll be there and would love to meet some of you in person.
So, if you're interested, check out the conference web site, schedule, and other details on the site, and email me at info [at] birgitterasine [dot] com. I'll forward your information on to the conference director and he'll take it from there. Since there are just 5 of these discounted spots, we can only accept 5 writers. IMPORTANT: email me by Friday 10/25, that's the deadline to register at the discounted rate.
Husky male voice: Now back to our regularly scheduled writing practice.
PRACTICE
Ready? Go! Write for one glorious hour, and share the fruits of your labor here in the comments, or just report on the experience. Was it harder or easier than you thought? Did you stare at your screen/page/wall for a full fifty percent of your hour? Were you constantly distracted or did you easily slip into your sacred writing time? Did you hit on a brilliant idea or produce some of your best writing ever? We all want to know. Share your pain as well as your joy!
I really like this goal. Sometimes it’s difficult to write for a full hour without distractions, but does it count if I already did that today? 🙂 I didn’t set a timer, so I’m not actually sure how long I’ve been writing, but I’m ready to get some breakfast (a little late, but I haven’t eaten today), and then I’m going to sit down for another hour to write, hopefully without distractions.
Hey Alicia, you must have been peeking over my shoulder as I wrote this! Yes, retroactive writing does count, but only if it’s at least an hour, and only if it fulfills the requirements listed above. When you get back to writing after breakfast, do set that timer and see if it feels any different than without one.
Looking forward to hearing about your extreme-focus-writing!
Now that I’m done with my second hour, I feel like I accomplished a lot more than normal. I still got distracted toward the end a bit (thanks to my husband!), but I felt a lot more productive overall.
Excellent news Alicia. So when you say “productive,” what does that mean to you? More words written, story line improved, more powerful metaphors created… or…?
I was working on blog posts and I feel I got more done (words/projects) in a shorter amount of time.
Good, because I counted my hour on Scapple organizing the frame for my NaNo story.
So, I wrote this last night, and it took a bit longer than an hour, but I nearly reached the daily November goal of 1,600 words with no edit. I started practicing so that I could prove to myself that I can do this 50,000 words thing. I’ve not edited it, due to the fact that I won’t be able to in November (no time). So here it is. Note: His name is Charlie. I never decided till the end. And remember please, no edit.
———————
He stood on his bed, pretending to be that man in the jet he held in his hand. Zoom. Zoom. The jet took twists and turns that would never be allowed with commercial flights. The jet flew to greater heights than ever before. Out of the atmosphere it went, into outer space it flew. He jumped, hoping to get it even higher, but his foot got wrapped up a blanket. Down he went, and down the jet went, crashing, destined to never fly again. Lego debris flew all across the room, getting mixed up with all the other legos strewn across the bedroom floor. Oh, crud. Not again. He jumped from his bed, instigating a creak from the mattress and a large thump on the floor when he landed.
A yell came from downstairs, “I told you to stop jumping from the bed!” Oops.
“Sorry, mother,” He muttered and began digging around for the legos he dropped. They were everywhere. He sighed while throwing his hands up in the air, dropping them on the piles of legos. He’d just have to start over, he decided. He analyzed each of the pieces and designed a new model in his head. He never had to use a guide. He always just designed his own according to exactly what he wanted to build. A long blue piece here, a short grey piece there, and it would be even better than the last one. The jet would fly faster and farther. He looked at the pieces as if they could make a real jet. He started at top speed. He wanted this done as soon as possible, but right when he as finishing the core of the jet, his mother called him down.
“Dinner!”
He knew he better not take any second longer upstairs, so he gently placed the beginnings of his new creation on his pillow. He ran downstairs as soon as he could. Since he was thinking about it, he realised just how hungry he was. As he made it from the stairs to the foyer, he heard a plane overhead. Mesmerized, he looked out the blurry glass of the door window. That wasn’t satisfying enough, so he headed outside to look, and there it was. It wasn’t a commercial plane, though. An F-22 Raptor took to the air above the lining of trees past his front yard. A real fighter jet flew before his eyes.
He was called back to attention by his mother demanding it of him. “Get inside, c’mon, let’s eat. We’re waiting on you.”
He snapped around and ran inside with a smile on his face. A real fighter jet. “Coming!” He walked in with a profound swagger and a proud look on his face. He stood in front of the dinner table before taking his seat. “Mother,” he nodded to her, “Father,” he acknowledged him, “Sissy,” he looked to his baby sister sitting in the high chair. He placed his fists on his hips and smiled. “Guess what I just saw.” His mother and father both looked at him with raised eyebrows and a smile. He looked to his sister, saying, “Well, Sissy, do you have a guess?” She pounded her fists in the table and screamed some nonsense, laughing about it. “I saw a real fighter jet! It was just outside!” His mother, her eyes bright and blue, smiled at him and patted the seat next to her. “Come sit down,” she said. He sat down and began eating something he didn’t know what it was. He had his mind elsewhere. He took bite after bite while he daydreamed about flying that F-22. It took him a while before he realised he finished eating already. “May I be excused?” he asked. Those were the manners he was supposed to use at the table. “Clean off your plate and wash your hands, then come talk to me,” his father said, his face stern from years spent in the military.
He hurriedly washed his plate and, when he was done, his hands. There was nothing that would stop him from getting back to his work, and now he had a new design ready to go. His hands just couldn’t work fast enough for his mind. He had to get up there and keep working. He walked quickly to his father and held out his hands for inspection. “Excused?” he asked. His father looked at his hands, turning them over with his, inspecting them with the utmost care. “I think you can wait down here for just a few minutes longer. Spend some time with your family. You know, we may not be around forever.” He knew not to whine, so he just took his seat. He knew he had to wait for permission, so he did not ask. He only dreamed more of his fighter jet.
“The data from the Explorer X-14 should be broadcasted tonight,” his father said. He looked at his watch, “In fact, it may be on right now. I think you’d enjoy watching,” his father said, looking to him. “Laurel, may we be excused?” he asked his wife. She lightly smiled and nodded, “Anything for male bonding time,” she said. His father and him both got up and headed for the family room. He had no idea what any of this meant, but if his father was this adamant about whatever this was, it had to be good. “What is it?” he asked. His father turned to him and said, “We sent a huge craft to fly out to explore the other planets for signs of life and the information is showing on T.V. right now.” Life on other planets? He had never thought about other people living outside of their country, let alone their planet. A huge craft? Now that excited him.
He stood in front of the television as his father sat on the black leather couch. A recap played of the day the Explorer X-14 took off and out of the atmosphere. Woah. He was mesmerized. That was the kind of thing he wanted to build. Something to fly around in and outside of the atmosphere.
“Tonight we have the head scientist on the Explorer Project, Dr. Jonathan Tiberius, to tell us the information they’ve received, while showing footage from the Explorer,” the reporter said. Her hair was short and brown with matching eyes. She was younger and didn’t really seem to know how to do be a reporter all that well. “Welcome, Doctor,” she said. She sat in a brown chair that belonged in a living room. The Doctor, with balding, white hair and glasses that magnified his eyes, making him look like a bug, sat in a chair opposite her. “Yes, thank you. Glad to be here,” he replied. He had a harsh accent that made his a’s sound like i’s and his r’s not come out all the way right. “Can you tell us, Doctor, what it was like finally sending the Explorer into space?” She spoke with her hands, shifting forward from her seat to talk to him. “Yes, yes. It was a very exciting and scary moment for us. Finally, our project was doing what it was meant to do. But what if we didn’t get the information we needed? What if it crash landed? What if we wasted millions of dollars for nothing?” He seemed like an intelligent man, but he wasn’t exactly a family man. He was more of the old guy who spent work hours in the lab and off hours in the office. “I can understand why you and your team would be so nervous, but it was a success! Tell us, is there life anywhere else in the solar system?” He shifted in his seat, as if nervous. “Yes, the Explorer came back to us successfully, however it only made it to explore one planet: our sister planet.” He paused, letting the audience take in this information. He looked directly at the camera. Charlie sat as close to the T.V. as allowed, hanging on to every word. All of a sudden, he was extensively interested in the matter. “There are no signs of life on Earth.”
Nice twist at the end – good story.
Thanks. Anything you didn’t like, anything that stood out? Good or bad.
Well, like you said needs editing. The image of the child playing with legos was sweet – but the paragraphs were more telling instead of showing. I think the story has promise.
Benjamin, same apology to you for taking so long to reply. My days are crazy. Here is my feedback:
• Too much description. Slows down the action and the important dialogue. Example: the color of the reporter’s hair and her age are irrelevant. The kind of chair she’s sitting on is irrelevant. That the Doctor looked like a bug just derails the train we’re riding.
Just write out the dialogue. The twist at the end is great, but it takes plowing through all the irrelevant bits and pieces to get there. Formatting the dialogue has a lot to do with it too. Every time a different person speaks, start a new paragraph.
• Don’t be so obvious. If the “Doctor” shifts in his seat, it’s obvious he’s nervous or uncomfortable—if it’s not, make it so through his dialogue. Don’t say “as if nervous”.
• Much of the dialogue isn’t realistic. Study the way reporters on television talk, and the way ridiculously brilliant engineers talk. A reporter would never say, “Welcome, Doctor.” She’d say something along the lines of “Great to have you with us, Doctor Tiberius” or even address him by first name, depending on the type of program it is. I’d rewrite the entire conversation at the end.
• It takes too long for us to find out the name of the main character. Why?
• How old is Charlie? Even if you don’t state his age in the narrative, be very clear about it for yourself, because it will show through, and should. As it stands now, he feels like a young adult, and yet I wonder if he’s supposed to be a teen. There’s a real conflict between the way he’s described and the way he talks and how his family interacts with him. It feels off.
• Grammar is off in a few places. I don’t care how short an hour is, grammar is the bedrock of writing and needs to be right.
• Don’t, I repeat, avoid words like “whoah” and “oops” if they’re not part of someone’s dialogue, and even then. It significantly cheapens your narrative.
• The twist at the end: really like it, and think it has great potential. What kills it is everything that takes place before. It’s fine to make the scene in the bedroom and the subsequent action downstairs apparently normal or “Earthlike”, but it needs some subtle, even subconscious, tweak, somewhere either in the narrative, the characters, or the scenery, that will catapult your twist at the end to a much greater height. Maybe something about the accent of Dr. Tiberius, or better yet, something about the lego jet, that would suggest the atmosphere here (are we on Venus or Mars?) is not quite the same as on Earth.
Hope this helps, it’s a very quick overview but should help tighten up this WIP. Let me know when you’ve got the next version!
Yep, I ran over here yesterday and met McEnroe! Because, you see, I just published my self-motivation post on NaNoWriMo titled Ready, get set, go. NaNoWrimo and imagine my delight when I found your email alert for this post! I am totally stoked about November! I’ve set myself a one week project deadline that will get me into the flow of settling into my “goal horizons” – I’ll be getting into a very disciplined schedule!
Adrenalin is dancing through my system! 😀 Thank you for this encouraging post!
Yes, I am getting extremely motivated to start writing long hours again too. We must be adrenalin junkies. The weather turns wet and rainy and dark starting in November. Perfect for huddling with a cup of cocoa and the computer.
Hey there Cat… we’re both riding the cacao wavelength it seems, I just posted about chocolate in my reply to Vidya. What kind of cocoa do you like?
Dutch Bros. blended mocha, but that is a million calories, expensive and keeps me up too late. For writing, I will just settle for a nice container of Nestles Quick. It will take me back to my childhood. Of course if we had time milk warmed in a pan with raw cocoa and Karo syrup with a peppermint swizzle stick would be even better. What is your drink of motivation?
The darkest, richest, purest drinking chocolate you can get, with honey and vanilla, and a little spice if available. Organic rooibos tea with local honey kicks major writing butt too.
And a little green tea to keep us healthy.
Yes sorry about that. I guess I was a little too publish-happy. I should have titled my post “Ready, set, pre-publish!” 🙂
November is probably the best month to write a novel. All those cool, foggy mornings, all those steaming cups of rooibos tea (you can fill in your own imagery here of course), all those broken pieces of dark chocolate sprinkled on top of your croissant…
Just finished my hour of writing. Let me tell you. Making the conscious effort to remove myself from all distractions and focusing on my writing was great today! I was very productive. In one hour I wrote 1,826 words. Woo!!
I have to say that I am a little terrified as well. Yesterday I signed up for the NaNoWriMo. How many of you are participating in this event? It’s hard to try and focus my mind on another writing project as I understand that you have to have a new, unwritten story to participate in NaNoWriMo. Already on my current project I am at 14,630 words. Is there anyone who’s been through it before that can offer any advice?
woohoo…..just turn off your inner editor. Every mistake counts as an effort to your word count. If you come to a stopping point with no idea what to write, start writing description. You can describe the floors and walls of a house in a scene. It does not have to match something you wrote earlier.It does not have to be linear. Writing description and notes count in the word count. I also start writing character profiles when I stall out. Again, don’t edit if you see a discrepancy. Your characters are trying to tell you something. All thinking, editing and erasing comes in January. NaNo is the brain dump, experimenting phase. Every word has value. Every note to self has value. It took me a couple years to realize that. If you get a better idea rewrite the sentence so you won’t forget, but don’t erase the first one. Also, I like to write in Google Drive so I am not distracted playing with my word programs. Christy, I am Calliopecat on NaNo. Send me a NaNo note if you want to be buddies.
Thank you so much!! Request has been sent.
I did Nano last year and for me the most important skill was letting go. I would sit down and write without worrying about where the story had been going or where it would be going. If what I was writing didn’t make sense in the context of my story, it didn’t matter. The goal was the word count, and making sense of the word mess would come later. It turned out to be some of my most honest writing. I re-read the whole mess months later and could not believe I had produced so much and so many scenes and emotions.
If you try to hem yourself in with visions of a logical and masterful first draft you might hit the wall and not the word count. Have fun with it, and be free. Take it as an opportunity to be led on a merry adventure by your imaginary friends.
Thank you!
Go Christy! 1826 is a solid number. What’s the writing about, if you can share?
I did my own hour as well, and spent it smoothing out dialogue and inner thoughts in my novel (regular novel, not NaNo). But you know, this whole word count thing is overrated. It’s the quality that matters, not the quantity of words. Every story is different. Every character, every story arc. That’s what we need to respect. A part of me isn’t convinced this mad race to write 50K words in one month is all that healthy, litera-ly speaking. But, granted, you do have to standardize the rules since it is a contest.
I agree with word count. I have a horrible habit of editing while I write and I think NaNo will help with that. Hehe. My writing is about dealing with the death of a loved one. It’s in the early early stages right now. I haven’t shared it with anyone but my husband. Some of the ideas are still being fleshed out and characters are still being developed.
Absolutely nothing wrong with “editing” while you “write.” Think about it (everyone). If you write those very first words on the page, and rewrite some of them before you go on to the next set of words, is that still ‘writing’ or is it technically ‘editing’?
Frankly, in these early stages it doesn’t matter. Some of us prefer to pour it all out on the page, no matter the mess, others like to think a little, write a little, then think a little more, and still others write the way tapestry makers weave tapestries (that be me).
Whatever your style, honor it. It’s who you are as a writer.
I have been working with unwavering focus on one of my WIPs. Everything else has been back-burnered, but man is the progress ever slow! Over a year of planning and thinking and writing and I’m still less than halfway. So, I used my sacred hour to dwell on my main character’s backstory and to write some necessary dialogue. So here’s some dialogue.
#
Aiden talks about his family, endlessly commenting on their accomplishments and how little Jim would have enjoyed the woods. No, he never talks about them in the past tense. They are always present and alive. Always just a step behind him. He talked to them just the other day. His wife told him yesterday that Alice aced her school paper. He was so proud, a perfect grade on her review of Charlotte’s Web. Does he know that story ends in death? His little girl learned about the finality of death and the inevitability of sadness, but he refuses to learn it himself.
“We just got back from the most amazing family trip” he tells us.
As if it was just this weekend instead of months before the mass disapearance of the human race. He would show us the photos of their smiling faces if only his phone battery weren’t dead. If only his family weren’t dead and gone. I have to give him credit for optimism, he won’t let them go without a fight. If I had fought half so hard for my family, I might not be a loner journalist on the post-apocalyptic road with a bunch of misfits. I’d be dissolved or raptured or eaten up just like everybody else. Instead of being at sea, I would have been holiday-ing at the beach with Sydney when death blew through and stole our souls.
“I wish you were with your family, I really do ” I said sincerely.
Aiden smiled at me, surprised at the kindness of my words.
I continued, a sour smirk pulling at the corner of my lips, “I mean, I’d certainly be happier if you had disappeared right along with them, then I wouldn’t have to listen to your inane chatter about your holiday plans and their outstanding report cards. Heard from your wife lately? You wouldn’t want to miss the PTA meeting and the bakesale.”
“You’re a cold-hearted wretch, you know that?”
“It’s one of the few things I know with absolute certainty, yes.”
“Don’t you have a family? Shouldn’t you be worried about them instead of mooning around after a ship’s captain and acting like a total jerk?”
“I know where my family is. So no, I shouldn’t worry. Unless the bone-eating space aliens abduct corpses, they’re six feet under the cemetery where I left them.”
“I’m sorry” he said.
“Don’t sweat it. At least I have the luxury of certainty. I don’t have to suffer through some cold-hearted wretch’s allusions that my family has ceased to be. I know mine has snuffed it and I’ve made peace with that.” Peace, yeah right. It’s a wonder I sleep at all. “The sooner we find your beloved’s bodies, the sooner you can get on with the drinking and the moaning and make peace with your loss too.”
“Enough, Writer” Crusoe said. “Your black sense of humour is about played out.”
“Humour? She’s evil” Aiden said, his voice cracking. “She’s bloody hell spawn and you’re no better, Captain. You want to be the leader, but you encourage her in her tyrades behind my back and then have the gall to reign her in when it most benefits you? You’re playing politics. I know you don’t care what she says to me, you only care what I think of you. Well, oh Captain my Captain, I think you’re a craddle-robbing letch who’s trying to get his rocks off and still win the biggest britches contest.” Aiden stuffed his gear into his bag and strode stiff-legged across the circle.
Crusoe rose to his feet, smoothing the front of his uniform jacket and stepped into Aiden’s path. “Who will lead if I don’t? Burns? That bloated sack of idiocy. Or maybe Margie. She can direct us between sniffs of gasoline. Or maybe you fancy yourself a leader, Mr. Knight. What do you think, Kid? Have you got the stuff? Can you wield discipline and hope? Can you make the impossible decisions, can you keep us safe? Did you keep your family safe when you went galavanting off to take art classes and to find yourself on the other side of the world? You left your flock and look what happened. You want to find them, you need me to lead you.”
Aiden stepped up toe to toe with Crusoe, his eyes level with the older man’s. “I’ve made mistakes, but I did not abandon my family. My ex-wife took them from me. So you want to judge me on my wilderness skills and my abilities in the here and now, that’s fine. But don’t presume to know anything about me and my life before this.”
“Fair enough, son. Whatever happened before is before. In the here and now let’s focus on getting some answers and moving forward.”
“Don’t call me son. I’m not your blasted son, and you are no one’s daddy. Except maybe for her’s” he said jabbing a grimy finger in my direction.
I felt you did a great job showing the confrontation between the characters, I could really feel the tension.
I am inspired to reach goal this third year of NaNo. I want to win a coupon for purchasing Scrivner at half price. Despite never reaching goal even in camps, I wrote 30,000 more words on my Migration story because of process. Learning to write without editing is very freeing. I highly encourage everyone to give it a try. At the moment, I am playing with Scapple. It organizes notes, timelines, and character profiles. In the meantime, I will write my new NaNo story “Crossroads” starting November 1 on Google drive so I can get a good word count. I can cut and paste into Scapple or yWriter later after I am organized. The trick for me is to just write and not play with my writing programs. That is another good reason to stay on Google Drive for NaNo
So what is everyone’s NaNo novel? I plan to write about an aging retired hippy turned yuppie couple traveling west to reconnect with their post college adventures. It will be my first attempt at humor. O
This is from my memoir – Tell Me What He Did – I am 16, living with my sister (Diane). Guidance counselor (Mr. Thompson) got me a social worker (Mrs. Jones) who decides I need more help than a guidance counselor can provide. So she sent me to this therapist from hades.
*****
I buckle the kids into the backseat of Diane’s car and sit up front with her. As we drive toward St. Louis County Mental Hospital, Diane punches my left arm. “Because of you, I have to expose my kids to a bunch of crazy loonies at the weirdo farm.”
I rub my arm and stay quiet. Best not say anything when Diane’s this upset.
What if they commit me?
We arrive ten minutes early to the waiting room in the outpatient therapy wing. Orange plastic chairs, walls painted bile-green, garbage cans overflowing with
fast-food wrappers and Styrofoam cups. What a dreary place. A group of people
dressed in sweat pants and tee shirts shuffle down the hall following a woman
carrying a bunch of keys.
Wish I hadn’t let Mrs. Jones talk me into seeing this psychiatric nurse trained in therapy.
Diane hands the kids coloring books and crayons. She glares at me and then flips through a battered copy of Family Circle. My hands shake so much it’s hard to read my homework assignment, three chapters in The Iliad.
A skinny old lady walks over to me. “Are you Shirley?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Mrs. Black, your therapist.”
I stand. She barely comes to my shoulders, has short grey hair and looks like Mom – even her glasses.
“You must be Mrs. N.,” she says to Diane.
Even has Mom’s raspy voice.
“I’m going to take Shirley to my office and talk with her for a bit, then we’ll chat.”
“Okay,” Diane says.
Connie, Keith, and Gary smile at Mrs. Black. She doesn’t even smile or say anything nice to them.
I follow her down the hallway, past several nondescript grey metallic doors.
“Here’s my office.”
There’s a drippy, empty milkshake cup upended on her doorknob. Mrs. Black laughs, removes the cup, and wipes the handle with a Kleenex. Chocolate milkshake drops spatter the door and drip to the floor.
Did someone do this to her door on purpose?
“Have a seat.” Mrs. Black sits at her desk and cleans her hands with a baby wipe.
I sit on a wooden, straight-backed chair. The office has no photographs, no bookshelves, no nothing to tell me anything about this woman.
Mrs. Black puts my file on her desk, writes my name on a yellow legal pad, and asks me a lot of general information questions from a form.
It would have been quicker for her to let me fill in the blanks.
“I hope you’ll feel free to speak openly in here.”
“Will you tell Diane what I say?”
“Don’t worry, I keep confidences. Why do you want to see me?”
I don’t. “Mr. Thompson, my guidance counselor, got me a caseworker and she said I should see you. She thinks I need more help than Mr. Thompson can give.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I trust Mr. Thompson. I don’t know you.”
“So, tell me about yourself.”
“Don’t you have all that stuff in my file?” I nod toward the folder on her desk. “Mrs. Jones does.”
“I want to hear your story from you.”
I’m tired of repeating the same things over and over again.
Mrs. Black doesn’t say anything, just taps her pen on the pad.
Might as well get it over with. “My father touched me
sexually. Mom kept notes. Diane used those notes to get me out of the house.
The courts sent me to live with Diane. Things are not going well between us. I
thought living with her would be good because she was also hurt by Dad. Please,
don’t tell her I told you that, she’d be furious.”
“I said I would keep what you say confidential.”
She sounds irritated.
“If I’m going to help you, you need to tell me the details.”
Why? So you can write them in your notebook like Mom did. Guess that’s not fair. I don’t know if I can talk to a Mom clone.
“If you want to get better, you have to cooperate with your therapy. Next session, we’ll begin to sort out issues from your past and develop strategies to help you get along with Diane.”
All everyone cares about is me getting along with Diane; no one cares I’m dying
inside.
“I’ll take you back to the waiting room and speak with Diane for a few minutes.”
I just want to talk to Mr. Thompson.
I feel your pain, and your great courage in sharing something like this. I, too, had an “encounter”. Mine was with my babysitter. I was 9, she 18. No one kept notes, or anything like that, just said I was a liar, and asked what an 18 year old would see in a little kid. Nice, huh?
I must say, I don’t like this Mrs Black. People like her shouldn’t be doing any therapy. All too often, they make things worse. I’m guessing things didn’t work out with her? A good therapist works with you, and gives you a reason to trust them.
This is my hour’s work. I have no idea if it is going to be incorporated into something new, if it’ll be a standalone story, or even if it’ll be finished. I just had the idea flash into my mind, and had to type it out. Hope you like it.
******
The first time I laid eyes on the man who would become Draven, I sat on a bus going to the Inner Harbor. The 35 was a little crowded, normally unusual for around two in the afternoon on a Tuesday, but the President was in town for a fundraiser, and he evidently had some fans wanting to see him. The man sat quietly across from me and stared without expression at the dirty floor. We swayed as the bus’s powerful airbrakes engaged as the driver pulled to a stop. Another crowd of people boarded at the front while a few pushed out the rear exit. All the seats were filled as the bus pulled away from the curb.
I returned to my surreptitious watching of the daydreamer. He wore black jeans and a black t-shirt with a blue-skinned warrior with a skull face in a purple hood seated on a throne of bone was pulled snugly over a bit of a beer gut, or middle-age spread. He sported a five o’clock shadow at this time of day, and his dark brown hair was rumpled as if he ran his fingers through it periodically in an attempt to tame his unruly locks. Dark brown eyes flicked across mine as he switched from staring at the floor to gazing out the bus’s double doors. My breath caught. He was the most attractive man I’d ever laid eyes on. In person, I mean.
The bus stopped to let on another passenger. I casually turned to watch the boarder, and I sensed that something was wrong almost immediately. The sallow-skinned man was rough looking, and unkempt. A four, or five day growth of hair erupted from his face. His greasy-looking hair was held back by a twisted grey bandanna. He wore a ratty brown ankle-length trench coat
dirty jeans and beat up tennis shoes. He paid the fare, and stopped, staring
back at the rest of us. The man drew a gun from an inside pocket after the
driver had pulled away, and pointed it to the ceiling. He fired it, then pointed the weapon to the bus driver’s head, riding the sway as the startled woman jerked
the wheel to one side. A couple people screamed.
“Shut up,” he bellowed. “Listen up! We’re gonna be making an express trip to Federal Hill to visit the President. As long as no one tries anything, maybe you’ll all get to go home.”
I think I was the only one to catch the ‘maybe.’
Our hostage taker glanced at the poor driver and commanded her to drive, not to obey any stop lights, or anything like that. “Try any funny stuff, and I’ll paint the window with your brains, got me? I have reflexes like a cat.” She nodded in terror, and he returned his attention to us. “What the fuck are you staring at?” he screamed.
I whipped my head around, hoping he wasn’t talking to me. I spotted the attractive guy who’d been daydreaming earlier with his eyes locked on the man with the gun. I flicked a glance back to see the gunman stride towards us. I blinked, returning my gaze to the man in black. Sallow-skin stepped a little closer, and Daydreamer grinned. I blinked again, and the gunman was on the floor, with a bloody face, unmoving. Daydreamer swung to his feet and spoke to the driver. She pulled the bus to the curb, already on the phone.
He reached passed her, opened the doors, and stepped off. I rose. I had to
follow him. I had to know more about this man.
Whoa… I want to read more 🙂
Finally some time to read these longer pieces. Apologies. My reaction to this, in bullet points:
• Like the core concept of the scene. (Unfortunately, it’s an altogether realistic and plausible scenario in our country today.)
• Way, way too much description here. I bet you could cut the scene to half the words and make it 200% more powerful.
• The names the narrator (female, I assume) gives the two male characters drain them of all their substance and mystery. “Daydreamer” and “Sallow-skin”… or ‘hostage taker’ neither works. “Draven”… not sure that name works either. Sounds too much like “Raven” and “Dracula” put together. Names of characters are absolutely critical, important to hit the bull’s eye on those.
• Dialogue is good, believable.
• Too much explanation. Readers get it. Tell us less about the physical appearances and action and more about the deeper context or meaning of this scene, or people’s inner thoughts, or what this scene means in the grand scheme of the rest of whatever this is going to be (short story, novel, whatever).
Granted, you had only an hour. Take another hour and see how much tighter and deeper you can make this scene.
I just finished my hour and enjoyed it more than I thought I would. I got a couple of scenes written for my WIP. It was fun, and I was able to stay focused. I probably wouldn’t have gotten all of it written today if I hadn’t done this hour, so I’m happy with it! Thanks for the challenge, Birgette 🙂
You are most welcome Victoria. Hopefully you can do this every day, or as often as possible. Try to increase the time, too… instead of one hour, do two, then three…
Birgitte, I’m continuing to be productive during my ‘sacred time’. This week I’ve set up a blog, and revised a couple of short stories. I’ve been making the most of a week off work!
Also, I’ve just bought the Kindle version of “Arabic Verse” from Amazon. I loved your style from the word go. It’s so readable and flows so easily. Just thought you’d like to know 🙂
Good on you Katie! The more of this sacred time you can carve out for yourself each week, the less time you’ll need to spend getting back into your writer’s headspace. So happy with your progress.
And my personal humble thanks for making “Verse in Arabic” a part of your Kindle library. It makes such a difference knowing your readers, as opposed to just numbers on a screen. Wonderful, too, that you liked it! If you’re ever in northern California please let me know and I’ll give you a signed print copy (my gift).
Thanks Birgitte!
I’ve never been to California, but I’d love to meet you. Let me know if you’re planning on visiting the UK! 🙂
I will do, Katie. I’ve been there several times and absolutely love it. Have some fond memories of your land!
Sad I missed this. I feel like by the time I get to it, it may a dead discussion. Question! Can we take this one hour, specific to this practice, and just write whatever the heck we want?
You haven’t missed anything. I know it may feel like we live in a nanosecond culture where you have to respond instantly to everything, but not here. As long as this blog post is up on this site, this discussion is alive and valid. So take your hour anytime, and let us know how you do.
And sure, write whatever strikes your fancy. Looking forward to it.