John Cooper Clarke, the British poet, was once told by a fan, “Hey John, love your poems. I write too, but I can only write when I’m depressed.” Clark replied, “Well I hope you never write then!”
However, most writers use emotion as fuel for their writing. There is a stasis, an equilibrium that our bodies and minds need to maintain their function, but as writers we fight against balance, we encourage any emotions that are on the edge. We embrace and harness our emotions and write about them.
Photo by Arwen Abendstern
Using Our Emotions
I go to a lot of concerts and am amazed at a generation that looks at a live event through the lens of a camera or phone. They are not active participants in a live event but passive passengers. They have a second hand account of the concert. They didn't dance, scream, shout, get sweaty, bump into someone, make a connection. They remain unconnected.
We have to live. We have to get out in the world and experience life. Dive in the water, touch the stone, hug the friend, feel the emotion and store it.
Writing our Emotions
As writers we need to take the real emotions we feel in our every day lives and apply them to our characters. Harold Pinter’s play “Betrayal” was written as a response to his own tumultuous emotional experience of having an affair.
We need to exploit the dissonance and conflict in our emotions. You don't need to have an affair to write well, but you do need to be aware of the emotions you're experiencing in your daily life.
Do you harness your emotions in your writing? How do you capture them?
PRACTICE
Pick an emotion from your day (today) and write about it quickly.
Where you were? What you were doing? What happened to evoke the emotion?
Then, write for fifteen minutes applying the emotion to a character.
I guess this is Panic and some anger at the end.
I wake up – Oh no I overslept – it’s Saturday and it’s almost twelve o’clock and I have to take Lily to work – Panic – Wait! Halt! maybe it’s not Saturday? Yesterday was Friday, It’s Saturday and I’m late – I push the cats away, jump up, throw the covers on the bed and run up the first flight of stairs to the kitchen. I smell the coffee. My husband made it? I see the pot half full. I look at the time on the coffee maker. Little numbers hard to read from across the room – 12:10.
I run up the second flight of stairs, (and I never run). I hope Lily won’t be in her room, that her father will have taken her. She just got this job, she can’t be late. Lily’s door’s closed, the cats are trying to wind around my ankles, rubbing against me, wanting to eat already. I rap on the door, call her name.
“Come in” she says, I guess. She mumbles so I can only get the tone.
She’s sitting in front of the TV reading. How in the hell do they do two things at once? You can’t read and watch TV. I’m running like crazy and she’s just sitting there.
“You’re late!”
“Mom, chill. It’s only ten o’clock”
“No it isn’t, I just looked at the clock in the kitchen.”
“It’s ten o’clock. What are you mad about. We let you sleep, You’re tired. It’s been a long week.”
I go downstairs, and look. The damn thing says 10:14. The cats are crying and rubbing my legs. They need their food. Where are my glasses? Downstairs by the books, by my bed.
Well I’m awake now.
Marianne,
This is fantastic. I love the line that says you never run. I felt like I really know you from this. I also loved the line about reading and watching TV. I do that ALL the time.
Thanks Marla. I don’t know how you can concentrate on two things at once. Oh you youngsters ; )
You’re funny!
HA! Who hasn’t had a morning like that! I can so relate. Well written.
Thanks Alisha
Haha – I laughed at this, Marianne. Sorry, with you, not at you! You capture a mother’s heart here, true showing rather than telling. Well done!
Thanks Suzie
Did it again. That should have said Step not Suzie.
I can relate to this so much! Great example of panic and so well written!
Thanks Suzie
Why did I put Suzie on all of these, probably because my husband is talking to me as I type. Thanks Trish
No worries! At least he’s not trying to talk to you as you read. That is something that happens all the time around here and makes me rather…peevish! 😉
love the humour in your writing Marianne
Thanks Suzie
Sounds just like something that would happen to me. Darn those misplaced glasses!
Well done!
Emotion – anxiety(?)
Decision sits on my shoulders like a lead blanket. Just how important is family stability? What would you be willing to sacrifice for a little more time?
Some of us look at the worries of taking a new job as a step in the right direction, an opportunity to be grasped, and it can be. However, it can also make us think beyond our capacity for rational thought. It can make us get bogged down in minute details and wonder if our decisions are noble for the good of those we love or a selfish reflection of how noble we’d like to be when instead we’re really just looking out for number one.
I could die. Sure, the possibility is remote, but stray rockets and sniper shots do occur in a combat zone, even in a supposedly “safe” area like a FOB. However, just one year of sacrifice and I can write my own ticket. My family stays in the same place, my wife keeps her same friends, and my daughter sees the same doctor. The weather is always nice in Hawaii, and leaving them for just 365 short days lets them keep that weather for a further three years.
But I wonder, am I simply making excuses? After all, I also like where I live. I’ve grown to hate moving and now have the opportunity to stay stable, but am I doing it for them or for me? My wife has mentioned many times about getting back to her home in Tennessee, and I know we’ll have to leave here eventually. Am I just delaying the inevitable?
What makes it even worse is that everyone is saying it’s my decision, and that’s true. Part of me would like for someone to come along and say, “I’d like you to do this.” That would let me off the hook by granting me validation of what to do.
There are loyalty issues to consider as well. If I left now, I’d be leaving my current workers in the lurch. They’d have to pick up a great deal of slack in a time of transition, and I think that they’d resent me for making the choice to go. I’d like to return to them when my year is up, but how would they receive me?
Decisions, decisions…
Very will written. Enjoyed reading your post.
Thanks!
I love the first line! Such strong writing.
Thank you!
Rd, good writing, well done
Thanks!
My husband and I were at a red light. My husband was checking traffic coming to see if he could go before the light turned green. In the meantime the light changed green. We heard the horn blow behind us. The light had just changed. My husband became angry and did a not-so-nice gesture. We heard another honking of the horn. Then as the person passed us my husband and the other driver were exchanging some very strong words. And my husband was even called an old man.
My reaction was of anger for the sound of the honking horn. And very embrassed of my husband behavior. I felt like hi ding under my seat so know one could see me.
Road rage is very dangerous thing.
Road rage is the worst! Good description.
Great choice for this practice! I liked the part where you say you wanted to hide under your seat. Been there, done that! 🙂
We’re taking the Pig Trail, my husband and I, which is the
old highway between our house and Fayetteville where the Razorbacks play, hence
the pig reference. It’s already 103, and
the weather girl says it’s going to hit 105 before day’s end.
“I can’t take it,” my husband says. “I made it through last year and the year
before, thinking it would get better. It’s
not better,” he says, and shuts the radio off.
“I can’t even grow corn,” he says.
“Corn. I used to say any idiot could grow corn, and now I can’t.”
Up high, where we are, the tops of the trees below look like
fields of broccoli. Three hawks circle,
a perfect triangle pivoting above the mountaintop. “You want to move,” I say, which is not a
question. We’ve had this discussion
before.
“You freaking had to take frozen watermelon out to the
chickens, just so we could stay gone four hours. Four hours,” he repeats.
“I don’t think had is the right word,” I say. “I wanted to take it to them. I love those chickens. Especially Ulysses. She looks at me like she knows things.”
“Still,” my husband says, “it’s a crazy way to live. Up in Oregon,” he says, and I look out the
window. We’re at the point in the road
where the smokehouse used to be, where me and my father used to come for
lunch. It’s where we bought our hams at
Christmas. Just beyond is the lake where
I learned to swim. And further along is
Devil’s Den, a park where the caves dip below the heat. Where a body could cool off for an
afternoon. And then the bats started
getting sick, and the governor issued an order that forbids humans from getting
anywhere close.
My husband flips the radio back on. In Uganda, the Ebola virus is killing
again. Folks going the funerals of those
dying are dying themselves. I think
about my father’s funeral. How we stood
in the snow three days before Christmas and watched as they lowered his coffin
into the frozen ground. If I lived in
Oregon, I’d not go to Pleasant Grove Cemetery on Decoration Day, which is a
kind of abomination for a Southern girl.
We drive without speaking, zipping by Mimi’s Mini Meals and
Munchy Pies 2, and then the church in the doublewide comes up, with its sign
that reads, It Was The Woman That Sinned, and my blood is hotter than 105.
But I love this place, the way fall sneaks up and the trees
turn and I take this very road, every year, wearing my father’s leather jacket,
a white tank top underneath, and how I roll down the window and sing with James
Taylor, “Going to Carolina,” like my father used to sing to me.
I love the bakery where I’ve gotten every birthday cake
since I was born, and how a man named Bye Golly painted the entire storefront
with angels and deer and a creek running through pine, in exchange for donuts
every morning.
I love passing the cabin where I stole away with my
tenth-grade boyfriend and discovered the difference between puppy love and
lust.
On the radio, a Frenchman who spent six months in a cave in
Texas is talking about solitude, and how he befriended a rat, a female who
promptly gave birth to six little ones and then ate four, and how loneliness
can fell you, how it wrecked his marriage, but how he proved the human mind has
an internal clock that runs in twenty-four hour and thirty minute days, and how
that made it worthwhile, even though his life was in ruins.
Up ahead is Fayetteville, home of the Arkansas Razorbacks.
Former home of Joe Petrino, who took a little filly who was not his wife on a motorcycle
ride on April Fools Day, then wrecked, then lied about the whole thing. He is not there anymore. This fall, the Hogs will go on without him. His mansion is for sale. His motorcycle is gone. The fans are mad, mad, mad.
My husband speaks and I am jolted back into the moment. “Just what do you have against Oregon?” he
asks, and I think about his father’s ashes flitting across Cannon Beach on a
cold day in February, where the only monument to mark his passing are the sheer
cliffs that rise above the rocky beach.
I am the Frenchman, I think. I am Petrino, who only thought of himself. “Nothing is wrong with Oregon.” I say. “Not one little thing.”
I read this right after posting mine, which is also about moving. And now I’m crying all over again. Beautiful and vivid. So many memories. Loved it.
Thanks Alisha. Your story has me undone. So powerful!
That was very very sad. I live in Virginia and can relate. What’s happening to the crops breaks, and eventually the land breaks my heart, but I don’t have the added sadness of having in the same place for so long that all my birthday cakes are from there. What a good job.
I clicked that before I finished. I like the way this is divided into little sections as you drive along. It’s a good way to catch the feeling of looking out of a car window. Great job.
Marianne,
You’re so sweet. Thanks so much. The weather is treacherous right now. It’s supposed to be106 on Monday.
Memories really cement you to an area. Powerful and beautifully written!
Thanks so much Trish.
Marla, this is a lovely tale that unfolds like a map, as the journey is taken, each building and crossroads a memory. My fave has to be the birthday cake one. From someone who moved more times than years for ten years – it is good to have roots.
Thank you Suzie. Bye Golly was a drinker. I omitted that part!
beautifully written. You should submit it for publication.
They came back for their 4th viewing. I know I should be happy, excited, thrilled…
ecstatic even. And I am—I think—but
those emotions are buried, overruled and overrun. My husband took the boys to the skate
park. I said I had to run some
errands. It was a lie. I drove away from the house and around the
block and back to my street and parked my car exactly 3 houses away. I slouched low in the hot leather seat. The steering wheel pressed into my chest and
the sun bore on me, accusing. I kept my
eyes fixed on my driveway and the flowers I’d planted and the bench I’d painted
last spring. I watched as 5 cars pulled
to the curb and 24 legs in various lengths and sizes tromped up to my front
door and into my house. Faces peered out
windows, noses smelled my flowers, hands opened and shut my doors. I couldn’t see what they did inside, but I
could imagine. Tears slid down my
cheeks, mixing with the sweat. A text
message from my husband, 4 more items for the shopping list, strawberries,
eggs, deodorant, Lysol. I tossed the phone to the passenger seat and cried. 2 babies, 4 broken bones, 3
sets of stiches, 1000 movies, 10,000 bowls of popcorn, birthday parties and
fights and sleepovers, and late night tequila shots and first steps and heart
breaks and knock knock jokes, and making love quiet as a mouse so the kids
wouldn’t hear… and strangers making themselves at home in the house we’d spent
the last 9 years making our memories in.
I love all the numbers in this. Your writing is gorgeous & heartbreaking .
Thank you. I almost went back and spelled out the numbers, but decided to stay true to the 15 min exercise and I think, in the end, the numbers are best how they are.
This is absolutely beautiful and I think it’s a great example of how details can tell a story. When I go home to Va Beach I always drive by the houses that I lived in and that my grandmother lived in. They all still stand but I’m afraid it won’t be long for one of them. It’s hard to leave things that were good.
True. Even when your excited to move on to the new and exciting… it’s still an odd sad thing saying goodbye to something you know so well.
You capture multiple conflicting emotions in this – so true!
Great writing, Alisha. You really draw us into your world and make us mourn with you your loss.
Your writing gave me goosebumps…especially at the part where you number off all the things that have happened in your house. Where we live and spend our lives is so much a part of who we are. This was really powerful Alisha!
Thank you. Going to miss this house.
beautiful
Thank you.
Beautiful. The opening paragraph’s 4th viewing seems inconsistent with the later 5 cars, but that’s a technicality. The emotions were beautifully expressed. Wishing you even better times making beautiful new memories in your new home.
Mirelba, I genuinely appreciate the feedback. On this site you don’t get a lot of critique, which makes it a safe place to share, but doesn’t help you improve. I see exactly what you’re pointing out and I thank you for noticing and taking the time to push my piece to be better.
You’re welcome. I’ve worked at editing for so many years, that it’s hard for me to stifle it. After I began working at editing, I found myself automatically editing most everything I read, an annoying habit which pushed me to reading better quality books. Of course, I find it hardest to edit myself…
But since I’m new at the site, I did want to ask: are we meant only to encourage, or is it ok if we point out ways to improve? Isn’t that part of the way to grow as a writer? If all I wanted was to write, then I could just keep doing so and storing it in my computer or notebooks. But if I really want to write well, then even more than I need positive encouragement, I need critical feedback, preferably done kindly.
Hi Mirelba!
Just wanted to jump in and say welcome to the site. Yes, please point out ways people can improve. I agree with you that critical feedback, done kindly, is so important for people to improve. Here’s a post I wrote about this:
https://thewritepractice.com/criticize-me/
My hope for this community is that it can be constructively critical while being extraordinarily encouraging at the same time.
For example, you could criticize my cheesy use of aliteration right there, but leave a smiley 🙂 afterward.
Thanks! I read and enjoyed the blog you referred me too. Maybe it needs re-posting from time to time… I honestly try not to critique too much, but if everyone would post one thing that they think could be improved upon, imagine how high our writing could soar…
Good idea, Mirelba. I’ll definitely think about that.
And I totally agree. We would grow faster as a community with some tough critiquing.
Emotion – contentment? Capturing a moment of beauty.
I could see their shimmering coats far away in the distance. The green field and the blazing sun gave them an ethereal appearance, making them fit right in with the vivid colours of nature. The two horses lazily munched left and right, and the sun glistened over their backs as they moved.
My eyes took in their powerful, muscled bodies, belying their health and vitality. I wanted to reach out and feel the silky smooth coats of the horses, running my hands over the rises and falls over their backs. The smell of the foliage and trees overwhelmed my senses, sending my mind reeling with nature’s own aromatherapy.
A deep sigh escaped my lips. Knowing I had barn chores left to complete, I tore my eyes away from the scene and grabbed for the wheelbarrow handles.
Beautiful descriptions!
Barn smells are my favorite aromatherapy, for sure! 🙂
I love this – so vivid with your beautiful descriptions!!
We’re drinking beer and asking questions, trying to understand why we are not out on the streets protesting the election fraud, even though we all agree there was fraud. The questions begin by going back and touch things I really rather not think about.
“Why didn’t the pay you?” I explain several reasons, including how I didn’t apply for a position, even though I had the experience and inside knowledge for it. “I didn’t know how to create a project, and I’ve never been good about defending stuff in front of other people.”
Another round of questions and then, “Since when have you doubted your abilities?” “I’ve always doubted them. That was something I didn’t know how to do and I didn’t even want to try.” “In case I failed,” but I keep that to myself. I let my head hang a little, but I’m not really ashamed. It’s part of who I was and has helped me become who I am. It’s called learning.
I like how your short snippet captures personal growth.
Thanks! That was part of the whole conversation that day… and other conversations I’ve had with myself on the subject. So, no shame for past “mistakes” here.
Great images here, and a really strong beginning.
Thank you, Marla.
If we’re honest with ourselves, we’ve all had this experience at one time or another: wondering why we failed to participate in something we claimed to believe in; being truthful about why we did or did not do something of importance; and allowing doubt to keep us from trying. All learning creates growth.
“All learning creates growth.” Yes! It’s hard to see it sometimes, but mistakes actually become a source of learning, or at the very least, understanding (of myself, of why I do/don’t do certain things).
Yalí, haven’t we all been in that position of not trying lest we fail and then afterwards giving a little kick because what the worst that could happen. Good writing
All I know is, I write with all kinds of emotion. It fuels me during the process. The last couple of weeks I have not been able to bring myself to write what is going on, due to the amount of emotion I have been experiencing. It is one thing to allow emotion to be harnessed to such an extent to actually make something of it, but it is a totally different situation when it gets out of hand and can remove the beauty of expressing the deep emotion that flows through the mind and onto the keys and presented to the public to see. I will be back, I just needed to take a breather and account for my purpose behind the writing. I hope I made sense. thanks Suzie for all of your contributions.
I felt so proud of my daughter, like a mother bird watching her fledgling learn to fly.
But not like a bluebird on a nest in a Disney forest with a chorus of sopranos lifting her onto the breeze; real motherhood is usually that of a common, washed-out robin wringing her feathers and wondering if she has taught her little ones how to spot and catch a sure gale. First, a baby bird falls out of her nest. Then she hobbles in a series of nosedives toward shelter and there is nothing a mother can do beyond feinting divebombs at the cats and foxes who would carry her off should she not discover the strength beneath her young wings quickly. You never know what is going to happen.
Our positions were reversed last night, because isn’t that the ultimate course of life? I stood on the ground, shading my eyes against the sunset and looking up at my daughter on the third tier of the tree house she had recently refurbished alongside her dad.
“Mom,” she called to me. “I am such a lucky girl. I have my very own pony, three siblings, two parents, AND a tree house. Thank you.”
My child experienced and expressed gratitude, without preaching, without prompting. And gratitude is one of the first stepping stones needs to climb to reach the sky and soar. For this, I am proud.
This is beautiful. Sounds like you’re doing a great job.
Amen sister! i hope she flies high.
Sounds like the tree house was the cherry on top for her; and she, the icing on the cake for you. In this day and age, it’s rare to see children express gratitude for what they have and express it with such love as yours has.
Steph this is lovely, what a beautiful emotional moment captured. Well done
You mentioned concerts. Being that it’s Saturday and we often break the rules on Saturday, I took my thought and ran with it even though it’s not so much about emotions.
The excitement builds with the line outside. Every person has a story as to how or why they bought their tickets, how many times they’ve seen the band before, or what song is their favorite.
I used to be more passionate and giddy about the opportunity to share my stories. Now I’ve come to enjoy hearing others’ stories. Sure, I’ve got a very nice collection of my own. That happens after 15 concerts by the same artist. But after 15 shows, others’ stories have more value because yours are no longer a unique, once-in-a-lifetime experience. There’s no need to prove you’re familiar with the artist when you have more than a dozen ticket stubs.
After 15 shows, I know to warn the people sitting near me that I’m a screamer. I love to watch the reaction on their faces. It’s always a look at says, “Are the seats assigned tonight? Would it be rude for me to move? Are there any better seats still available?”
Once, the woman in her 50s didn’t flinch. She said, “So am I!” We had so much fun screaming, singing, dancing, and sharing the love that night.
I love feeling the crowd change emotions from excitement to energy to more serious reflection as the songs and stories demand. Tears are acceptable. Will you share a Kleenex? Some stories just merit expression from the eyes.
No good artist leaves a crowd that way at the end of the night. No, good concerts end with sending forth in joy.
Meet and greet blobs add adrenaline to joy. They’re my favorite part, the opportunity to connect with the artist off stage, to realize behind those fun lights and shiny instruments is a band made up of real people who laugh at jokes, are addicted to their phones, carry monogrammed Sharpies, and care about your stories.
It’s all about storytelling, that’s what concerts are. From the blob in the parking lot, through the mosh pit blog, to the meet and greet blob, and the crowd blog singing in the parking lot as they cross to their cars to go home. Stories are the webs that weave us all together. Once strangers, now friends, united in storytelling.
What a beautiful way to describe the power of storytelling.
Thanks, Marla!
Stories…. they keep life interesting. I too have grown to love and appreciate the stories of others. I really enjoyed this. Thank you for sharing.
From one story-lover to another, thanks, Alisha!
Katie, break the rules – when the writing is this good!
Thanks, Suzie!
I’m a very
non-confrontational person. I don’t even like it when characters in a sitcom
get into a “sticky situation!” Sometimes it’s VERY difficult for me
to put my own characters into difficult positions. While writing my most recent
short story, I kept getting stomach aches each time I worked, because I felt
so horrible for the emotional turmoil I was putting the characters through. But
that’s also how I knew I was onto something great.
I’m so sorry, Kiya! But you’re right. If you’re hurting, it means you’re doing something right. I’m impressed at how sympathetic you are with your characters. That’s a gift.
Hannah stared at the two coloured lines on
the stick. She re-read the instructions. Pregnant. She was pregnant, her heart
lifted a beat and a wild singing joy for a brief moment coursed through her
veins. Then her head kicked in. She was nearly forty, her body was tired, it
had never managed to carry a child to term before. The heartaches were there
etched like jagged scars on her heart. The first – she had been so complaisant
– this was what you did when you were married, had a house, were grown-up you
had a baby. She had got to 16 weeks before the miscarriage. She remembered the
sadness but also the disbelief – it had not been in the plan. But everyone had
been so reassuring. These things happened – try again. So they did but it took
a while, nearly a year. She had got on with her career, they had traveled a
bit. And by the time of the second pregnancy she felt she was ready, really
ready to take on the responsibility of a child, a new soul. The pregnancy had
been textbook perfect until the bleeding started and the baby, a tiny boy had
come away, too soon. He never breathed, she never saw him, never held him, her
only memory was of a tiny foot at the edge of a metal basin.
She remembered her desperate search for why
this had happened, her husband’s silence. She had cried and she had raged and
questioned and pleaded. Then she went on a crusade, she got fit, ate only
healthy, organic food, she read everything she could find on miscarriages and
still births. She was ready for the next pregnancy but not prepared for the
next loss, nor the one after that. Her whole life had become a round of wishing
and hoping and being careful and the joy and the fear followed by despair.
Seven, seven babies. Or rather non-babies. She had sat tearful and exhausted
and Joe had held her and confessed he couldn’t face it again. He felt lost,
unimportant, just a tool to use, he said he felt lonely and so did she. They
held one another and said goodbye to the dream. The dream of a happy family.
They found other dreams, other interests,
other ways to fill their days. The baby things were given away all except the
shawl her mother had made. Knitted in the finest wool – lacey and intricate,
Hannah could not bear to give it away.
She went now to the wardrobe and found it
in the box at the back of the bottom drawer. Found it so easily she knew that
she had never given up that dream, not completely, not at all if she was honest
with herself. She fingered its softness, then packed it away.
Courage was what she needed for this
journey. She wondered if the advances in medical science over the past ten
years would be enough. Did she dare to hope? David walked in and startled a
little to see her on the floor.
She looked up at him and said simply “I’m
pregnant.”
Wow, this is so heartfelt. You really draw us into this see-saw world so well. Very moving, Juliana…
This is beautiful and so intimate.
This drew me in completely. The last two words, “I’m pregnant” are powerful and they carry the weight a lifetime of experiences. My reaction to them is very different than the first mention of being pregnant (in the opening paragraph). Well done.
Juliana, a lovely piece of very emotional writing, well done
Beautifully written! Aside from being an exercise in writing emotional scenes, what you’ve written also shows great use of flashback. I love how the present scene is split. It makes the last line so loaded.
Thanks for sharing.
Very moving! If this is based on you, I hope you had your happy ending. I agree with everyone: the simple last line is so loaded. Well done.
BTW- one editorial note: First he’s Joe, then he’s David. Different men in her life, or slip?
* Disclaimer – this is a bit of a heavy one! A close friend of mine is leaving soon, and I’m in the process of working it out in my heart. This prompt helped… And it’s a really good idea to jump on those emotions in the moment and make characters who’re dealing with them, thanks Suzie, great post! *The flat was quiet. Outside, she heard the scrabbling sounds of the neighbours children, jumping on the couches and hollering to each other. Outside, Jim the maintenance man was sweeping the dust from the corridor. Outside, neighbourhood dogs were barking as somebody walked out in the cold afternoon for a stroll. Sadie breathed in and she heard her own breath loud and clear.It was a Saturday afternoon. Jill hadn’t called like she said she was. Oh well, she was probably having a meal with that nice chap who wore all the funny caps. He had slanted front teeth, but a lovely guy. Good for her.She looked at the photographs on the walls. The four of them. Jill, presiding over them with her hands gripping Sadie’s shoulders. Gugu was laughing, and the camera caught her as all jaw, letting all that laughter out. That was Gugs alright. And then Chrissy, with her hands always folded in front of her lap, and her head slightly turned – the smile she gives when she hasn’t quite had time to prepare and she’s self-consious. And then she was, pulling that crazy face which Jill was ignoring, Gugu was laughing at and Chrissy too wrought about her lack of make-up to see. It was her favourite photo. She smiled when she thought of Gugu laughing. That raucous sound could sent them out of business meetings and usher them into cocktail parties. She picked up her cell phone and dialed Gugu’s number. The phone rang, and she felt nervous. She wasn’t nervous that Gugu would answer. It was if she wouldn’t. And that sound of a phone at the end of the line, with nobody to pick up would be her day, would form the edges of her Saturday afternoon. Sadie listened to the phone asking its question again and again, and again and again the answer was no. And then there was Gugu’s laughter at the end of the line, and instead of laughing with her, she felt the warm tears fall down her cheeks. She brushed the tears away angrily and dialled another number. She knew he’d always pick up. ‘Hello?’ he said, and she smelt the beer rolling off his breath. He probably still had that way terrible habit of closing his eyes when she talked. But he was close, and he would be there in ten minutes. And then she wouldn’t hear all the sounds from outside.
Wow! Your descriptions are stunning. Wonderful writing!
Thanks, Marla!!
Sorry, word didn’t work, let’s try this format…
* Disclaimer – this is a bit of a heavy one! A close friend of mine is leaving soon, and I’m in the process of working it out in my heart. This prompt helped… And it’s a really good idea to jump on those emotions in the moment and make characters who’re dealing with them, thanks Suzie, great post! *
The flat was quiet. Outside, she heard the scrabbling sounds of the neighbours children, jumping on the couches and hollering to each other. Outside, Jim the maintenance man was sweeping the dust from the corridor. Outside, neighbourhood dogs were barking as somebody walked out in the cold afternoon for a stroll. Sadie breathed in and she heard her own breath loud and clear.
It was a Saturday afternoon. Jill hadn’t called like she said she was. Oh well, she was probably having a meal with that nice chap who wore all the funny caps. He had slanted front teeth, but a lovely guy. Good for her.
She looked at the photographs on the walls. The four of them. Jill, presiding over them with her hands gripping Sadie’s shoulders. Gugu was laughing, and the camera caught her as all jaw, letting all that laughter out. That was Gugs alright. And then Chrissy, with her hands always folded in front of her lap, and her head slightly turned – the smile she gives when she hasn’t quite had time to prepare and she’s self-consious. And then she was, pulling that crazy face which Jill was ignoring, Gugu was laughing at and Chrissy too wrought about her lack of make-up to see. It was her favourite photo.
She smiled when she thought of Gugu laughing. That raucous sound could sent them out of business meetings and usher them into cocktail parties. She picked up her cell phone and dialed Gugu’s number.
The phone rang, and she felt nervous. She wasn’t nervous that Gugu would answer. It was if she wouldn’t. And that sound of a phone at the end of the line, with nobody to pick up would be her day, would form the edges of her Saturday afternoon.
Sadie listened to the phone asking its question again and again, and again and again the answer was no. And then there was Gugu’s laughter at the end of the line, and instead of laughing with her, she felt the warm tears fall down her cheeks.
She brushed the tears away angrily and dialled another number. She knew he’d always pick up.
‘Hello?’ he said, and she smelt the beer rolling off his breath. He probably still had that way terrible habit of closing his eyes when she talked. But he was close, and he would be there in ten minutes. And then she wouldn’t hear all the sounds from outside.
zo-zo as always lovely writing, well done.
Thanks Suzie!!!
Zo zo I think this is just the way to handle writing about emotion. These emotions the yearning for the past shown in photos, the fear of the friend not being available to talk, etc. are all wound up together. It’s much easier IMO to show ardor, or fear as a factor stemming from one trigger than to show this more subtle kind of sorrow. This is perfect and you are a brave one for thinking so deeply when it hurts to think about it. I find that to be the hardest part of writing, the digging into myself through the layers of emotion until I find some words that can catch a bit of it. Well done, Very Well done.
Thanks so much, Marianne, for your kindness and encouragement. I appreciate you so much!
Wow! You had me so embroiled in your emotion that I’m left quite without words! That was great!
I just wanted to thank everyone here at Write Practice for the great motivation and inspiring posts. I have nominated you all for a dual blog award: One Lovely Blog and Inspiring Blog. Please feel free to stop by my blog for details.
http://cherylfassett.wordpress.com/
I disagree. If I write when I am emotional, I feel out of control. Just like you don’t shop for groceries when you’re hungry, I don’t write when I’m angry or sad. I’m afraid everything will end up sounding like the end of A Farewell To Arms, and I’ll be writing, alone, in the rain
Totally agree Neal, we need to store up the feelings for a later date. If I wrote when I was angry there’d be no keys left on the keyboard I would’ve banged them so hard.
She sat typing out the information to
submit. The keys clicked underneath her shortened fingernails. The
questions they asked she didn’t know how to answer. The document was
not properly formatted, which made filling it out unbearable. Why
did everything have to be so difficult? She clicked the keys harder.
This wasn’t something she was doing for
herself. It was for her son who lounged on his bed, feet propped up,
computer in his lap. Periodic laughter filled their apartment as he
stared at the glaring screen. She gritted her teeth. Here she was,
filling out line after line, tedious question after tedious question,
and he’s doing nothing worthwhile.
“What are the skills you hope to
learn from this volunteer experience?” she yelled across the room.
Silence suggested he must have on his
headphones. “Brian!”
“What!” He plodded into the room
and collapsed on the sofa next to her desk.
“I don’t know how to answer this!
What skills do you hope to learn from this volunteer experience?”
“What are you talking about?” Brian
rolled his eyes like his mother pulled him from something important.
“I don’t even know what you’re doing.”
“I’m working on YOUR volunteer
submission! You need hours for high school. Remember we talked
about this?”
“Yeah, but I was busy. I kinda
spaced on it.” He threw his hand off into the invisible distance
and stood up ready to head back to his mportant computer
entertainment.
“Where are you going? What should I
put here?”
“I don’t know, put whatever sounds
good.”
She closed her eyes and wished for
calm. “This is for YOU! I am not taking charge of your life
anymore. It is time you put some effort into your future!”
“What are you talking about? I’ve
been looking for work all week. There’s nothing. So get off my back!”
She wished sometimes she didn’t have
kids, or at least didn’t raise them to be so self absorbed, so
oblivious to her sacrifices. “You’ve been sitting on YouTube all
day, so don’t tell me you’ve been looking for – and that’s not the
point! You need volunteer hours. Who said anything about looking
for work?”
But Brian was already halfway to his
room. He didn’t care. So why should she?
You captured the frustration perfectly. Good job.
Thank you Marla!
Hey Trish good writing, well done. The frustration of parenting teenagers perfect.
Thank you Suzie!
Hi Trish! I especially liked that the conflict built internally with the mother festering over the situation. It was primed perfectly by her frustration with the formatting of the document, then we get to see where the real frustration is coming from: the mother’s hopes conflict with the son’s complacency. Good depth!
After sleeping in the back of this for the weekend, gigging in West Cork, leading worship in Killarney, attending weddings and more services and being the “sound guy” meant I have not read your comments. I will do this evening.
If she made one move it would all end. The facade of contentment would crumble, and she’d be open for people to investigate with restrained disappointment. So she kept her head turned to the left, staring at the air, straining her neck not to remain still. Her palms grew moist as she pressed them together with flexed muscles. She was bursting inside. She knew because the edges of her eyelids burned. Blue and purple halos of light swirled in the sphere of air that watched. Then the first sob broke the surface, TNT to her dam wall.
Wow. This was beautiful. Thanks for this, Sarah.
(This was not my day today, but several years ago . . . )
She reached for him after he’d turned out the lamp, put her arm around his shoulders as they lay together, and told him, “Honey, I just want you to know I’m sorry that I’ve spoken so harshly to you so many times over the last few weeks, it’s just been such a stressful time . . . ”
He nodded in the dark, knowing she could feel the motion of his head. “It’s all right — I just wish things would get easier, just wish I could find a . . . ” A job, of course. It had been over a year since his lay-off from the thrift shop at its going out of business. It hadn’t been anything to shout about, but it had been a job. He was so sick of his “employability issues”, as the counselor put it.
Her diabetes was slowly claiming more and more of her natural vitality and joy in life; it had cost her both legs below the knee and shut down the kidneys to 3% of capacity. The prostheses, the thrice-weekly visits to the dialysis center . . . she was too young to be so ill.
She spoke again, softly. ” Honey, don’t you want to . . .”
Oh, God, not that, he thought, dread causing his stomach to sink. He loved her, but there was just no energy in him for sex this evening. He stammered: Uhhh . . . I’m . . . I just don’t feel . . .”
He felt her body sag with despair at his embarassed mumblings. And when he turned away from her to meet the sleep he knew would shortly take him because of the anti-depressants, he heard her give a sigh that had tears in it.
A few hours later, he was jolted awake by her body spasming in a way he’d never experienced before, and he knew immediately that this was not a low blood-sugar episode; this was different. Her eyes opened, she looked at him and said his name in a tone of alarm that said PLEASE HELP ME. He was on the phone to 9-1-1 within seconds, then put the phone down to administer CPR as instructed. Paramedics arrived within fifteen minutes and began attempting to re-start the heart that had stopped beating. After several attempts they were successful, but she never woke up.
The police officer who had followed the paramedics in offered encouraging words: “I bet they can help her, don’t give up hope, man . . . ”
But he knew, driving to the hospital in the wake of the ambulance, using the fleshy part of his arm to brush the tears off his cheek as he drove, that her life, the life of the woman he loved, had just flown [fifteen minutes up]
I wrote 2 different posts for this one. One is mostly dialog, and I want to know if the feelings get through. And BTW, in this dialog my son is not consistent in what he calls me, but since they’ve grown, all my kids are like that. In one conversation they can go from Ma to Mom to Ima to Mother- you get the picture…
My son calls. I hear
his voice over the wires, so far away, and yet so close to my heart. Morning here, it is middle of the night by him.
“Hey, Ma, what’s up?”
“I’m fine, sweetie.
How are things by you? How was
your day?”
“Good, Mom, good.”
I hear his voice cheerful as always.
“Have any good sales today?”
“Well, this week wasn’t that great. Had some sales, but nothing aMAYzing. But this lady offered me a job today.”
“A job? Doing
what?”
“Real estate.
And do you know how much I can make, Ma?
Much more than at home. 3%. That means that if I sell a million-dollar
house, I would make 300 thousand dollars!
Do you know how much money that is?”
“That’s a lot of money, sweetie. But do you think you’ll really be selling
million dollar houses?”
“I might.”
“What do most houses sell for in your area?”
“I dunno. ”
“And you do realize that you only make the money if you
make a sale. What happens if it takes a
while till you make a sale? How will you
live?”
The phone lies quietly in my hand for no more than a second. Once again I hear the upbeat lilt of his
voice.
“I guess I can do it as a second job.”
“Uh-huh. Twelve
hours a day at your sales job six days a week, and another job on the side? How will that work exactly?”
This time the phone is silent for a full two seconds. “I’ll ask my boss for fewer hours.”
“I thought that the grueling schedule you work is the
deal.”
“Well, yes, but my boss likes me. Maybe I can get him to let me try this.”
My son, my love, my heart. All grown up, but still my baby. Lover of life, dreamer of big dreams. Maybe you are more like me than I realized.
Here’s the second one I wrote, think it’s too sparse and doesn’t really capture it. You know, that aha feeling of getting it right. what do you think?
I have shut down the computer for the night, after writing for
most of the day. Now I go to my bedroom
and ready myself for the night. I slip
into bed, and my husband turns off the tv.
We talk a bit, sweet words to reconnect after the separate paths of our
day. And I drift off to sleep. Almost there, when a phrase jumps into my
mind. I sit up in bed fumbling to get my
feet out from under its coverings.
“Where are you going,” my husband mumbles.
“just a sec, I’ll be right back. I just have to get something down.”
I race back to the computer with a smile on my lips. Turn the computer back on, pull up the story
I’d been working on and slip in the phrase that had just come to me. Just right.
One short phrase, and it brings the whole paragraph to life. Done! I
feel my heart fill, and with glowing face, hit save and go back to bed.