Everyone wants to be original. Fact. And yet how hard do you strive towards being original? How can you tell if you are or aren’t? Who’s the judge of your work?
These are questions that bother me daily and cloud over my work. It’s not easy to get through. You can rationalize: my work is unique, because nobody else can do it exactly like I did. This is true, and yet so many books look like copies of one another, old-fashioned themes, clichéd choice of phrases and sentences.
Is it enough? I personally don’t think it is.
Don’t Ignore Your Demons
No matter that striving towards originality brings me panic-stricken anxiety, I still choose it. I don’t ignore my inner demons. Yes, the same ones telling you that you’re not good enough.
You shouldn’t ignore them, because guess what: sometimes you really are not good enough. I know it hurts. It’s meant to. You can’t get better if it doesn’t hurt. You can’t get better if you don’t admit that you are not there yet.
On Originality
What does it mean to be original? Any number of things really, but these are my deliberations on it:
- to walk the path not yet taken
- to experiment with form, theme, genre, language, voice, point of view, characterization, setting, time ad infinitum
- to question established norms and standards
- to break rules
- to go with the crazy ideas, not safe choices
- to explore as far as you can
- to go with your guts
There’s no formula(s), but there are examples. Ernest Vincent Wright wrote a novel without using the letter “e”; Queneau wrote a story in 99 ways; Joyce wrote Ulysses after 15 years of work until reaching perfection.
The list goes on, and the point is that there are numerous examples, with models that don’t resemble each other (that’s why they’re original!). It requires the hardest imagined eagerness and infinite work.
How Do You Get There?
If only there was an answer. All you need to do is search: read obsessively, hear and overhear – truly listen to your surroundings, be curious and never stop experimenting. Learn the rules and then break them.
Differentiate between valuable and nonsense critique, dare yourself, and think. You can never overthink. Allow yourself to pour all that overthinking onto the page. Obsess. It’s worth it. You can never overdo it.
Originality Is Everywhere
Not everything has been done before. Only a portion has been revealed. All the rest awaits to be discovered. To be original you need to seek it. To find other original minds, be inspired, and then start your own journey towards it. Raise your standards as high as you can. Otherwise, you’ll end up being mediocre.
The agony of seeking originality is unbearable and inevitable in a writer’s journey. It shows you’re shooting high.
In the end, here's an excerpt from Virginia Woolf’s In The Lighthouse, where one of the characters, Mr. Ramsay ruminates on his journey towards originality, and portrays the pain all artists and intellectual minds go through.
A good reminder that you’re not alone.
Are you seeking originality? What’s your story?
PRACTICE
Today dare to write something crazy. A piece of writing that scares you and touches every atom in your body, and in a way that nobody, but yourself, understands. It can be a sentence if you like. Just dare to be daring today. And if you like, share it in the comments. Let’s be crazy together!
Dr. Spencer stared at me, he wore a lilac shirt and had his top button undone. The smooth, deep baritone voice that sounded like waves lapping about in the ocean bounced through the walls of his tiny office. It was just the two of us, me sharing my deepest darkest secrets, him writing everything down into his trusty little notebook.
“So I read a bit about you, why are you here?”
“I used to belong to a cult. It was the Church of God’s Followers, and I was a member. I spent the last eight years of my life there… I gave them my time… and most of all I gave them eight years of my mind.”
“And when did you decide that this religious group was not for you?”
“I started to have my doubts at 18, but I held my tongue and then I turned 21, I stopped actively associating with the group and I started to feel free, free from having to go to their church gatherings three times a week, free from having to wear something black on a Friday because of Jesus’ death, free from having to devote my time to worshiping their god, living the lifestyle that some power hungry narcissistic man decides to tell 12 million people in the population.”
“So why are you here, what do you want to get out of these sessions.”
“My wife is a member… she has been a member since she was a child. We got married young, I married her when I turned 18, we had been taking since 16… and things are hard. She doesn’t like the fact that I have faded from that world, and she really wants me to return. I can’t. But I still love her. We have a child, thank god he is only one years old, I would hate him to be consumed by that church.”
I sat in the chair, Dr. Spencer kept scribbling notes down…
I like this, though I thought at first it was a woman speaking (maybe because it says ‘Rebecca’ at the top, or maybe the observations about the Dr’s shirt. It caught my interest, and made me want to know what happens next!
I also thought it was a woman. No matter. I think you have the beginnings of a very interesting tale. I enjoy the device of the doctor in order to express the story; I feel it moves swiftly!
Thank you so much for your responses, I tried to write from the male perspective but I guess I have a hard time pulling it off.
This is indeed very interesting. Conflict right off the bat with the disagreement between a couple.
Can I just say, I had trouble picturing your protagonist, but not for the same reasons. I didn’t think it was a woman, and I did not think it was a man. There is simply no hint as to the sex of your protagonist. I will stand by that statement.
I applaud your ability to write in mostly dialogue! Us readers love dialogue. It is arguably the most exciting, engaging part of a piece of fiction. Who doesn’t love dialogue?! I know I do.
A very good piece Rebecca. It makes me want to find out more. No worries about the sex of the protagonist; sometimes it’s good when it’s not out there from the beginning: makes you more involved in the story, working out details.
Perhaps, to attain originality, one need simply to bear in mind the source of the word: “origin.”
Ha, love this Birgitte. I love ethymology, so yeah it strikes a chord.
She lay there on the edge of the pavement on the busy city street, her legs crossed at the ankles under the skirts of her long black dress, her white blonde hair splayed out on the ground around her head like a halo. Her hands lay, one on top of the other, across her chest, and her face had a peaceful, almost serene look about it.
Anyone would think she had just laid down on the pavement to sleep. And yet she was dead. No-one knew who she was, or where she had come from, or how she had died.
You would expect that people would be crowding round her, looking at her, talking about her, taking pictures with their phones. But they walked round her, hurrying to work or rushing to get into the department stores and out of the bitter December wind, making large detours around her body as if she were a beggar or a street sales-person.
One special little girl could see her though, and she stood and stared with wide eyes and a worried frown.
(I like this, but I don;t know where I am going with it, so I will stop there…just trying to get back into the habit of writing again!)
I love the way you paint the picture. I want to know what happens, I want to know more.
Thank you William!
Welcome back, Kate. You’re off to a great start! The concept of people not noticing is pretty solid and realistic, and the little girl noticing is very intriguing. Good luck!
Aww, thanks Karl, and thanks for your comments!
I like this Kate. It’s easy to imagine the scene. Will the girl poke her about and finally find out she’s dead?
Thanks Sophie!!
You drew me in with the first sentence, Kate. The picture was so clear of the dead woman with no one paying attention. Scary. Scarier with a “special” girl…I’d read more for sure! Nice job.
Thank you Margaret! Glad you enjoyed it!
To This End
He plucked his eye out to allow his thoughts to flow out and onto the page. The pain allowed him intense focus. Of course he could write. This was a trait, being of Celtic blood. Voices spoke to him like a device and he recorded them. He considered himself likened to a tailor or cobbler. No different; only in the pocket; his pockets were lighter and so were his debts.
He always made a distinction between a starving artist and a hungry one. He was once told of his great gift and he countered, that it was a curse and not to employ it was the sin. Primordial voices compete for his attention. Sometimes he chooses the loudest and sometimes the softest depending on his mood, which was vast and varied. Like his moods his thoughts were the movement of a river always in flux, always moving. But on rare occasions he could be of singular thought. It was these times that that one thought could be good or it could be evil. Both of equal power to create or destroy. The creative, is zen like focus, able to describe beauty. The destructive so horrible it has been known to destroy the reader.
It’s always that way; people fear the shadow’s they themselves cast. Still there’s always hope, it grows in the corners like mold. And sometimes prolific like moss on the north of trees and rocks that pop their heads out in a brook. Sometimes like the pungent aroma of the pine tar docks.
And then there’s the voices that have been silenced either by violence or by there own inability to speak. These are the voices that are missed as well as forgotten dissolved within the lingering mist whose wounds finally heal when there are no longer witnesses. And to this end, is… time.
I absolutely love the second to last paragraph. Also: “a starving artist vs. a hungry one.” What a concept!
Nice piece William – I like the part about his thoughts being like a river – that’s a really great metaphor!
Love it! It’s very well written, the line “He always made a distinction between a starving artist and a hungry one.” – is genius. It’s very introverted writing, I wonder if writing in the first person would work… (written scraps of his, journal pages or blog entries) or maybe incorporating some of your protagonist’s work in the third person would add interest, shape and dimension to the work.
Very nicely written William. I smiled at the Celtic blood thing – well done.
I like your voice here, has a strong poetic feel. A lot of provocative lines: his pockets were lighter and so were his debts, Like his moods his thoughts were the movement of a river always in flux, people fear the shadow’s they themselves cast.
Thank you everyone for your wonderful comments and encouragement. I also want to let Rebecca know that I took this to my writing class yesterday and it was also suggested that I try to write it first person as well and I will do that; thanks again. And by the way, the encouragement received has weighed down my pockets immensely.
Your paragraph about how only a portion has been revealed touched me. Last night I was reworking my plot and decided to go for a world where people were altered to be replicas. They did the same job, they had the “same” voice, they did the same things. But then my girlfriend reminded me of Anthem, where the plot lines were just the same. So I am going to look in to the part of the story that isn’t written. The men behind the replicas. What are their stories?
Glad to hear you found the post helpful Benjamin. And yeah, I know that feeling when you think you have the most genuine idea ever and then you find out someone else did it before. But, like you said, you can go about it differently. The important thing is to make a good research on any idea you’re serious about and then look for your own way of making it original.
“I told Effie not to go on stage tonight. She thought I was being selfish. But it has nothing to do with me, I swear, and if I told her why she would worry. . .maybe think I’m on drugs again but I swear I’m not and I’m not crazy. I can see her I can see her right now. It’s not like a dream, like you said, or daydreaming either. I mean I can close my eyes and see her like a movie—clear as day—and all week when I closed my eyes I saw her walking down the street, driving in her car, even lying in bed and every time I saw her there was a vulture behind her—flapping its wings so slowly as she walked down the street—it sat in the passenger seat of her car, like, turned sideways facing her and it wasn’t blinking or moving; it sat motionless, and when she was in bed with the lights off, under the covers, it was so dark but I could see the vulture perched on her bedpost.
“It’s waiting for her like what vultures do except this one isn’t circling overhead because it isn’t a real vulture, I don’t think. It’s something evil and it’s been waiting for tonight—I’m almost positive. She’s on stage right now playing her guitar. . .her hair is obscuring her face, her head is bobbing up and down. . .the lights at stage front are fading from blue to purple and then darkness. . .the overhead strobe lights are the only light now, Jimmy sitting at the drumset behind her, Sarah playing bass. . .Effie whips her hair backward—she and Sarah smile at each other in the strobe lights. . .Jimmy hits the cymbals three times and starts pounding on the drums and Effie’s face turns mean and she stares at the crowd and starts her solo. . .her fingers are dancing on the strings. . .she’s banging her head with the music her and hair is wild, like black fire. . .the audience is roaring. . .Sarah looks at Effie and she thinks ‘your solo is over’ and Jimmy is thinking the same—they exchange a glance—the strobe lights stop and it’s black as night in the auditorium. . .Jimmy stops playing the drums. . .Sarah stops playing the bass. . .the overhead lights flash and the whole stage, the audience, everything is washed with a red glow and oh god the vulture is perched on Effie’s shoulder. . .Jimmy and Sarah have stopped playing now and they’re looking at her but she won’t stop playing guitar. . .she looks at them helplessly and shrugs and they are shaking their heads at her. . .all you can hear is her guitar. . .her hand won’t stop moving. . .the lighting turns normal and all color returns and she’s still playing and she’s terrified her mouth moves ‘help me!’ and her eyes are wet. . .a single tear drags a black streak of makeup down her cheek. . .her fingers are bleeding on the strings. . .she’s screaming for help but they can’t hear. . .Sarah looks worried and walks over to help and when she gets close, Effie spears her in the face with the headstock of her guitar—Sarah’s hands cover her face and she falls backwards—Effie shrieks—Jimmy rushes to Sarah’s side—Effie keeps playing the guitar and eyeliner is oozing on her cheeks—the nickel-wound strings are slick with blood and the neck is smeared and you can her the mushy skin on her fingers sliding around and a crimson river is oozing onto the guitar’s body and dripping onto the floor near her pedals and the wires and all that electrical equipment. . .the vulture hasn’t moved from her shoulder. . .”
“Clay? Oh God, he’s convulsing—call an ambulance!”
Karl, wow. I was struck by a few things here. First the vulture sitting in the passenger seat of her car. I imagined almost a Jim Henson puppet-esque vulture with beady eyes. Second was how you built this sense of foreboding and let it simmer. We know something will happen on stage and the dramatic irony with the musicians playing on without knowing is really effective. Third was how much you committed to the horror aspect. You left quite an impression with the mushy skin sliding around on the strings. Very daring.
It’s amazing–I wasn’t expecting the interpretations that you have relayed to me. I’m so glad–no that isn’t the word–enthralled–that you could read what I wrote and take from it a kind of depth that I had never imagined. I need you in my critique group. 😉
And, of course, muchas gracias to Sophie, who gave me permission to be a little weird. I wouldn’t have done this without this post.
Great work Karl. You managed to build such an emotional anticipation and you also resolved it perfectly. Very very unusual piece and I encourage you to take it further. 🙂
This is AWESOME!! i love the flow of it and how it picks up speed as the narration moves forward – great work!!!!!!!!!!!!
Wow! I get the word “awesome” in caps lock!? And like 20 exclamation points! Thanks so much Kate, for reading it and taking the time to comment. Good to see you back in the game!
Thanks Karl! It looks like a lot of people enjoyed this piece, i hope you do something with it?
It’s definitely going in my back pocket. The kid (or “dude,” “guy,” “bro,”) named Clay, whoever he is, with the psychic visions, is something I would love to experiment with in the future
Loved this, the suspense was gripping me – as a musician, I can’t help but wonder what kind of music does she play genre wise, sounds like rock – maybe you could elaborate? I wanted to *hear* the music that she played, I just saw her playing with other musicians – the imagery was great though! Just my two cents.
Yes, yes it was rock and roll. You could even say it was heavy metal. I find it so HARD to describe certain instruments. . .like an electric guitar solo, for example. I feel like if I could have described it better, it would have been better. How can I describe that she was diddling around on the high frets of the E, B, and G strings? I suppose I could have elaborated. It occurred to me that I should describe the sounds a little more, but I was more focused on the scene playing out in my head.
Your two cents is worth more than two cents, believe me. 😉 Thanks for taking the time.
I have to throw this in here. When you’re on stage, feedback is usually a bad thing. The microphone screeches with feedback; guitar amps squeal and ring with feedback; and it’s ear-piercing. Just an amusing observation on how some feedback is good and some is bad. 😉
I loved this piece Karl! I loved the idea of her friend seeing the vulture and utilizing as a sign of impending doom. Your imagery and description is phenomenal! I could hardly bare to read the ending, since I’m a bit squeamish, and my imagination is sometimes too vivid for my own good. Also, I assume that Clay is the person who narrated the majority of the passage, and had the hallucinations of the vulture. Was the entire accident with Effie and the guitar solo a hallucination as well?? If so, amazing plot twist, my friend. This entire piece is riveting.
Thank you so much, Catherine, for taking the time to read and comment. It warms my heart that you recognize the symbol of the vulture exactly as I was trying to portray it. And you used the word “phenomenal” and well, you just tickled my ego something fierce. Yes, Clay has the majority of dialogue in this piece. He was using a psychic ability to describe events that were actually happening in real time.
Side note: I hope somebody gets to that auditorium, because there’s about to be an electrical fire.
Wow, wow, Karl, I’m out of breath! The pacing of this is powerful and the writing so authentic, I was there in the audience, watching it all happen.So many images that are stand outs: there was a vulture behind her—flapping its wings so slowly as she walked down the street,her fingers are dancing on the strings, everything is washed with a red glow, her fingers are bleeding on the strings..this is really good stuff. Look forward to more. (also, I love the name Effie!)
Karl, I would buy this book. It is great writing. And I’m glad to see you writing in a musical vein again! My fingers occasionally *felt* like this when I played in bands but this is the real deal, eh?
I wanta know the rest of the story!
I’m so glad I helped inspire you. The feeling of gratitude is overwhelming–I’m so glad you could look at something that I made and use it to make your own thing. That, to me, is art. Freaking awesome, man. I can’t wait to see what you wrote. You will let me read it, yes?
You bet, man! I was referring to the piece I wrote on this date’s blog, it’s below. It begins “He recognized at a relatively late date . . . ”
Thanks again!
“Stop! Leave me alone!!” I shouted into the night. My words didn’t make a sound though. True, they were shouted, screamed out through every pore of my being, but my vocal chords remained still. It was my heart, my very soul, that yelled out into the inky darkness of the space around me. I was at war against an enemy that has plagued mankind since the birth of man. Soon, I began to feel the icy pangs creep back into my chest, as if a cage of icicles were beginning to close around my heart, as ivy chokes its victims. In my mind, I heard wicked thoughts whispered to me in a voice that was eerily similar to my own. It wanted me to go against everything I’ve been taught, to renounce everything I believed in. That enraged me. A small spark of strength leapt from the deepest recesses of my heart. I used that spark to call for my protector, my mighty Lion, to come and rescue me, defend me as He always had. In my mind’s eye, I could envision a massive, golden lion leaping from the shadows and landing in front of me, thus shielding me from the icy blasts that tormented me. With a rumbling, crisp roar, my internal icy prison melted away, and the spark in my bosom blazed, sending a comforting warmth throughout my entire body. In my mind’s eye, once more I envisioned my mighty Lion, and I threw my arms around His neck and buried my face in His mane that smelled of lavender and cinnamon- calming scents that always brought me comfort. He then touched my face gently with a massive paw so I would look up at Him. His eyes smiled at me, and I fell into a deep, restful slumber at last. I awoke with a feeling of peace, and as I looked out my window, I couldn’t help but to smile at the rose and golden colored clouds of dawn.
This is certainly powerful writing. . .there’s some awesome phrasing in here: “a cage of icicles around my heart”–the lion sounds beautiful, and I love the hug. . .it’s just that, well, if someone asked me what this was actually about, I wouldn’t be able to say. Who were you shouting at? Who or what has plagued mankind since the birth of man?
Thank you so much for your comment Karl! I can see how this passage may seem confusing, since it does sound a bit abstract and fantastical, even to me. I feel that there could be a thousand, varying interpretations depending on a person’s views and beliefs: that’s one of the wonderful things about writing. I am a person of faith, a Roman Catholic to be precise, and this piece could be seen as a way of expressing my faith and my relationship with God.
To answer your questions, I was shouting back at that little (or at times not-so-little) voice that constantly tempts us to do wrong. If you wanted to name him/it, I guess it would be the Devil. That temptation to do wrong, uncertainty in your values and beliefs, that fear that everything you’ve known is a lie, pretty much any harmful emotion/fear/uncertainty- that’s what I was referring to: that which prevents us from truly being ourselves and pulls us away from God and could eventually lead your life into a downward spiral, with seemingly no chance of escape or redemption- that is what I meant has plagued mankind since the birth of man.
The lion is, as you may have guessed, a way that I view God as my protector. I am a huge C.S. Lewis fan. I especially adore “The Chronicles of Narnia”, as you may know, there is a character in the series named ‘Aslan’ who Lewis intended to be a representation of God. I loved the image of this mighty yet gentle lion, that was always there when needed most to protect and defend those whom he loved and loved him. Whenever I feel particular vulnerable to the sorts of temptations I described in the passage, I often in the midst of the turmoil envision my mighty Lion, and how He would always defend me.
The feelings I described are indeed feelings I have experienced first-hand, and it felt amazing to be able to express them in writing and to share the result of that here. I wrote about an instance where I felt genuine fear, and I think it’s pretty crazy that I was able to put it in words and share it with all of you.
Well come Cath. Nicely written scene of inner struggle upon any kind of human temptation. And of course ultimate restoration!
Thank you very much for that lovely comment, Sophie. I like that phrase: “ultimate restoration”. It has a very nice sound to it.
For the sake of argument… perhaps originality is less important than one’s skill with words. Or less important than truth. Any work that snubs its nose at conventional thinking, that’s what I find compelling. But then maybe truth is original. For instance, if I said “the best stories are more significant for the protagonist’s failure than her ultimate victory,” that might attract attention because people are drawn to the truth. They might read on to find out if it is the truth. Or, here’s another one: “In the opposite of our principles lies our truth.” Is that more important because it is original, or because it might be the truth? Anyway… thanks for causing me to think on’t.
Good argument PJ. I completely agree that one shouldn’t chase originality just for the sake of being different. It loses any sense and meaning. You have the have your own good reasons for doing what you’re doing.
PJ, excellent, thought-provoking stuff! “‘In the opposite of our principles lies our truth.”‘ That is so often so scarily true.
So Good to read you again!
Naina huddled herself and rubbed her arms as she stepped out. She accidentally kicked a beer bottle that went clunking down the small steps. It was darker
than what she expected. There was silence all around and she could only hear
the soothing sound of the crashing waves. After the deafening music at the
beach party just a few hours ago, the silence was welcoming. She moved closer
towards the water. Who said beaches were scary in the night? It just had a
darker side like all of us.
She sat down and felt the damp sand beneath her. She
closed her eyes and filled her lungs with the moist air. “hmmm” she
thought. “Nothing to think of.’ “Wow!”She muttered under her
breath. For once she was in the world and yet so away from it. She was in Goa,
the party capital of the country, and yet ironically, this is the place where
she sat in peace. Of course life was still going on as she sat there. But she
wanted to revel in the nothingness of now.
She would go back in her room where
her drunk friends would not have noticed she was gone.”Thank God for
that” she thought and smiled. But right now she was happy being alone,with
the waters shining under the fading light of half a moon. Of course there were
matters going around in her life which could use her attention. But they can
wait. Sometimes all you need is an empty moment. No,it does not give you a
solution to anything. It does not even leaves you enlightened . It just helps you to stop and
feel.It helps you slow down.
She could do this all night. But logic suggested
otherwise. It was time to go back. She was not sure how long she sat there but
she guessed it was late when she saw a lone fisherman tugging his boat. Naina got
up to walk back to her room. On the way, she turned back and smiled towards the
playful waters. “Thank You” she muttered as she hurried towards her
room. Life was waiting for her after the pause.
———————–
This is the first time I am writing on your website.. I hope I will get a useful critique! 🙂 I wrote this on my way to work. I didn’t want to make it complicated for once.
Oh, it’s not complicated!
Welcome Varsha! I really like your practice. It brings about a feeling of calm and peace, and serves as a reminder of the pausing moments we all need. I especially like the part how the beaches in the night resemble the darker side we all inhabit.
Thank You Sophie! 🙂
This is so bizarre….. It makes no sense at all. Not really sure how I came up with this… Seems like the climax of some story, but not sure what its going on about. I don’t know what this is but it’s certainly…. Original….
——————————————————————————————————-
The buzzing was getting louder now. Outside the door, down the hallway something was moving. Moving closer. Moving towards me. For almost an hour
I’ve been huddled up underneath my desk, my eyes locked onto the door, waiting for something, anything to burst through the door and… My teacher had gone a few minutes ago followed shortly by screams and the sound of flesh being ripped. I knew, without a doubt, that was going to happen to me. My conscious had surrendered to death, but my soul had not.
Not one of my classmates uttered a single word. Our breaths were shallow, and our eyes sunken in despair. The rattling was so loud now, I doubt even if we shouted you wouldn’t hear us. Wouldn’t hear our screams for help, our pleas for survival.
The door creaked open, and light shined through the crack. The buzzing stopped, replaced by silence. Somehow, the silence was worse. The door moved open slowly, finally revealing the thing that had caused my heart to turn black.
A orb. A bright orb, one that resembled burning magnesium. And within the orb, two giant eyes. With a shiver, I realised who’s eyes they were… They were mine.
It wasn’t a monster. It wasn’t an orb. Their was a reason why my mind had surrendered to death and my soul hadn’t; because my soul was hunting me.
Certainly bizarre, but that doesn’t mean less original. I have only remark: I don’t think a child can feel haunted by his/her soul like that, feeling his/her mind is surrendered to death. To me it just feels adult-like and not very believable for a child character.
Yes that’s true. Just to make sure you understand, I don’t normally write such weird stuff… 😀 Thanks for the advice as well.
I think it is difficult to determine who is original, who is the star. To be honest, there may be overlap in the stories, it’s impossible to know in advance
The day after daddy left mama told us to stop calling her mama. “My name is Yvonne and that’s what you will call me from now on.” she announced while she was stirring the tomato soup on the little two burner stove that scorched up the counter top. “I never wanted to be anyone’s mama. No sense pretending we’re a real family with your daddy gone.” Even when a bad fever made
Finch call out mama in the middle of the night, Yvonne just rolled over and
said. “Natalie, you tell little your sister there’s no mama here.” I had turned ten
that summer and was older and smarter than my two sisters but calling mama
Yvonne felt like taking the Lord’s name in vain.
The first time I
said it aloud, we were sitting in front of the principal at Immaculate Mary
School. We had moved again which meant the same questions that felt like the
grand inquisition. Why did the principal need to know where daddy worked? He wasn’t the one going into fourth grade. When we sat in Sister Agnes’s office, I
thought she might be different because she wore glasses. But she wasn’t. She
asked the same dumb questions that made Yvonne go on and on about how much she
loved the movies and how she picked our names. “Well, I had to name my first
born Natalie. I mean Natalie Wood is so beautiful. Thank God I didn’t have a
boy. I don’t know what would happen to a boy named Natalie.” Yvonne laughed her
deep throaty laugh as she dug in her purse for a cigarette. “Finch of course, was
supposed to be a boy, but she popped out as pink and curly haired as Natalie
and Maria.”
Sister told
Yvonne that smoking wasn’t allowed at Immaculate Mary and turned to me. “How do you like being the oldest in your
family Natalie?” And, that’s when I said it. When I called mamaYvonne for the
first time. I smiled at Sister Agnes with the same smile I used for Mr Gennero when
he came to collect the rent and I lied and told him Yvonne wasn’t home. I said “I’m
not the really the oldest Sister, because
Yvonne’s older than me by 16 years.”
You wouldn’t believe how much redder a face
looks framed in all that white starched cloth. Sister’s face flamed so bright,
I half expected to hear a siren come out her mouth.
This is brilliant, Margaret! You hooked me with the first paragraph. I especially love, “Sister’s face burned so bright, I half expected to hear a siren come out her mouth.”
thx, Rebecca – didn’t quite turn out the way I expected, but feels good to get it out!
Margaret, you once again do such a marvelous job of capturing what it’s like as a child dealing with difficult family issues! I just love Natalie’s “Yvonne’s older than me by 16 years.”, and the reaction, the bright red face of Sister Agnes. The humor in the midst of difficulties is really effective. This is fine work, yet again!
Reading your piece gave me the inspiration to write my own piece, above. Thank You!
thank you, John! Haven’t seen you for a while here – maybe we both hang around at different times. You are so kind to remember my work – am thrilled it helped inspire you.
You’ve created a super interesting family here, Margaret. She named her daughter Finch because he was supposed to be a boy? It seems like this Yvonne has the potential to be a powerful antagonist.
“Like the same smile I used for Mr. Gennero when he came to collect the rent. . .” that sentence adds so much depth. Like it was just another thing that Yvonne made her do, like that kind of thing was normal. And I can’t tell you how much I love her response: “Yvonne’s older than me by 16 years.”
thx, Karl!
He recognized at this late date that compared to others, breathing for him was often a challenge, due to that condition that had delayed his emergence into the world three weeks past the due date, the condition he had officially re-named some-damned-thing-or-other, after belatedly realizing that one’s official medical diagnosis not only follows you all your life but provides a convenient pigeon-hole for folks to drop you in.
Even remembering the work his father did with him regarding breathing — “Son, you allow yourself to run out of air! Always, Always remember to *breathe*!” — his desire to be like everyone else had deadened his awareness that this, after all, was one of his larger challenges —
The jaw-breaker. Ohhhh god.
He wouldn’t have been more than twelve years old, sitting on the back porch one cloudy afternoon, and he popped the giant, hard-candy sphere in his possession into his mouth, enjoying the cinemmon-y flavor until — he opened his mouth unawares and inhaled just a bit too sharply, and the one-inch ball of hard candy promptly receded deep into his throat where it stuck solidly in place. His first two or three efforts to dislodge it were utterly ineffectual; there it lodged still. Beginning to panic, he staggered to his feet and into the kitchen, eyes bulging, and signed to his mom, indicating his throat, and she quickly understood what was the matter. “Can you — No?” And with the most intense look of effort and distaste on her face, she proceeded to stick her index finger down his throat making digging motions, which may not have been the best practice but her heart was in the right place — also to no avail.
His panic was becoming all-consuming. He flailed his arms around. He looked for a place to go to ground as it were; there must be an answer and he must find it. Mom flew out of his vision, and when he found her again she was on the phone to the ambulance company (on this day decades in advance of 9-1-1 services); sitting here four almost fifty years later, he can almost, but not quite, remember her words on the phone as she described the problem.
He tried one more time, instinctively bringing a COUGH up from his diaphragm — and out the jaw-breaker popped onto the kitchen floor, making an oozy purple trail of his ,and its, juices. he remembered the sound, not unlike a pool ball dropping off the table to thunk on the floor. Momma told him later his lips had turned blue.
Gradually over the years he had learned that his breathing is something he must be very careful of. And the memory was ingrained for life in the tissues of the throat and the grateful inrush of each unimpeded breath.
Joining the choirs at church and learning how one breathes when one is singing was an immense help.
whoa – what a terrifying memory. I always hated jaw breakers because they turned my teeth and lips blue for days but I never thought about how they could lodge in my throat- yikes! The beginning of this piece reminds me of Leif Enger’s Peace Like a River where the narrator is a young boy who has terrible asthma and recalls his birth and how he almost died. (one of my all time fav.books, btw) One suggestion: I think it could be a stronger start to just say “His desire to be like everyone else had deadened his awareness that breathing was often a challenge for him” The one sentence replaces the first 2 paragraphs and draws the reader into the story right away without the need for the rest of the back story – we want to know WHY breathing is a challenge and what kinds of things he does to “be like other kids” It’s a good story, John – am glad you shared it.
Thank you,Margaret — I’m going to get hold of Enger’s book, I’ve never read that one and it sounds like a story I might resonate with. You’re undoubtedly right about the one sentence being a much stronger start. This piece of course is just a small bit of the story, and while I want the information about the birth and his father’s concern to be included, I may need to find a better place in the narrative to disclose them.
Thanks again!
Here’s the first line of the novel “From my first breath in this world, all I wanted was a good set of lungs and the air to fill them with…” It’s one of the very few books I read twice…I hope you like it as much as I did. Sounds like you might relate to the main character.
Yes indeed!
“Officially renamed some-damn-thing-or-other” I LOVE THAT LINE! Also, “cinnamon-y.” I personally think we should be allowed to add the letter “y” to any word and make it an adjective.
& “distaste” is one of my favorite words.
I love the climax (or what, to me, was the climax) of the descriptions about him coughing up the jawbreaker. Those descriptions really set the tone for this piece. @ the beginning I’m wondering what is going to happen (why is breathing a challenge, for him?) & you answered that question nicely. Bravo, sir.
Thank you so much Karl!
Haha, crazy is something I’m good at! Unfortunately, it no longer scares me… Actually, what scares me is making things boring. Or maybe losing structure? Maybe I should write a short story without structure…
~~~
I groaned like a creaky log and flopped unceremoniously onto the ground, still moaning.
“Make it end!” I pleaded with older my sister, who has now looming over me, her face set in disapproval. “Let the torture stop!”
“Amy, all I’m doing is making you take a break from your obsession,” my sister, Helen, said crossly. “It’s becoming unhealthy.”
“It’s *art*,” I corrected her for about the billionth time. “And it *needs* obsession to work out. It’s not a hobby. Living is a hobby; painting is my life.”
Helen’s brow only puckered further. “Sure. You know that makes no sense, right?”
“No. It does make sense, but only to us artists!”
I was teasing, and Helen knew it. She was the mathematician in the family and cared not for the wonders of art.
“Shut up, squirt. The fresh air is good for you. All those paint fumes will lead you to an early death. And then what?”
Helen was teasing, and I knew it. I was the painter in the family. The one who could work wonders with the brush of colours, mixing and matching and perfecting.
“Oh look. A squirrel. Oh look, it’s climbing up my leg…”
Helen looked on the verge of laughter, and the look of delight didn’t even fade from her eyes as the squirrel sunk it’s teeth into her neck, and she fell dead, beside me, where I lay on the earthy ground.
And I screamed.
~~~
I don’t know what that is, but it frankly horrifies me XD
– “I may be perhaps unintellectual and my abilites may perhaps not be to the standards of your so highly and evalated level but i am not inadequate. And i dont need you, nor do i need you’re belittling opinions on my work. my mind is filled to the brink with out of this world ideas and crazy stories that are completely twisted to the formal means of reality which i occupy over and over again in an endless world of deep though and imagination, laced with happiness, adventures and despair. I know i will make it someday, and that i am meant to do this, my destiny is not false, and you are just a small bump to the many mountains i delt with throughout the winters of my life, with this i leave you, and your insignificant views of my work, with a a fuck you and a goodbye!”-
wow that felt really good to let that out, thanks for you’re advice.
Terrific post, Sophie! I agree. We writers should always strive to give our readers something new and original. It’s hard, but totally worth it.
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