Category: Uncategorized

Memory is a tricky thing. We ‘remember’ events, but our mind can change those recollections so that they have no bearing on fact. Eye-witness testimony, for example, is notoriously unreliable. Three people can witness the same event and have three different stories about what happened. Strange, isn’t it? Yet we can use this tendency for Story.

From Exercise 2, Chapter 1: “Two to three pages. Write down your first three memories. Can you make a story out of any of them? Try. Even if you aren’t sure what you remember exactly, keep going. Imagine that you remember more than you do. Expand and rewrite in the third person and forget it’s you. This could be precious material for you. Renowned psychiatrist Alfred Adler thought that first memories reveal the psychological leitmotif of your life. Objective: To begin to write stories that deeply matter to you.” (Novakovich, Fiction Writer’s Workshop)

Bill arrived home late. He could hear Anne in the kitchen, cooking again. That was all she seemed to do these days. Ironic, really – when they’d moved to San Francisco, they’d tried out all the new restaurants. Seafood, Chinese, French… it didn’t matter. They tried everything to see what was good. He’d gained weight and so had she. But instead of letting that go, or walking more, she got obsessive. Refused to go out with him anymore and stayed home to cook.

It was a good thing she could cook, or things could be a lot less pleasant.

Still, he missed the restaurants. Scoma’s, in particular, was his favorite. A little touristy, down on the wharf just north of Pier 39, it nonetheless boasted some of the best fish in the city, and their Lobster Newberg was to die for. He wondered if he could sneak a visit… He did have a client meeting coming up. Maybe he could convince Johnson to go there with the client for lunch. Lunch wasn’t dinner, by any stretch, but it was at least in the restaurant.

“Hi, honey! I’m home!” he called, hating the trite expression the minute it was out of his mouth.

“You sound like Mr. Cleaver,” Anne complained, coming to the door of the kitchen. “Here, try this,” she ordered, thrusting a spoon full of something white with floaty bits. They jiggled and swooned as the spoon came toward him and he stepped back, purely out of reflex. “Oh, Bill.”

“Well, I don’t want to get it on my suit!” he protested. He came forward again and sipped at the stuff. “This is good!”

“Well, don’t sound so surprised, then,” she snapped and disappeared back in the kitchen.

“What is it?” he called, setting his attaché case on his desk chair.

“Bouillabaisse, can’t you tell?” She sounded irritable.

He sighed. It was going to be one of those nights. “Yes, dear. It’s very good.” He wondered if Scoma’s made it? Then he flushed, embarrassed at the disloyalty.

“Can you take Sam out?” She sounded absentminded and slightly muffled. A moment later he heard the oven door close and realized she must have been speaking into it.

“When did he go out last?” he countered, eyeing the couch longingly.

“A few hours,” she said vaguely, starting the water in the sink.

“Oh, Anne,” he sighed, visions of a nap evaporating. She didn’t hear him over the water. He walked through the office, past the kitchen and up to the gate in the hallway. “Hi, Sam.”

Sam jumped up and down, his back feet stationary while his whole front vibrated. His tail thumped the wall rhythmically and he moved his mouth as though talking even though no sound came out. Bill grinned, the sight of the dog’s antics cheering him. He pulled the leash off the hook next to the dog gate and Sam went wild, spinning in circles. His claws scrabbled against the carpet and his tail wagged hard enough to fall off.

“Sit, Sam,” Bill commanded.

Sam sat, but whimpered in agitation. His fur vibrated as his muscles clenched and unclenched and, as Bill bent over to slip the harness under his chest, he jumped up to catch Bill with his tongue.

“Uch!” Bill responded, wiping his face with one hand while he clipped the harness with the other. “Sit, Sam!”

The dog, never having moved from the sit, wagged his tail harder. Bill surrendered and scratched him behind the ears. “Come on, old son. Let’s get your walk in.”

“Grab the mail too, honey, please?” Anne called from the kitchen.

“What did you do all day?” Bill grumbled, fumbling in his case for the keys.

“What?” she called over the water.

“Nothing, dear!” he shouted back. He winked at Bill and opened the door. The dog, ecstatic, bounded outside.

Another one from Mr. Novakovich. I like this one, because it\’s like painting a picture with words. More like a sketchpad, really; but it helps me to focus my attention on details around me and to realize there are stories always going on, if I pay attention.

From Exercise 2, Chapter 1: “Three paragraphs. When you go out to a restaurant or a bar, jot down your observations in a notebook. In one paragraph, describe a loner’s looks and behavior. In another, a couple’s looks and interaction. In the third paragraph, describe how a waiter or a bartender communicates with the customers. (You could do a similar exercise, jotting down your observations of people in a grocery store or at a street corner). Objective: To gear up your observations of the world around you toward writing.” (Novakovich, Fiction Writer’s Workshop)

He sat alone. Dressed in black slacks and a grey long-sleeved t-shirt, he seemed out of place in the late-night bustle of the diner. Most of the patrons were drunk or had been so at one point that evening. They ate to stave off the munchies and drank coffee in the vain hope of appearing sober. It didn’t work, but the coffeepot was refilled four times in an hour. He just sat there, by himself in a booth that could seat two people side by side, and drank a soda. His food, a cheeseburger and fries, congealed slowly as he ignored it. He watched the people around him – a man and woman, just out of a theater and still dressed to the nines; a group of young adults from the university trying to appear less inebriated than the others; two women having some kind of intense argument at a table in the corner – he studied all of them like it was an assignment, or he was a foreigner, some kind of alien alert for cultural clues. He sat back and cross his legs, one foot bobbing slightly, the Nike logo flashing in the harsh overhead lighting.

There were only two of them, but they gave off enough energy that it could have been several people occupying the booth. The waitress avoided them and, after a while, so did the bus boy as he made his rounds with the coffee and decaf. They bent close to each other, eyes snapping. The one on the left tossed her mane of brown hair over one shoulder impatiently, as though its presence annoyed her. Her eyes, a hazel dark enough to be brown unless the light caught them right, were a little red in the corners and shined a bit with unshed tears. Her lipstick, once pink and bright, had faded and made her lips seem naked in contrast to the green and blue eye shadow and plum color on her cheeks. A necklace with a clear stone hung between her breasts, offsetting her pink dress. She wore no stockings, just pink heels that closed with delicate straps. Her companion wore faded jeans with a white halter top and had short, spiky blonde hair. Her nails were a dark brown and cut short, which just offset the powerful hands. Muscular and fit, she dwarfed several of the men in the dining room – not by size, because she wasn’t all that tall, but in athleticism. Her face, devoid of makeup, glowed with a flush of anger. She gestured as she talked, her hands moving back and forth around her coffee mug.

The waitress moved around the dining room efficiently, collecting a plate here, refilling a water glass there. Her nametag said “Joan,” but she looked like a Marjorie or Louise. She checked her hair and lipstick in the reflection of the silver fridge behind a long counter and slipped a small silver cylinder out of her apron. Her lip color went on smooth, a glossy violet that set off her brown eyes. She fluffed her hair and went back to her rounds. She never stayed longer than necessary to collect orders and check on beverages, there but not there. No one had any time to complain, but no one got to know her, either. The man sitting by himself in the booth made for two watched her, never looking directly at her, but head always turned so he could sneak peeks. She never spoke to him, just refilled his soda a couple times. She avoided a table of two women arguing, interrupting just long enough to get their order and then set it on the table – two grilled cheese sandwiches, fries, and a side of ranch. She didn’t look twice when the blond one dunked the corner of her sandwich in the dressing and took a bite, just refilled their waters and went about her rounds.

Mai Madness!

For those of you who have followed my blog, you know I participated in the March FADness competition last year (Flash-A-Day). The challenge was to writea a story a day, from between 500 and 1,000 words. I had a thought to do something similar this month, and Tilia Linden and I discussed it and she offered to help provide some prompts. I\’m not keeping to the word limit, necessarily, as some stories will be shorter.

So, over the next month, read along as I play with Story and have some fun! If you decide to write your own stories based on the prompts, please provide a link so I can come see!

Enjoy!

Here’s the first one: This is actually based off some work I did with a book by Josip Novakovich, called the Fiction Writer’s Workshop. Excellent book, check it out. This is from Exercise 1, Chapter 1:

“One page. According to Henry James, a writer wrote a novel from a glimpse of a seminary students’ dinner party. Write a scene of a story from a glimpse you have had a group of people – in café, zoo, train or anywhere. Sketch the characters in their setting and let them interact. Do you find that you know too little? Can you make up enough – or import from other experiences – to fill the empty canvas? Objective: To find out if you can make much out of little.” (Novakovich)

Untitled, From the CTA (Chicago Transit Authority, commonly refers to the trains but can also mean the bus service. In this context, it’s the elevated trains)

Bobby ran and blocked the doors from closing. “Come on, guys, hurry up!”

“Please do not block the doors,” the conductor intoned over the loudspeaker.

Bobby blushed and waved at Tammy, Lilly, and Faruk. “Come on!”

Faruk almost tripped coming across the platform and Lilly let out a loud peal of laughter. They all clustered inside the door together, and the rubber edges whooshed shut. The train started with a jerk and Tammy fell against Bobby.

“Sorry!” she gasped, nearly breathless.

Lilly laughed loudly again and flounced across the aisle to the other door. She bounced off the partition and threw her backpack down. “I’m tired,” she announced to the train in general.

Bobby privately felt embarrassed but he didn’t say anything. A businessman standing nearby caught his eye and looked away in disgust. Bobby felt heat flame into his cheeks but he went over to stand by Lilly.

Faruk followed, but Tammy stayed by the first set of doors, staring out at the buildings zooming by. “Wow,” she murmured, mesmerized.

“Tammy!” Faruk hissed, gesturing sharply.

After a moment, Tammy turned and moved over by Faruk. “What?”

“Quit being so obvious!” he snapped.

Lilly laughed at that, startling Bobby. She sank down onto her backpack and Faruk flopped down next to her. Bobby looked up and found a woman dressed in a grey suit staring balefully at them. When she felt Bobby’s eyes on her, she glared at him and the looked back at her book, disapproval on her face.

“Guys, maybe you should stand up,” he muttered.

“Don’t be silly,” Tammy countered airily. “I’m comfortable. Whee!” she squealed as the train went around a curve, throwing the passengers around a little. She fell to one side but caught herself and laughed.

Faruk pulled her upright with a hand on her shoulder and they leaned together, whispering. Tammy stared out the window.

Bobby edged over to the door next to Tammy. “Are you okay?” he murmured.

It took her a moment to look back at him. “Maybe I had more than I should have,” she told him thoughtfully.

“Shh!” he retorted, glancing around to see if anyone was listening.