Emily pulled out the economy-sized Hershey’s chocolate bar and as she began to break it into thumb-sized pieces she remarked, “You two can each have one piece. The rest are for me.” She flipped over the packaging and read, “Serving size: 5.”
Tara cut in, “It’d be perfect for you … if you were five people.”
I was distracted by Aunt Mel prodding me with a long oddly-shaped stick that Rob had roused from the yard. I grabbed it reluctantly. “I don’t really like my marshmallows roasted. Well, I guess I’ll eat it as long as it’s just lightly golden.”
The rest of the family was incredulous. No, no. If you do it that way, your chocolate won’t even be melted. It will be one solid hunk instead of a gooey mess that drips down your fingers and onto your clothes. No, no. It’s best when you allow it to get really burnt—or better yet, catch on fire so you have to blow it out.
I ignored them, refusing to yield in a situation where I could end up with dark chocolate stains down the front of me. I happily ate my treat without dripping anything down the front of me, studying the Christmas lights twined around the tree. I squinted and unsquinted my eyes, making the happy sparks glitter and fuzz, then sharply clear and come into focus. I imagined my parents a state away on a trip, and wished suddenly, urgently, that they were here to see the sparkling stars glimmering only ten feet in front of my eyes.
Emily tried to make Grandpa a S’more but had difficulty in getting the angle right. Her mom kept urging, “Just sit on the ground. Settle into that dirt; it’s really comfortable.” She had urged me the same thing also; that was how I knew my marshmallow was done. But Emily is always a good sport and settled in as she watched not one, not two, but three marshmallows fall off her stick and into the dirt. Just as surely as her marshmallow would go up in flames, it would fall off her stick and into the fire.
“Oh well,” Melody said philosophically. “It’s just adding a nice scent to the fire.” The hypnotizing flames, bellies full of food, and atmosphere of family cheer were making us intoxicated and we all laughed with good humor found usually only on Christmas night after the younger grandchildren had disappeared into a bedroom to play with their various games while the older grandchildren, myself included, listened to our parents discuss memories from their childhood.
Our voices got cheerier and more boisterous until we three girls, Emily, Tara, and I, were shrieking with laughter as Aunt Mel and Grandma auctioned graham crackers (regular and chocolate), marshmallows, leftover cake, and two 16 ounce bars of chocolate on us. As an afterthought, Mel shoved a bag of potato chips into a Ziploc baggie and asked who wanted them. The contents of my shoulder bag were already so full my arm stuck out ala Randy in A Christmas Story, so I figured how much could one more bag hurt. I held the straps open as Melody wrestled the chips in without crushing them. Amidst waves of good-byes, more giggling from the girls and Mel, and a studied walk down to the curb so as to avoid crushing the plants, we could hear Grandma advising, “Now girls, don’t eat that chocolate all in one night.”
We piled into Emily’s car, careful to avoid the seat that had gotten wet in the carwash, and laughed all the way home, stomachs hurting at the thought of all that delicious food that would be awaiting us tomorrow.
Saturday, September 27, 2003
Saturday, September 20, 2003
Nature Girl: That’s (Not) Me
I love nature. I go for long walks in the woods and hike up mountains before breakfast. I pitch my tent and wander to the stream where I bathe leisurely before relaxing in the sun while I read Hemingway. I am one with nature. Later I catch my own fish and clean and cook it myself. Howling wolves don’t scare me—I revel in the danger the wilderness offers me. I am woman. Hear me roar.
In reality, I hide inside. I want the air conditioner on if the temperature gets even slightly above 77 degrees. I stay up late and sleep in late. Early to bed and early to rise may make a man healthy, wealthy and wise, but it also takes a toll on a girl’s social life. Plus, it’s boring. I don’t sit in the sun without my 45 SPF sunscreen, and my J.Lo-inspired straw hat makes a fashion statement as much as it shelters me from harmful UV rays. I never, ever go anywhere without my cell phone. You just never know who you might need to get in contact with.
Friends will occasionally suggest we do something new and exciting and I’m quick to agree. Hey, I’m spontaneous. “Yeah, camping’s great. I used to camp all the time. Let’s do it sometime. We’ll make S’mores.” Later, I am forced to set them straight. “Camping?” I repeat, wrinkling my nose. “As in … a tent … and no bathrooms? Sure, camping’s great in theory. But in actual practice…” I trail off, indicating I know something they don’t from my extensive history with the wilderness of the Midwest. “Besides, what about showering? I have to shower. Everyday. It’s this thing I have. And we’ll need pop. You know how I like to have a diet Cherry Coke every couple of hours. Vending machines don’t grow on trees, you know.”
Then I’ll pick up my Cosmo or InStyle and see a cute work-out outfit or brand new sneakers in a color I just have to have—never mind that I never wear shoes that aren’t either a) flip-flops or b) something strappy with a heel that will put me above 5 foot 2. Now, to go along with the new shoes, I’ll need a new denim skirt—one of those ones that looks like it’s been washed a million times—and brand new make-up to give myself that au naturale look I’m aiming for.
“Earth tones are in this fall, Rixie,” one of my friends recently informed me. “What?” I cried in a panic. “Earth tones? I don’t have the coloring for earth tones. More to the point, I don’t have the wardrobe for earth tones.” I have to wonder if, when the fashion gods decided earth tones were in, they counted on all the drama that goes along with preparing for a season. I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that there’s only one thing to do: hit the mall. Might as well break in those new sneakers.
In reality, I hide inside. I want the air conditioner on if the temperature gets even slightly above 77 degrees. I stay up late and sleep in late. Early to bed and early to rise may make a man healthy, wealthy and wise, but it also takes a toll on a girl’s social life. Plus, it’s boring. I don’t sit in the sun without my 45 SPF sunscreen, and my J.Lo-inspired straw hat makes a fashion statement as much as it shelters me from harmful UV rays. I never, ever go anywhere without my cell phone. You just never know who you might need to get in contact with.
Friends will occasionally suggest we do something new and exciting and I’m quick to agree. Hey, I’m spontaneous. “Yeah, camping’s great. I used to camp all the time. Let’s do it sometime. We’ll make S’mores.” Later, I am forced to set them straight. “Camping?” I repeat, wrinkling my nose. “As in … a tent … and no bathrooms? Sure, camping’s great in theory. But in actual practice…” I trail off, indicating I know something they don’t from my extensive history with the wilderness of the Midwest. “Besides, what about showering? I have to shower. Everyday. It’s this thing I have. And we’ll need pop. You know how I like to have a diet Cherry Coke every couple of hours. Vending machines don’t grow on trees, you know.”
Then I’ll pick up my Cosmo or InStyle and see a cute work-out outfit or brand new sneakers in a color I just have to have—never mind that I never wear shoes that aren’t either a) flip-flops or b) something strappy with a heel that will put me above 5 foot 2. Now, to go along with the new shoes, I’ll need a new denim skirt—one of those ones that looks like it’s been washed a million times—and brand new make-up to give myself that au naturale look I’m aiming for.
“Earth tones are in this fall, Rixie,” one of my friends recently informed me. “What?” I cried in a panic. “Earth tones? I don’t have the coloring for earth tones. More to the point, I don’t have the wardrobe for earth tones.” I have to wonder if, when the fashion gods decided earth tones were in, they counted on all the drama that goes along with preparing for a season. I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that there’s only one thing to do: hit the mall. Might as well break in those new sneakers.
Wednesday, September 17, 2003
The Sanctuary
"This is our apartment, this is a girl's apartment. It's pretty and it's purple."
--Jennifer Aniston, Friends
The Sanctuary
From the outside it’s not much. Set on a dead end street with a backdrop of several railroad tracks that periodically rumble through as the Midwest version of an earthquake, the apartment buildings are small, square and brick. There’s little grass to be found, and what remains is russet and lifeless. But mostly there are patches of mud, so deep they take close to a week to dry out after a rainstorm. A herd of motorcycles belonging to the building manager rests comfortably outside the front door blocking the entrance to the building. The tenants pretend not to notice out of respect—or possibly fear—for the manager. A small woman whose skin has seen too much sun and hair has seen too much bleach, she manages to intimidate most people at the first meeting merely by crowding personal space and rasping in an accusatory tone, “What’s this spilled on the floor here? Messes mean eviction!” She’s harder than any of the college students living in her building will ever have to be. Instead they attempt to focus on the view beyond the motorcycles—the concrete pasture littered with souvenirs from last weekend’s parties.
But the aura in Number One offers an oasis from the distractions of the outside. Inside, the scent of Glade Lilac Spring lingers and mixes with a few burning candles which softly illuminate the home. Paris shouts from the walls where black and white posters of the skyline and Eiffel Tower, and framed paintings of L’Arc de Triumph and the opera look down on colorful red and blue furniture. A coffee table pulled close to the couch invites feet to find a place among the eclectic mix of magazines, books, flowers and half-empty cans of diet Cherry Coke. A pile of textbooks on the floor is offset by an oak bookcase that is so crammed with movies (ironically), all that’s missing is a sign reading “Please present your Blockbuster card.”
The two-dimensional Mexican dancers leer down at the pile of unopened mail, while the air, sticky and uncomfortable though it may be, is oddly pleasing in congruence with the tropical backdrop of the posters. The melody of soft giggling trickling from the kitchen is an appreciated contrast to the screaming trains outside. Sunshine streams in through the windows reflecting off picture frames and shiny utensils. The quarters are cozy, not cramped, and wait in anticipation for chilly nights to be spent in front of a hot stove like pioneer days.
The microwave dings and the dishwasher begins another cycle, reminding the house that despite the calendar status of September, the crisp cool days of autumn are a far-off dream. As the giggles die away down the hall, devoured by the rev of motorcycles and the screech of car brakes, the apartment stills and there is a ringing reminder that it is not the location or even the décor of the apartment that makes it home, but the life of the inhabitants.
--Jennifer Aniston, Friends
The Sanctuary
From the outside it’s not much. Set on a dead end street with a backdrop of several railroad tracks that periodically rumble through as the Midwest version of an earthquake, the apartment buildings are small, square and brick. There’s little grass to be found, and what remains is russet and lifeless. But mostly there are patches of mud, so deep they take close to a week to dry out after a rainstorm. A herd of motorcycles belonging to the building manager rests comfortably outside the front door blocking the entrance to the building. The tenants pretend not to notice out of respect—or possibly fear—for the manager. A small woman whose skin has seen too much sun and hair has seen too much bleach, she manages to intimidate most people at the first meeting merely by crowding personal space and rasping in an accusatory tone, “What’s this spilled on the floor here? Messes mean eviction!” She’s harder than any of the college students living in her building will ever have to be. Instead they attempt to focus on the view beyond the motorcycles—the concrete pasture littered with souvenirs from last weekend’s parties.
But the aura in Number One offers an oasis from the distractions of the outside. Inside, the scent of Glade Lilac Spring lingers and mixes with a few burning candles which softly illuminate the home. Paris shouts from the walls where black and white posters of the skyline and Eiffel Tower, and framed paintings of L’Arc de Triumph and the opera look down on colorful red and blue furniture. A coffee table pulled close to the couch invites feet to find a place among the eclectic mix of magazines, books, flowers and half-empty cans of diet Cherry Coke. A pile of textbooks on the floor is offset by an oak bookcase that is so crammed with movies (ironically), all that’s missing is a sign reading “Please present your Blockbuster card.”
The two-dimensional Mexican dancers leer down at the pile of unopened mail, while the air, sticky and uncomfortable though it may be, is oddly pleasing in congruence with the tropical backdrop of the posters. The melody of soft giggling trickling from the kitchen is an appreciated contrast to the screaming trains outside. Sunshine streams in through the windows reflecting off picture frames and shiny utensils. The quarters are cozy, not cramped, and wait in anticipation for chilly nights to be spent in front of a hot stove like pioneer days.
The microwave dings and the dishwasher begins another cycle, reminding the house that despite the calendar status of September, the crisp cool days of autumn are a far-off dream. As the giggles die away down the hall, devoured by the rev of motorcycles and the screech of car brakes, the apartment stills and there is a ringing reminder that it is not the location or even the décor of the apartment that makes it home, but the life of the inhabitants.
Sunday, September 14, 2003
My Wife Left Me for a Guy Named Jesus
Veering from my usual format today to post somebody else's words. They're just too funny not to post.
My Wife Left Me for a Guy Named Jesus
Words and Music by Paul Dinello from Strangers with Candy
Hail Mary, full of grace
Your boy kicked me in the face
He made my wife run away
for a big promise on Judgment Day
My wife called me a sinner
I guess I'll be fixing my own dinner
Now I'm left with pain and loathing
caused by a wolf in Messiah's clothing
My wife dumped me for a guy named Jesus
Now I see a cross and I fall to pieces
It hurts to say his dad's name when someone sneezes
My wife dumped me for a guy named Jesus
Do you think you're such a big shot raising people from the dead?
Or a slight of hand with a loaf of bread?
You're a second-rate magician … with everlasting life
whose latest trick is my disappearing wife
I'm as good as that guy named Jesus
I could cure a cripple … with a prosthesis
And I can walk on water … when it freezes
I'm as good as that guy named Jesus
And Jesus better watch his back...
My Wife Left Me for a Guy Named Jesus
Words and Music by Paul Dinello from Strangers with Candy
Hail Mary, full of grace
Your boy kicked me in the face
He made my wife run away
for a big promise on Judgment Day
My wife called me a sinner
I guess I'll be fixing my own dinner
Now I'm left with pain and loathing
caused by a wolf in Messiah's clothing
My wife dumped me for a guy named Jesus
Now I see a cross and I fall to pieces
It hurts to say his dad's name when someone sneezes
My wife dumped me for a guy named Jesus
Do you think you're such a big shot raising people from the dead?
Or a slight of hand with a loaf of bread?
You're a second-rate magician … with everlasting life
whose latest trick is my disappearing wife
I'm as good as that guy named Jesus
I could cure a cripple … with a prosthesis
And I can walk on water … when it freezes
I'm as good as that guy named Jesus
And Jesus better watch his back...
Saturday, September 13, 2003
The Gift of the Rooster
“My brother’s voice, like my own, is high-pitched and girlish. Telephone solicitors frequently ask to speak to our husbands or request that we put our mommies on the line. The Raleigh accent is soft and beautifully cadenced, but my brother’s is a more complex hybrid, informed by his professional relationships with marble-mouthed, deep-country work crews and his abiding love of hard-cord rap music. He talks so fast that even his friends have a hard tie understanding him. It’s like listening to a foreigner and deciphering only shit, … bitch, and the single phrase You can’t kill the Rooster. ‘The Rooster’ is what Paul calls himself when he’s feeling threatened.”
--David Sedaris, “You Can’t Kill the Rooster” from Me Talk Pretty One Day
“David Sedaris is coming for a reading at the University of Iowa? And you have tickets?!? And it’s on your 21st birthday?!? NO FAIR!!” she cried from Paris via her cell phone. “Everything happens while I’m out of the country.”
With this in mind, I picked up a copy of his latest published piece, a play called The Book of Liz. Remembering one of mine and Natalie’s favorite lines from Me Talk Pretty One Day, I shyly asked him to write, “To Natalie. Good luck beating that rape charge” when it was finally my turn to meet David Sedaris. “Sure,” he said without missing a beat. “Usually I only get that request from guys.”
“So how was it?” she asked during our next phone conversation.
“Great. Hysterical. Everything I’d imagined and more.”
“Did you get to meet him?”
“No, we couldn’t,” I unabashedly lied. I wasn’t sure why I said that. I had been planning on spilling the beans immediately. We suck at secret-keeping from each other. But the lie just popped out of my mouth. Sometimes the impulse to lie beats out my brain.
Okay, I said to myself, I’ll keep it for her birthday and give it to her then. Over the course of the next five months I nearly spilled the beans more than once. In an innocent conversation with Natalie I said, “That reminds me of when Tara and I met … this guy … on the street, and, um, well, never mind. This is a really pointless story.” I rolled my eyes at myself. Good cover, Rix. I agonized to myself, why did I lie? Why didn’t I just say yes, I met him and then give her all the delicious details, like the fact that he had a F*ck it Bucket full of candy just like in You Can’t Kill the Rooster. And he told me to take an extra one since it was my birthday. Five months is too long, I berated myself. Why, why, why?
Last night was her birthday. She laughed when she saw the book. “Turn the page,” I urged. We locked eyes. She knew. Her reaction was nothing short of what I would expect. Oh. That’s why I lied.
--David Sedaris, “You Can’t Kill the Rooster” from Me Talk Pretty One Day
“David Sedaris is coming for a reading at the University of Iowa? And you have tickets?!? And it’s on your 21st birthday?!? NO FAIR!!” she cried from Paris via her cell phone. “Everything happens while I’m out of the country.”
With this in mind, I picked up a copy of his latest published piece, a play called The Book of Liz. Remembering one of mine and Natalie’s favorite lines from Me Talk Pretty One Day, I shyly asked him to write, “To Natalie. Good luck beating that rape charge” when it was finally my turn to meet David Sedaris. “Sure,” he said without missing a beat. “Usually I only get that request from guys.”
“So how was it?” she asked during our next phone conversation.
“Great. Hysterical. Everything I’d imagined and more.”
“Did you get to meet him?”
“No, we couldn’t,” I unabashedly lied. I wasn’t sure why I said that. I had been planning on spilling the beans immediately. We suck at secret-keeping from each other. But the lie just popped out of my mouth. Sometimes the impulse to lie beats out my brain.
Okay, I said to myself, I’ll keep it for her birthday and give it to her then. Over the course of the next five months I nearly spilled the beans more than once. In an innocent conversation with Natalie I said, “That reminds me of when Tara and I met … this guy … on the street, and, um, well, never mind. This is a really pointless story.” I rolled my eyes at myself. Good cover, Rix. I agonized to myself, why did I lie? Why didn’t I just say yes, I met him and then give her all the delicious details, like the fact that he had a F*ck it Bucket full of candy just like in You Can’t Kill the Rooster. And he told me to take an extra one since it was my birthday. Five months is too long, I berated myself. Why, why, why?
Last night was her birthday. She laughed when she saw the book. “Turn the page,” I urged. We locked eyes. She knew. Her reaction was nothing short of what I would expect. Oh. That’s why I lied.
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
Vertical Drop
In the last four years, I have moved four times. Being a college student, this is not exactly unusual. I moved in to my latest apartment in August. Friends and family have complimented my roommates and me on our delicious decorating proficiency. We spent many a day (and many a $20) buying the perfect photos to hang on that empty wall and picking out the perfect candle and flower vases to put on that empty space on the ledge. Our apartment is an exquisite oasis from the demands of college courses. Because of this, it’s always a shock for me to step out my apartment and remember that, oh yes, we live by the railroad tracks.
The railroad tracks are a startling contrast to our beautiful décor and conjure many different reactions in me. I find myself always singing lines from “In the Ghetto” when I exit the building. Other days when people ask me where I live, I try to look tough and respond, “I’m from the wrong side of the tracks.” Some days I even see Natty Gann and John Cusack jumping from train to train on their way out west.
I’ve been on a train only once that I can recall. I remember little of the ride but that we were on a family vacation and I was sharing a seat with only my mom. As I rarely get her to myself, my memory long ago let go of the unimportant details such as where we were, where we were going, what we were talking about. I do remember I was mad at her. Sensitive to a fault, I was “punishing” her for some small slight by not speaking to her. As a truce, she began to tickle my back and sing some made-up song entitled “Erica.” Although I don’t remember whether or not I stopped my ridiculous punishment, I can only hope that I let her off early for good behavior. I want to be worthy of the significance the memory holds in my mind; I want to be worthy of the fact that I had her to myself that morning on the train.
I can’t hear the train whistle from inside my apartment, but some days I almost wish I could.
The railroad tracks are a startling contrast to our beautiful décor and conjure many different reactions in me. I find myself always singing lines from “In the Ghetto” when I exit the building. Other days when people ask me where I live, I try to look tough and respond, “I’m from the wrong side of the tracks.” Some days I even see Natty Gann and John Cusack jumping from train to train on their way out west.
I’ve been on a train only once that I can recall. I remember little of the ride but that we were on a family vacation and I was sharing a seat with only my mom. As I rarely get her to myself, my memory long ago let go of the unimportant details such as where we were, where we were going, what we were talking about. I do remember I was mad at her. Sensitive to a fault, I was “punishing” her for some small slight by not speaking to her. As a truce, she began to tickle my back and sing some made-up song entitled “Erica.” Although I don’t remember whether or not I stopped my ridiculous punishment, I can only hope that I let her off early for good behavior. I want to be worthy of the significance the memory holds in my mind; I want to be worthy of the fact that I had her to myself that morning on the train.
I can’t hear the train whistle from inside my apartment, but some days I almost wish I could.
Tuesday, September 02, 2003
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?: Part III
A man with no imagination has no wings.
-Muhammad Ali
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?
Part III: Continued from September 1
For a while, the writing came easily, pouring from my multi-colored Bic pens in a torrent of half-completed thoughts and sentences. In lime green ink was written the story of the oldest kid, Jeremy Olsen (affectionately referred to as “Germ” by his siblings) and how he successfully saved himself and a small child from falling over a waterfall. The twins came alive in purple ink on their first day of school. The thoughts and feelings of the lonely youngest Olsen were best expressed through blue ink. In an effort to individualize the triplets, one of their voices was told in first-person point-of-view, in the form of a journal.
Nicole and Michelle were thrilled with the exhilarating adventures found on the loose leaf wide-ruled notebook paper and I was thrilled with the reception my writing received from them. Yet as much fun as we had, by the time I got to page 38, I had ditched Nicole and Michelle, and now printed in Curly Q handwriting was:
The Olsens: A Novel
By Erica Michelle Acton
Did I abandon them due to their lack of effort? Shortage of input? Because they were unreliable and worthless in the storytelling process? While that’s all true, I am unconvinced that this is the reason I no longer wanted to write with them. I finally broke this revelation to them in the shade of the same mature oak that we’d met beneath so many recesses before. The memory runs like bad breakup dialogue in my head.
Me: This isn’t working for me. I think we should write with other people.
Them: Was it something we did? Was it something we said?
Me: It’s not you guys. You’re both really great. It’s me. It’s all me.
And the truth of the matter is, it was me. I didn’t want to share the creative process. I knew what was best for the stories and the characters and I didn’t need anyone butting in, trying to tell me what to make my characters say, feel, and do. Instead of a beautiful harmony, the piece was becoming three discorded voices singing off-key. To save the song, I realized, I must make it a solo.
Perhaps the experience gave me the misguided assumption that collaborative writing was not for me. But not everything that came out of this was bad. If pride is a sin, I was definitely going to hell over the self-importance I felt for this story. Back in the age when “good” stories and “talented” authors were judged by the length of a story and the difficulty level of the vocabulary, my peers deemed this story an incredible success. But perhaps my real growth as a writer was that, even beyond the external feedback and praise, I was proud of this story for the work I had put into it. The experience taught me the power of my own imagination, but more importantly, the rewards of perseverance. Boxes containing dozens of unfinished, abandoned stories now were balanced with this finished piece. As Jules Renard said, “Talent is a question of quantity. Talent does not write one page; it writes three hundred.” To be honest, it probably wasn’t all that entertaining to the reader, but more than a decade later, that point is moot because it meant so much to the writer. It taught this writer to keep writing because despite writer’s block, bad endings, and uninteresting characters, in the end, it may result in a piece I’ll be proud to put my name on. And who knows? Maybe someday my name will appear alongside another’s. After all, real life is stranger than fiction.
-Muhammad Ali
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?
Part III: Continued from September 1
For a while, the writing came easily, pouring from my multi-colored Bic pens in a torrent of half-completed thoughts and sentences. In lime green ink was written the story of the oldest kid, Jeremy Olsen (affectionately referred to as “Germ” by his siblings) and how he successfully saved himself and a small child from falling over a waterfall. The twins came alive in purple ink on their first day of school. The thoughts and feelings of the lonely youngest Olsen were best expressed through blue ink. In an effort to individualize the triplets, one of their voices was told in first-person point-of-view, in the form of a journal.
Nicole and Michelle were thrilled with the exhilarating adventures found on the loose leaf wide-ruled notebook paper and I was thrilled with the reception my writing received from them. Yet as much fun as we had, by the time I got to page 38, I had ditched Nicole and Michelle, and now printed in Curly Q handwriting was:
The Olsens: A Novel
By Erica Michelle Acton
Did I abandon them due to their lack of effort? Shortage of input? Because they were unreliable and worthless in the storytelling process? While that’s all true, I am unconvinced that this is the reason I no longer wanted to write with them. I finally broke this revelation to them in the shade of the same mature oak that we’d met beneath so many recesses before. The memory runs like bad breakup dialogue in my head.
Me: This isn’t working for me. I think we should write with other people.
Them: Was it something we did? Was it something we said?
Me: It’s not you guys. You’re both really great. It’s me. It’s all me.
And the truth of the matter is, it was me. I didn’t want to share the creative process. I knew what was best for the stories and the characters and I didn’t need anyone butting in, trying to tell me what to make my characters say, feel, and do. Instead of a beautiful harmony, the piece was becoming three discorded voices singing off-key. To save the song, I realized, I must make it a solo.
Perhaps the experience gave me the misguided assumption that collaborative writing was not for me. But not everything that came out of this was bad. If pride is a sin, I was definitely going to hell over the self-importance I felt for this story. Back in the age when “good” stories and “talented” authors were judged by the length of a story and the difficulty level of the vocabulary, my peers deemed this story an incredible success. But perhaps my real growth as a writer was that, even beyond the external feedback and praise, I was proud of this story for the work I had put into it. The experience taught me the power of my own imagination, but more importantly, the rewards of perseverance. Boxes containing dozens of unfinished, abandoned stories now were balanced with this finished piece. As Jules Renard said, “Talent is a question of quantity. Talent does not write one page; it writes three hundred.” To be honest, it probably wasn’t all that entertaining to the reader, but more than a decade later, that point is moot because it meant so much to the writer. It taught this writer to keep writing because despite writer’s block, bad endings, and uninteresting characters, in the end, it may result in a piece I’ll be proud to put my name on. And who knows? Maybe someday my name will appear alongside another’s. After all, real life is stranger than fiction.
Monday, September 01, 2003
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?: Part II
You don't get harmony when everybody sings the same note.
--Doug Floyd
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?
Part II: Continued from August 31
My co-authors approached me knowing full-well that it would be impossible for me to refuse. This was for two reasons: a) I am a nice person and always find it hard to refuse my services where I’m so clearly needed, and b) I am unable to resist flattery. Okay, so perhaps I accepted their offer for the latter reason only, but at least I’m not cheap. They spent at least one-fifth of morning recess sweet talking. Luckily for them, my co-authors consisted of my two best friends, Nicole and Michelle. I had known Nicole since I was about four days old and Michelle and I pretended to be one another on a regular basis. Needless to say, they knew my pressure points and I caved quickly due to their incessant adulation.
Once I had signed on to the project, we set up meetings to plan the plot. We met regularly for at least two days. The first congregation occurred behind an old tree at the edge of the playground. We were all intimately familiar with the old wrinkled oak. It was affectionately referred to as the ‘kissing tree.’ All three of us had received our first kisses behind that tree during one recess or another the year before. The tree was thick in the trunk with lots of offered shade for us to lounge under comfortably while dreaming and planning. But more importantly, it was a welcomed oasis from the watchful eye of Mrs. Koester, on recess duty. The best way to design a fabulous novel, we decided, was through the delegation of tasks with me doing the grunt work (i.e. the writing) while Nicole and Michelle, geniuses that they are, helped with the plot and the ever important task of choosing the characters’ names.
As fifth graders, original works had, to this point, consisted of the basic introduction of hero or heroine, followed by a problem which the hero quickly overcomes. If our writing was really going to get notice from our peers, it was time to try a more avante garde style. We agreed the story would focus on a family of eight kids with a chapter devoted to each one and their adventures. In essence, it was eight short stories tied together through the characters’ common last name. We applauded ourselves on our originality and wondered why no one had thought ever before to try this short-story/novel idea.
Obviously, we agreed, character development was very important. Just for fun we threw in a set of triplets and a set of twins. In fact, that part was so much fun that when it came to the actual story, the writing was becoming a pain in the neck. At first, I diligently met with my co-authors before transcribing a single word. However, their helpful “write somethin’ good” was more than enough to halt the flow of language altogether. It wasn’t long before I was scribbling notes on looseleaf paper in secret, in hopes they would lose interest in the project, thereby making the trio a solo act.
To be continued...
--Doug Floyd
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?
Part II: Continued from August 31
My co-authors approached me knowing full-well that it would be impossible for me to refuse. This was for two reasons: a) I am a nice person and always find it hard to refuse my services where I’m so clearly needed, and b) I am unable to resist flattery. Okay, so perhaps I accepted their offer for the latter reason only, but at least I’m not cheap. They spent at least one-fifth of morning recess sweet talking. Luckily for them, my co-authors consisted of my two best friends, Nicole and Michelle. I had known Nicole since I was about four days old and Michelle and I pretended to be one another on a regular basis. Needless to say, they knew my pressure points and I caved quickly due to their incessant adulation.
Once I had signed on to the project, we set up meetings to plan the plot. We met regularly for at least two days. The first congregation occurred behind an old tree at the edge of the playground. We were all intimately familiar with the old wrinkled oak. It was affectionately referred to as the ‘kissing tree.’ All three of us had received our first kisses behind that tree during one recess or another the year before. The tree was thick in the trunk with lots of offered shade for us to lounge under comfortably while dreaming and planning. But more importantly, it was a welcomed oasis from the watchful eye of Mrs. Koester, on recess duty. The best way to design a fabulous novel, we decided, was through the delegation of tasks with me doing the grunt work (i.e. the writing) while Nicole and Michelle, geniuses that they are, helped with the plot and the ever important task of choosing the characters’ names.
As fifth graders, original works had, to this point, consisted of the basic introduction of hero or heroine, followed by a problem which the hero quickly overcomes. If our writing was really going to get notice from our peers, it was time to try a more avante garde style. We agreed the story would focus on a family of eight kids with a chapter devoted to each one and their adventures. In essence, it was eight short stories tied together through the characters’ common last name. We applauded ourselves on our originality and wondered why no one had thought ever before to try this short-story/novel idea.
Obviously, we agreed, character development was very important. Just for fun we threw in a set of triplets and a set of twins. In fact, that part was so much fun that when it came to the actual story, the writing was becoming a pain in the neck. At first, I diligently met with my co-authors before transcribing a single word. However, their helpful “write somethin’ good” was more than enough to halt the flow of language altogether. It wasn’t long before I was scribbling notes on looseleaf paper in secret, in hopes they would lose interest in the project, thereby making the trio a solo act.
To be continued...
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