Capturing the Elusive

'Tis the season for the Christmas tree to reclaim its corner of the living room. Admiring the decorated fir from the couch, I'm enraptured by the tree's cozy glow. Hazy golden lights; twinkling reflections across strands of garland; familiar ornaments, remembered from childhood. It's like having a silent, steadfast friend by your side - calmly smiling, pushing against winter's chill.

Elusive beauty...

A fully dressed and lit up Christmas tree looks nice; and this prompts many of us to take a picture of it. I do this every year, and every time I'm disappointed that the Christmas tree picture never does justice to seeing it with my own eyes. Is it a lighting issue? Lack of proper photography equipment and/or the expertise to use it?

Camera aside, it was also impossible to write the first paragraph of this post without it coming across as overly sentimental and possibly crazy-sounding...no, I don't really think the Christmas tree is my friend :) The words above don't come close to the intangible way I feel looking at the tree in the evening - all cozy in my PJs, wrapped in blankets. The radiators sputtering heat; napping pets and a loved one nearby.

Maybe the Christmas tree is so alluring because its essence cannot be captured or defined.

Sometimes I think about how the novel and other written forms have existed for hundreds of years, and wonder how it's possible that there are still any stories left to tell.  Even though the same themes have fueled artistic works for centuries - love, death, betrayal, existential questioning, etc. - these topics have been explored in a myriad of ways. Each writer's unique perspective undoubtedly plays a part. But beyond that, perhaps the reason why our art circles around the same big topics is simply because the "basic" aspects of human existence are impossible to pin down.

We are drawn to the elusive, and search for the grain of knowledge buried within. We take pictures of our lovely Christmas trees, and desperately write about our pains and triumphs. Trying to capture a mysterious meaning, to uncover a slippery truth. We strive to create something tangible that we can look back on and say yes, I was happy then. Yes, I understood, and this will help me understand again.

Happy holidays!!! Cheers to the stories of 2014 - and beyond.

Staying Present

In the midst of brown stumps, 

a cluster of baby green leaves bloomed

The impending winter has reared its head in fits and starts. A delicate dance of assertion and retreat. Dry, blustery cold in the 20s and 30s, followed by a balmy day in the 60s and rain.

The rose bush has been pruned to meager stalks of brittle thorns. In the midst of the brown stumps, a cluster of baby green leaves bloomed. They have hung on since before Halloween. Not spreading out along the rest of the stalk, but not curling up and dropping off either. The forsythia bush has been trimmed away from the garage. At the base of the shrub, miniscule yellow flower petals emerged.

Had this tiny bounty been there since the first burst of spring? Tucked safely behind the abundance of sun and summer days that lingered without a sense of immediate closure, perhaps they had survived  the bugs, wind, drought, and the changing seasons.

Maybe they were tricked by a string of unseasonably warm days. Foolishly making a naive effort,
ignorant to the fact that winter is so close.

Maybe it speaks to the benefits of awareness, of existing within the present as it is. Sensing a comforting warmth and light, stretching and basking in the glow, the branch put forth one last leaf. While understanding that winter would soon sweep in - that flowers must fade - it chose to enjoy the fleeting moment. All other leaves and blossoms had shriveled and blown away. The brave rose leaf and lone forsythia petal remained. Nakedly exposed, clinging to a plant descending into hibernation. Fully enjoying precious time before the freeze.

Stretch, bask in the glow

Live in the present as it occurs

The Role of the Supernatural in Character Development

There are some obvious similarities between The Amityville Horror (the 1979 film; I've never read the Jay Anson book) and The Shining (the 1980 film and, of course, the Stephen King novel). There is an evil house/hotel that terrorizes its inhabitants. Both stories also feature a lead male/father character who is extremely afflicted within the surroundings.

• George Lutz. James Brolin portrays this real person as a man who doesn't waste words. Gruff, with hints of a temper lurking close to the surface. He recently married Kathy, who has three kids from a prior relationship. The newly formed family is still getting used to life together.
• Jack Torrance. In comparison to the George Lutz film character, we're given much more insight (via the novel) into Jack and the personal history that led him to The Overlook. Alcoholism, rage, drunkenly breaking his son Danny's arm, hints at his misogynistic nature.

Family tensions fill these stories, before the horror starts

When these stories begin, everything isn't peaches and cream. The families grapple with various tensions before moving into the doomed house/hotel.

In Amityville, there are fragile relationships with stepkids; newlyweds who will have to scrimp and scrape to make mortgage payments. A man who likely led a rather solitary, independant life before marriage, suddenly thrust into the role of family man.

In The Shining, there's unemployment, writer's block. A recovering alcoholic with violent tendencies. A strained marriage, and worry about what's going on inside the son's head.

When the lead male character starts to act out, his behavior plays right into the wife's insecurities, anxieties, and fears about the relationship.

When the babysitter gets locked in the closet in Amityville, George and Kathy ask daughter Amy why she didn't open the door. Amy blames her unseen "friend" Jody. George bluntly tells Kathy that it's about time her kids had some damn discipline. The look on Kathy's face says it all. He just touched a nerve. She worries he will never accept her kids as his own, that he doesn't respect her as a mother, etc.

Later on, when Kathy tries to convince him to abandon the malevolent house, he says, "You're the one that wanted a house. This is it, so just shut up!" Another hint at the non-supernatural tensions that pulled at their lives before they moved into the house.

"I've  always been crazy,
but it's kept me from going insane"
- Waylon Jennings
Did the supernatural create his behavior,
or just push him over the edge?

How much influence does the supernatural have on George and Jack's misbehavior? Does the supernatural possess George/Jack, causing them to act negatively against their will? Or does the supernatural sense negativity within George/Jack, and use it to exploit their natural tendencies? Or do George/Jack sense a supernatural presence, then react to it in the same (albiet more extreme) way they would react to any other external stressor (work stress, family stress, etc.) - i.e. by lashing out?

According to Wikipedia,  Stephen King "viewed Jack as being victimized by the genuinely external supernatural forces haunting the hotel, whereas Kubrick's take viewed the haunting and its resulting malignancy as coming from within Jack himself."

Based on how these lead male characters operate in the beginning (before the horror starts) - and based on the backstories provided - the lead male's intense/undesirable actions (as a reaction to and/or result of supernatural forces) don't contradict the way they've been characterized.

Yes, the walls drip blood and there are bad vibes in Room 217. However, the most compelling aspect of these stories is the unraveling of the lead male and the family dynamic. The supernatural horror and male misbehavior is an external extension of darker impulses glimmering in the depths of the lead male characters - impulses that their wives had previously sensed, but believed/hoped would never surface.

Within the world of these stories, perhaps it is easier for the wives to accept their husbands' misbehavior once they begin to believe that their husbands are influenced by supernatural forces. What's scarier? A supernatural presence that can take over your mind and personality, or realizing that someone you love (and even yourself) has undesirable capacities?

Maintaining Mystery

I recently finished In the Lake of the Woods by Tim O' Brien. This novel is built around an unsolved mystery labeled as fiction, and since it is not chronicling a real life event, the author is free to "solve" the mystery any way he wants to. Except he doesn't.

Unsolved Mystery

John Wade has suffered a crushing political defeat, due in part to public revelations of his questionable actions during the Vietnam War. His time in Vietnam - and the death of his alcoholic/verbally abusive father - haunt John's mind and memories. When the reader meets John, it is clear that he is quite unsettled. His wife Kathy soon disappears, leaving a missing boat as the only significant clue.

Despite a comprehensive search, no one can figure out what happened. The local police, family members, and acquaintances suspect John of killing her. Some chalk it up to an unfortunate boating accident. With post traumatic stress that causes him to drift from reality, even John can't say for sure what he was doing the night his wife vanished.

At first it seems a novel with an omniscent (or objective) third-person narrator. But there are well-placed footnotes and chapters dedicated to collected "evidence." Through these techniques, the reader realizes that the narrator is some kind of reporter/investigative writer, and the novel is the narrator's way of presenting a comprehensive overview of the case. I wasn't sure if this narrator was a fictional character enmeshed in the world of the novel; Tim O' Brien caught up in the midst of creating this novel and speaking directly to the reader; or a fictional extension/alter ego of O' Brien.

I started thinking - why don't we find out what happened to Kathy? Is it a cop-out on O' Brien's part? Maybe he couldn't decide what would sit better with readers: if John actually killed Kathy or if he was innocent? If Kathy died or just ran off and made herself scarce so she could start a new life?

To me, the most acceptable scenario is that the narrator is a fictional character within the world of John Wade, Kathy, and the others. It becomes clear that many of the chapters are pure hypothesis - the narrator's explorations of possible scenarios that could've befallen both Kathy and John. If the narrator is a fictional character, then the fact that we don't find out what happened to Kathy is no longer in danger of being a cop-out on the part of the author, but a more realistic mirror of what so often happens in reality. Watch a few episodes of Dateline, and you remember that crimes and odd happenings can go unsolved for decades, despite the amount of people involved/interviewed/investigated.

Sometimes in life there are no answers, despite how bad we want them. The narrator acknowledges this phenomenon in several of the novel's footnotes (one of which, if you read all of it - not just what I included below - is perhaps the most direct nod to the narrator's role within the novel):

"Our own children, our fathers, our wives and husbands: Do we truly know them? How much is camouflage? How much is guessed at?"

"Mystery finally claims us...The ambiguity may be dissatisfying, even irritating...Blame it on the human heart. One way or another, it seems, we all perform vanishing tricks, effacing history, locking up our lives and slipping day by day into graying shadows. Our whereabouts are uncertain. All secrets lead to the dark, and beyond the dark there is only maybe."
[Excerpts from In the Lake of the Woods, by Tim O'Brien]

Writing and exploring the deep psychological well of the human condition  - specifically the premise that we can never know everything about another human - is interesting, yet difficult. There still has to be enough substance within the work to interest the reader, even if the mystery is never fully revealed.

People in life don't walk around with nametags that identify them as this or that. And even if they did, there is never just one nametag/label that can sum up the complex nature of an individual. So should our fictional characters' motivations/longings/personalities, etc. be definitively labelled within our writing, just because as writers, we have the power to create them?

Poem for Thought

Man paces the beach
rounded calves of
pale freckled skin

Perhaps unaccustomed to
sun exposure

Yet

He flies a kite with casual ease
a nonchalance only gained
from endless practice

He keeps the kite
on a short leash

Simple blue diamond  it hovers
silently persistent
got a monkey on your back?
walk circles to shrug it off

Yet

He treads without alarm or tension
Familiar with this friendly presence
kite peering over shoulder

His soul on a string

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The above is an untitled poem by Fiona Clifford

Imagining Details: Literature vs. Film

Sometimes I like to read the reviews included at the front of a book before starting the book itself. This was the case when I first picked up what I'm currently reading: In the Lake of the Woods by Tim O'Brien. The following excerpt from a review stood out...

"...literature's natural strength: the way in which an author can call on a reader's intelligence to help fashion a novel's effects."    - Harper's Bazaar

It got me thinking...when trying to describe something creatively within the structure of a novel/short story/etc., you can't simply set down every excruciatingly imagined, minute detail that your writerly brain can conjure up. To do so would likely mess with the flow of the work. It's very jarring to read an onslaught of description that sort of zooms you out of the narrative; and then once the description is over, to get plopped back down in the plot again. It's a delicate balancing act to thoughtfully include details - so naturally and subtlely that the reader is not consciously aware of receiving them - with just enough clarity to allow the reader's imagination to participate. Where the above quote mentions the reader's "intelligence," I think "imagination" is a more appropriate notion.

Movies can easily show us action,
with less need for the reader to "imagine" what's happening.
Photo Source

Within a movie, there are an abundance of details (objects that make up the setting the scene occurs in; the characters' wardrobes; the addition of soundtrack music to compliment the mood/emotions) - but many of these details are tucked in the background. Though the camera dictates what we see, viewers often encounter movie scenes the same way we take in the world around us. We see what we look at, we hear sounds around us. Smell, touch, and taste are harder to convey in a movie, but sight and sound typically unfold on film in a way that we recognize - in a way that requires less creative effort on the part of the viewer.

As an example, think about the scene at the end of American Beauty when Caroline (Annette Bening's character) has presumably just discovered Lester's dead body. We hear her gasping, the slam of the bedroom door. See her wet hair. Watch her open the closet doors with effort. Watch her notice and reach out for Lester's shirts. Hear the gentle clink as the hangers bump together. Hear her gasps turn to a sustained wail.  Watch her lean into the rack of shirts, clothes swaying back in unison under her weight. Hear the snap of hangers springing from the rail. Notice clothes softly crumbling to the floor, the awkward way Caroline's legs bend out behind her. All this occurs somewhat simultaneously in about 30 seconds. We absorb these details as naturally as if we're in the same room watching it all firsthand, unseen by Caroline.

How would this scene be different if presented in prose?
Photo Source

How would this same scene be different if presented in prose? It likely wouldn't do much for the reader if I wrote that Caroline is wearing a red dress and carrying a black purse. That the closet doors are painted white. That there are plaid shirts, blue shirts, and tan shirts hanging in the closet. Yet these details are also presented in the movie scene - we may notice them or not. We are likely noticing them without truly realizing it. In writing, the mention of these things may add painful bulk to the scene. Then again, writing provides descriptive opportunities that film does not: the ability to integrate touch (the softness of Lester's well-worn flannel shirt against Caroline's cheek); smell (the lingering scent of detergent on the fabric, mingled with her freshly shampooed hair, wet from the rainstorm outside); and taste (salt from her tears, an aftertaste of garlic from dinner with the man she was having an affair with).

To me, in film, the scene is served by the imagination of behind-the-scene movie folks (stylists, props, sound effects, scene dressers, etc.) These folks are responsible for determining what kind of clothes the character would wear; the objects that would be found in the character's bedroom; what music best suits the desired effect of the scene. Then they create a physical, "real life" setting by artfully arranging those details in front of the camera. As a result of all the imagination that went in on the back end, there is less imagination required from the viewer. We simply watch and listen. Film makers are able to present us with a great number of details due to the nature of the medium.

In writing, the reader is not able to absorb details in the same manner. Reading is not the same thing as watching and listening. The author must selectively decide what details to present in order to keep the story moving and not overwhelm the reader. There needs to be enough detail to breathe life into the work - to give the reader enough footing to imagine the world on the page in a concrete, personalized way - without allowing the reader to accuse the author of leaving them stranded in the dark.

Books, Books, Books

This set me back $3.25

It's very satisfying to wake up on a Saturday and know you're headed to a used book sale. Walking into the sale - coffee in hand - and catching that first glimpse of all the tables loaded with books. Shuffling around the room with the other book types, everyone in their comfy weekend clothes. Bulging tote bags slung from shoulders, cardboard boxes spilling over as if with veggies from the farmers market. My path crossed with a woman who had brought a printed out list of all the books she already had at home. Impressive! That really appealed to my list-making nature, and I think I'm going to have to attempt to catalogue the madness of our booksheleves here at home.

In case you're wondering, here's what I came home with today:

• Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates - I read this book a few years ago and loved it. The more I think about it, this book has informed some of what I'm trying to accomplish with my Laura/Wren piece - in terms of exploring the insular world of a homelife, and an outside person who comes to affect the family in an intangible way. So I just had to make sure I owned a copy. The movie based off of this book is also excellent.
• This Boy's Life by Tobias Wolff - I got a little confused when I first picked this up, as I was thinking this was the book that the movie The Basketball Diaries was based off of (ummm the book that the movie is based off of is also called The Basketball Diaries...guess my morning coffee hadn't kicked in yet). Then I realized that there is a movie based off of This Boy's Life and that Leonardo DiCaprio is in that movie and The Basketball Diaries movie. Whew! Then I realized I was still standing there with the book in my hand so I might as well get it.
• A Home At The End Of The World by Michael Cunningham - Michael Cunningham wrote The Hours, which I loved, so I'm excited to read more of his work.
• The Orchid Thief by Susan Orlean - I have a sneaking suspicion that we already have a copy of this book, but I have wanted to read it ever since I saw Adaptation.
• Bridget Jones's Diary by Helen Fielding  - I read this back in high school? When I first started college? Either way, it's been awhile. It's a must have. Though I'm not a fan of the cover art on the edition I got today.
• The Fall Of The House Of Usher and Other Writings by Edgar Allan Poe - We watched The Raven (with John Cusack) recently, and while it's not the greatest movie, it did make we want to read some Poe. I'm pretty sure we already have various versions of collected Poe works hidden somewhere in our bookshelves.
• Cat's Eye by Margaret Atwood - This was required summer reading for AP English my Senior year of high school. One of the main things I remember from this book is that when the main character was growing up, she had a compulsive habit of peeling skin off the bottom of her feet. It will be interesting to read this book now that 13 years have gone by (probably more than that, by the time I get around to reading it)
• It's Always Something by Gilda Radner - I'm a sucker for celebrity memoirs. I think this one will be heart wrenching.

April 25-30 Sentences

The following is from a work in progress by Fiona Clifford
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[From April 1-24]   It was a stifling weekend with Wren - full of incessant, drizzling rain; stale air, the lingering smell of fried bacon from breakfast; and the sensed agitation of the neighbors, also cooped up in their constricted apartment worlds.
      "Bored, bored, bored," Wren muttered to herself, pacing the living room's threadbare carpet. Then, unexpectedly lunging at Laura on the couch and digging her fingers into her mother's thighs, she shouted "I'M BORED" in Laura's face.
      Startled by the wild flash in her daughter's eyes, Laura pressed back into the couch cushions.
      Wren released her grip, retreated a few steps. Flapping her arms against the sides of her own legs, she twirled in lopsided circles before collapsing on the floor with an exasperated sigh.
      Trying to act normal, Laura rose from the couch. Heart skittering, she headed to the hallway closet to see if there were any forgotten board games that might occupy Wren.
      Fraying towels, ill-fitting spare sheets waited in the dust and dark. At the bottom of it all, a lopsided pile of puzzles and games teetered. Laura picked a coloring book from the top of the heap. Examining the forgotten cartoon characters splashed across the cover, she wondered if coloring was too childish for a nine year old. Hovering just inside the closet door, she tried to predict Wren's reaction.
      Wren accepted the offering and settled on the living room floor. Laura stood awkwardly above her daughter for a moment, unsure what to do next. There was a stack of dirty dishes in the kitchen, but working at the sink - with the blank, windowless wall in front of her, windows full of rain at her back - required more effort than she could muster.
      She sank back into the couch, trying to shake off the fog that had settled around her mind.
      Stretched out on her stomach, legs bent, Wren absentmindedly swished her feet through the air like windshield wipers. Back and forth. Back and forth. The yellow and red colored pencils broke free from the carton, rolled to the edge of the coloring book. Without taking her eyes off the page, Wren dropped the pencil in her hand and picked up the red. The pencil box rattled.
      Laura watched Wren place the tip of the pencil in the center of a cartoon bunny's nose, then start coloring. Wren gripped the pencil in a fist, bore down hard. Laura waited for the tip to snap off.
Wren quickly filled in the bunny nose, then continued outside the lines, moving across the animal’s face. Scratch, scratch, scratch. The pencil rasped across the paper. As Wren dragged the color in jagged scribbles, the rasping filled Laura’s ears like insect wings rubbing together. The sound joined by bursts of rain blowing against the windows, exploding into dribbling splatters.
Clamping her hands over her ears, Laura nervously tracked the uneven lines of red traveling across the bunny’s face like a slow flood of blood. Bright and harsh against the crisp white paper. Flashes of finding Fred in that bath tub.  Uneven splotches of blood against the tile.
What would happen when Wren’s pencil scratched over the bunny’s eyes? Laura couldn’t stand to see those eyes colored red. She had to get out.
“Let’s go!” she blurted out, bolting up from the couch. Hands still covering her ears.

April 14-24 Sentences

The following is from a work in progress by Fiona Clifford
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[From April 1-10]   It was a stifling weekend with Wren - full of incessant, drizzling rain; stale air, the lingering smell of fried bacon from breakfast; and the sensed agitation of the neighbors, also cooped up in their constricted apartment worlds.
      "Bored, bored, bored," Wren muttered to herself, pacing the living room's threadbare carpet. Then, unexpectedly lunging at Laura on the couch and digging her fingers into her mother's thighs, she shouted "I'M BORED" in Laura's face.
      Startled by the wild flash in her daughter's eyes, Laura pressed back into the couch cushions.
      Wren released her grip, retreated a few steps. Flapping her arms against the sides of her own legs, she twirled in lopsided circles before collapsing on the floor with an exasperated sigh.
      Trying to act normal, Laura rose from the couch. Heart skittering, she headed to the hallway closet to see if there were any forgotten board games that might occupy Wren.
      Fraying towels, ill-fitting spare sheets waited in the dust and dark. At the bottom of it all, a lopsided pile of puzzles and games teetered. Laura picked a coloring book from the top of the heap. Examining the forgotten cartoon characters splashed across the cover, she wondered if coloring was too childish for a nine year old. Hovering just inside the closet door, she tried to predict Wren's reaction.

      Wren accepted the offering and settled on the living room floor. Laura stood awkwardly above her daughter for a moment, unsure what to do next. There was a stack of dirty dishes in the kitchen, but working at the sink - with the blank, windowless wall in front of her, windows full of rain at her back - required more effort than she could muster.
      She sank back into the couch, trying to shake off the fog that had settled around her mind.
      Stretched out on her stomach, legs bent, Wren absentmindedly swished her feet through the air like windshield wipers. Back and forth. Back and forth. The yellow and red colored pencils broke free from the carton, rolled to the edge of the coloring book. Without taking her eyes off the page, Wren dropped the pencil in her hand and picked up the red. The pencil box rattled.
      Laura watched Wren place the tip of the pencil in the center of a cartoon bunny's nose, then start coloring.

April 11-13 Sentences

The following is from a work in progress by Fiona Clifford
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[From April 1-10]   It was a stifling weekend with Wren - full of incessant, drizzling rain; stale air, the lingering smell of fried bacon from breakfast; and the sensed agitation of the neighbors, also cooped up in their constricted apartment worlds.
      "Bored, bored, bored," Wren muttered to herself, pacing the living room's threadbare carpet. Then, unexpectedly lunging at Laura on the couch and digging her fingers into her mother's thighs, she shouted "I'M BORED" in Laura's face.
      Startled by the wild flash in her daughter's eyes, Laura pressed back into the couch cushions.
      Wren released her grip, retreated a few steps. Flapping her arms against the sides of her own legs, she twirled in lopsided circles before collapsing on the floor with an exasperated sigh.
      Trying to act normal, Laura rose from the couch. Heart skittering, she headed to the hallway closet to see if there were any forgotten board games that might occupy Wren.
      Fraying towels, ill-fitting spare sheets waited in the dust and dark. At the bottom of it all, a lopsided pile of puzzles and games teetered. Laura picked a coloring book from the top of the heap. Examining the forgotten cartoon characters splashed across the cover, she wondered if coloring was too childish for a nine year old. Hovering just inside the closet door, she tried to predict Wren's reaction.

April 10 Sentence

The following is from a work in progress by Fiona Clifford
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[From April 1-9]   It was a stifling weekend with Wren - full of incessant, drizzling rain; stale air, the lingering smell of fried bacon from breakfast; and the sensed agitation of the neighbors, also cooped up in their constricted apartment worlds.
      "Bored, bored, bored," Wren muttered to herself, pacing the living room's threadbare carpet. Then, unexpectedly lunging at Laura on the couch and digging her fingers into her mother's thighs, she shouted "I'M BORED" in Laura's face.
      Startled by the wild flash in her daughter's eyes, Laura pressed back into the couch cushions.
      Wren released her grip, retreated a few steps. Flapping her arms against the sides of her own legs, she twirled in lopsided circles before collapsing on the floor with an exasperated sigh.
      Trying to act normal, Laura rose from the couch. Heart skittering, she headed to the hallway closet to see if there were any forgotten board games that might occupy Wren.
      Fraying towels, ill-fitting spare sheets waited in the dust and dark. At the bottom of it all, a lopsided pile of puzzles and games teetered.

April 9 Sentence

The following is from a work in progress by Fiona Clifford
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[From April 1-8]   It was a stifling weekend with Wren - full of incessant, drizzling rain; stale air, the lingering smell of fried bacon from breakfast; and the sensed agitation of the neighbors, also cooped up in their constricted apartment worlds.
      "Bored, bored, bored," Wren muttered to herself, pacing the living room's threadbare carpet. Then, unexpectedly lunging at Laura on the couch and digging her fingers into her mother's thighs, she shouted "I'M BORED" in Laura's face.
      Startled by the wild flash in her daughter's eyes, Laura pressed back into the couch cushions.
      Wren released her grip, retreated a few steps. Flapping her arms against the sides of her own legs, she twirled in lopsided circles before collapsing on the floor with an exasperated sigh.
      Trying to act normal, Laura rose from the couch. Heart skittering, she headed to the hallway closet to see if there were any forgotten board games that might occupy Wren.
      Fraying towels, ill-fitting spare sheets waited in the dust and dark.

April 8 Sentence

The following is from a work in progress by Fiona Clifford
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[From April 1-7]   It was a stifling weekend with Wren - full of incessant, drizzling rain; stale air, the lingering smell of fried bacon from breakfast; and the sensed agitation of the neighbors, also cooped up in their constricted apartment worlds.
      "Bored, bored, bored," Wren muttered to herself, pacing the living room's threadbare carpet. Then, unexpectedly lunging at Laura on the couch and digging her fingers into her mother's thighs, she shouted "I'M BORED" in Laura's face.
      Startled by the wild flash in her daughter's eyes, Laura pressed back into the couch cushions.
      Wren released her grip, retreated a few steps. Flapping her arms against the sides of her own legs, she twirled in lopsided circles before collapsing on the floor with an exasperated sigh.
      Trying to act normal, Laura rose from the couch. Heart skittering, she headed to the hallway closet to see if there were any forgotten board games that might occupy Wren.

April 6 & 7 Sentences

The following is from a work in progress by Fiona Clifford
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[From April 1-5]   It was a stifling weekend with Wren - full of incessant, drizzling rain; stale air, the lingering smell of fried bacon from breakfast; and the sensed agitation of the neighbors, also cooped up in their constricted apartment worlds.
      "Bored, bored, bored," Wren muttered to herself, pacing the living room's threadbare carpet. Then, unexpectedly lunging at Laura on the couch and digging her fingers into her mother's thighs, she shouted "I'M BORED" in Laura's face.
      Startled by the wild flash in her daughter's eyes, Laura pressed back into the couch cushions.
      Wren released her grip, retreated a few steps. Flapping her arms against the sides of her own legs, she twirled in lopsided circles before collapsing on the floor with an exasperated sigh.
      Trying to act normal, Laura rose from the couch.

April 5 Sentence

The following is from a work in progress by Fiona Clifford
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[From April 1-4]   It was a stifling weekend with Wren - full of incessant, drizzling rain; stale air, the lingering smell of fried bacon from breakfast; and the sensed agitation of the neighbors, also cooped up in their constricted apartment worlds.
      "Bored, bored, bored," Wren muttered to herself, pacing the living room's threadbare carpet. Then, unexpectedly lunging at Laura on the couch and digging her fingers into her mother's thighs, she shouted "I'M BORED" in Laura's face.
      Startled by the wild flash in her daughter's eyes, Laura pressed back into the couch cushions.
      Wren released her grip, retreated a few steps.

April 4 Sentence

The following is from a work in progress by Fiona Clifford
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[From April 1-3]   It was a stifling weekend with Wren - full of incessant, drizzling rain; stale air, the lingering smell of fried bacon from breakfast; and the sensed agitation of the neighbors, also cooped up in their constricted apartment worlds.
      "Bored, bored, bored," Wren muttered to herself, pacing the living room's threadbare carpet. Then, unexpectedly lunging at Laura on the couch and digging her fingers into her mother's thighs, she shouted "I'M BORED" in Laura's face.
      Startled by the wild flash in her daughter's eyes, Laura pressed back into the couch cushions.

April 3 Sentence

The following is from a work in progress by Fiona Clifford
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[From April 1-2]   It was a stifling weekend with Wren - full of incessant, drizzling rain; stale air, the lingering smell of fried bacon from breakfast; and the sensed agitation of the neighbors, also cooped up in their constricted apartment worlds.
      "Bored, bored, bored," Wren muttered to herself, pacing the living room's threadbare carpet. Then, unexpectedly lunging at Laura on the couch and digging her fingers into her mother's thighs, she shouted "I'M BORED" in Laura's face.

April 2 Sentence

The following is from a work in progress by Fiona Clifford
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[From April 1]   It was a stifling weekend with Wren - full of incessant, drizzling rain; stale air, the lingering smell of fried bacon from breakfast; and the sensed agitation of the neighbors, also cooped up in their constricted apartment worlds.
      "Bored, bored, bored," Wren muttered to herself, pacing the living room's threadbare carpet.

April 1 Sentence

The following is from a work in progress by Fiona Clifford
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It was a stifling weekend with Wren - full of incessant, drizzling rain; stale air, the lingering smell of fried bacon from breakfast; and the sensed agitation of the neighbors, also cooped up in their constricted apartment worlds.

April Experiment

Things at work have been steadily, stealthily getting busier...and the creeping sense of the onslaught has finally materialized. What that means is that it has been harder than usual to carve out the time for writing. My writing group disbanded for the time being, throwing another wrench into the writing efforts. So I'm embarking on a (hopefully) fun experiment to keep the creative juices flowing: for the month of April, write one new sentence each day.

This is certainly not a novel idea. There are movements dedicated to asking participants to create a certain amount of words per day, etc. I once saw Jimmy Buffet on a late night talk show, and he mentioned that he produces his books by writing one page a day. It can still take an agonizing amount of time to get one page down (love my typewriter!), but I figure I should be able to stick to one sentence a day.

Stay tuned, faithful readers! I'm planning to return to the world of Laura and Wren, and build the next scene (previously tumbling around in my head) here on the blog - sentence by sentence. A Frankenstein project; carefully considering, measuring words, taking the time to stitch together that "perfect" arrangement of words.

Focus on the sentence itself...

Odds 'n Ends

Before Nemo really kicks in and we (hopefully don't) lose power, here's a quick update on some things I'm working on:

CURRENTLY WRITING: I'm planning to enter a short story competition with an upcoming March 1 deadline. The competition asks writers to submit stories inspired by specific paintings from a Maine artist. It was a good exercise scrolling through the paintings, waiting for the seed of inspiration to sprout. What I came up with is quite short in length (about 2,000 words under the 5,000 word limit), but I really wanted it to be a snapshot of an intense moment in time. I sent it off to my writing group, for  critique this Wednesday. I don't want to jinx myself by posting it here, but depending on how things shake out, this piece may make a blog appearance in the future.

Donald Ray Pollack. I just started Knockemstiff.

Photo Source

CURRENTLY READING:
Oh, the joy of finishing a book and deciding which one to start next! Back in October/November, I had a birthday coupon for Longfellow Books. I went in looking for Growing Up Dead in Texas by Stephen Graham Jones. They didn't have it, but through some back-and-forth with the bookstore guy, he recommened Knockemstiff by Donald Ray Pollock. It's always interesting to get recommendations, particularly if someone suggests something because it reminds them of your own work or personality. In this case, I think it was just something that the bookstore guy had recently read and loved. Either way, Knockemstiff has been un-opened on my nightstand for much too long, and I'm excited to dig in.


JUST FINISHED READING: Is anyone sick of listening to me talk about David Foster Wallace yet If so, you'll be happy to know I finally finished A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again. I've always had a borderline obsessive tendency to write down quotes, and what better place to collect them than on the blogosphere? It was a little surreal going back to the pages I'd folded down, kind of like opening a mystery box, not sure what I would find. Trying to remember what drew me to those sentences in particular, especially since I did most of my reading right before bed, with my mind in a strange and lucid, dream-state. So, without further ado, below are some DFW quotes from A Supposedly Fun Thing...

"...the very most important artistic communications took place at a level that not only wasn't intellectual but wasn't even fully conscious, that the unconscious's true medium wasn't verbal but imagistic..."

This thought was offered in relation to Lynch's Blue Velvet. What I like about it is the verbal and imagistic implications. In writing, I think the primary goal is to create effective images, though the medium itself requires use of words, which is a kind of verbal device.

"Lynch's movies are not about monsters (i.e. people whose intrinsic natures are evil) but about hauntings, about evil as environment, possibility, force."

"Darkness is in everything, all the time - not 'lurking below' or 'lying in wait' or 'hovering on the horizon': evil is here, right now. And so are Light, love, redemption (since these phenomena are also, in Lynch's work, forces and spirits), etc."

It's interesting to wonder if there are forces that cause a person (real or imagined) to commit certain acts. I saw a news segment over the summer that linked heat to violence. When temperatures skyrocket to their hottest, crime rates also surge. It makes a good backdrop for a story. How environment can weigh on a character, push them into acting in a way that's more aligned with the ever-present darkness or light.

"Day to day I have to make all sorts of choices about what is good and important and fun, and then I have to live with the forfeiture of all the other options those choices foreclose. And I'm starting to see how as time gains momentum my choices will narrow and their foreclosures multiply exponentially until I arrive at some point on some branch of all life's sumptuous branching complexity at which I am finally locked in and stuck on one path...But since it's my own choices that'll lock me in, it seems unavoidable - if I want  to be any kind of grownup, I have to make choices and regret foreclosures and try to live with them." 

This really reminded me of a part in The Bell Jar, where Esther is imagining all the things she could do with her life, options spreading out and blooming like a fig tree. It has a similarly claustrophobic feel to it. Decisions start to close life around her, and she further wonders if the figs she imagines were ever actually available to her at all.

Informing Narrative

A few weeks ago, we watched The Informant! This movie is often quite funny, with a touch of the surreal, but what struck me most was the narrative structure. Through first person narration from Matt Damon's character (based on the real life Mark Whitacre), we slowly learn about events that he has kept hidden from both the other movie characters and us, the faithful viewer.

The Informant! has an unreliable narrator 
and a hidden layer of events...
Photo Source

The first hint of secret-keeping comes at the beginning, when the FBI arrives at Damon/Whitacre's company to investigate a possible mole situation. As part of this investigation, the FBI needs to tap the phone lines in Damon/Whitacre's home. On the night the special agent comes over to get the phone tap set up, we see Damon/Whitacre and his wife having a tense conversation, regarding whether or not Damon/Whitacre is going to be honest and tell the agent about this other "thing." They seem to be talking about something bigger than the mole/phone tap situation. As if they have been discussing this matter off screen for weeks, months. Maybe years.

The phone is tapped, the agent in the driveway about to leave. After a few more "If you don't say anything, I will" whispers with his wife, Damon/Whitacre stops the agent and asks if they can speak privately in the agent's car. At this point, we viewers are on edge. Due to all the hush-hush, just-be- honest talk with the wife, we know something big is about to be revealed. The tension is heightened as we realize that a sub-current of plot has been stealthily running under the "primary" issue (the mole) we thought we were supposed to pay attention to. The secrecy also lends a realism to the characters, as if Damon/Whitacre and his wife had truly been going about their lives before the movie started (to make things more complex, they had, as these characters are based on actual people) - having conversations and sharing secrets that we never got to listen in on.

The first hint of secret-keeping 
begins with a conversation between husband and wife
Photo Source

In the car, Damon/Whitacre reveals to the special agent that he and other company executives have been working with competitors to fix the price of lysine. (Don't ask me to explain what lysine is, I really have no idea. As best as I could gather, in the movie, it was an industrially produced corn by-product found in manufactured food, something like high fructose corn syrup.)

As the movie progresses, the viewer gets caught up in the lysine price-fixing scandal via Damon/Whitacre's actions and inner thoughts. We see Damon/Whitacre going undercover for the FBI, helping them record tapes and video of illegal activities. Price-fixing and an impending FBI bust seems to be the plot, what we are meant to focus on. But gradually - ever so slowly at first - the movie reveals that other events have occurred simultaneously to the price-fixing investigation. Events we had no way of knowing about because the camera didn't show them to us; because Damon/Whitacre didn't reveal them to the other characters onscreen; and because the movie never allowed Damon/Whitacre to let us in on the secrets. According to Wikipedia, Roger Ebert had this to say about the movie's layering: "The Informant! is fascinating in the way it reveals two levels of events, not always visible to each other or to the audience."

I'm very interested in using this type of narrative technique in my own writing. In The Informant!, the main device used is an unreliable narrator, who we realize hasn't been telling us everything, even within the inner monologues the movie gives us access to. Maybe he is incapable of telling himself the truth (but that's a whole separate plot point). Though I find unreliable narrators very appealing, I am most interested in having concrete events as parts of a story, writing about them through the character(s), but not necessarily coming out point-blank to tell the reader exactly what that event was/is. Facts and memories so engrained in the character - such an integral part of their own story - that they need no self-reference. And a first-person narration/self-reference would be the only means the reader has for receiving the story. However, within my writing, I do want to drop enough "clues" to give the reader footing to accurately infer what the event being written about was/is.

Can you trust my narration in this post? Just watch The Informant! and let me know if any of this rings true...

Amusement Parks, Fairs, and DFW

I'm still plugging away at A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again. While excited that I finally reached the David Lynch essay/argument, this means that I finished the preceding "Getting Away From Already Pretty Much Being Away From it All."  An all-encompassing view of the 1993 Illinois State Fair, as seen through the eyes of David Foster Wallace, it has been my favorite installment of A Supposedly Fun Thing... so far.

DFW's personality really shone through "Getting Away..." (keen observations tinged with human insecurities/vulnerabilities, the way the surrounding environment affects mood) and there was subtle humor sprinkled about. Allow me to list a few standouts:

• His descriptions of the game booths, how "rows of stuffed animals hang by their feet like game put out to cure."
• The gluttonous, sensory overload of the food booths. And this is before he eats himself into an unpleasant sounding digestive situation at the Dessert Competition tent.
• Although his coverage of the Fair is due to a journalism assignment from a "swanky East-Coast magazine," he fails to bring a notebook with him. He then buys a notebook, leaves it in his car with the windows down, and the notebook gets ruined by rain. He doesn't even have a pen. After indulgence at the Dessert tent sends him to the Emergency Room, he ends up in the hospital gift shop to buy another notebook. He buys the only one they have, a kid's notebook, "with that weird soft gray paper and some kind of purple brontosaurus-type character named Barney on the cover."
• The cacophonous noise from the Poultry Building is "what insanity must sound like."
• "Clydesdales with their bellbottoms of hair"
• Throughout the piece, DFW conducts hapazard interviews with various Fair folk. Basically asking random questions, with little more than an eye roll, profanity, or blank stare as the response. At one point he writes: "I ask a little kid to describe the taste of his Funnel Cake and he runs away." I had to laugh out loud when reading this, just imagining a rumpled DFW approaching some kid out of the blue; and the kid, having no idea who DFW is, hightailing it out of there in full stranger-danger mode.

"The Fairgrounds are creepy with everything set up but no one about.
A creepy air of hasty abandonment, a feeling like you run home from kindergarten
and the whole family's up and moved, left you."
- David Foster Wallace

To me, the center of "Getting Away..." is DFW's memory of how as a child, he was convinced that everything he encountered existed just for him. And how this sense of the world is why "special ritual occasions drive a kid right out of his mind." Special occasions such as Fairs. The child counts down, looks forward to this special event, and "every hanging banner, balloon, gilded booth, clown-wig, turn of the wrench on a tent's erection...will present itself as Special-For-Him...For-Him alone, unique at the absolute center."

This reminded me of a sentiment I've tried to capture in my own writing. In a section of my grad school thesis, there was a piece where a female character visits an amusement park (which was a much-anticipated, once-a-summer occasion from her youth), and tries to reconcile her current experience of it with her childood impressions. To bring this blog post to a close, I've included two excerpts below.

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The following is from written work by Fiona Clifford:

As a kid, the drive to Funtown was the best part of summer, promised magic as August faded and the beginning of a new school year loomed near.  Every evening darkness arrived a little earlier, the threat of frost and the tips of trees already turning not quite hidden from our attention. Hair matted with chlorine and the ocean, we rode bikes around town, stained our lips red and purple with Freezie Pops. There was still Funtown to look forward to.

It was strange being at Funtown in the middle of the day...

At Funtown, neon bulbs split the night open with endless flashing circles.  Merry-go-round horses spun with boundless energy. Kids like me rushed about, thrilled to be up so late, sandaled feet thumping over wooden bridges and scattered popcorn bags.  

On the way there we shivered with anticipation, all of us in the backseat straining to catch the first glimpse of the dinosaur.  The entrance to Funtown. He was perched on the side of a cliff, ferocious claws captured by spotlight. With the night lingering on the edge of expectation, anything could happen  once inside.

I shifted to the front of my seat as Ethan drove on. I wanted to spot that dinosaur. As we neared the park, my eyes focused instead on a brown blob lumped onto a plastic pile of rocks  A bear, his crafted 

expression smeared into attempted 

wildness, stood in the place of the dinosaur.

“What the hell? Has that bear always been there?” Squinting, I tried to pinpoint where my memory misled me. 

“How should I know?” Ethan pulled into the parking lot. “Does it matter?”

xxx

It was strange being at Funtown in the middle of the day, without night casting its spell over everything. Lights were on – blinking from the seats of the Ferris Wheel, dangling heavily from the tents that promised prizes for all the money in your pocket – but no one noticed. The carousel mirrors were covered in grime and the horses reared up in various expressions of pain. Impaled with a gilded pole, their hard red mouths and glazed eyes remained lifeless. The air was thick with the smell of frying oil. Kids stuffed themselves with onion rings, fries, fried dough; simply dropping their wrappers on the ground when they were through. Cotton candy dissolved on the tongue before they ever had a chance to taste it.