writing about writing

TELL ME WHAT Y0U CANNOT TELL ME

2006-02-03T10:41:00.000-08:00

TELL ME WHAT YOU CANNOT TELL ME
by
Milton Trachtenburg
copyright, 1996

Her:

What are you thinking?

Him:

Nothing much.

Her:

Come on. We've been married ten years now and I know when something is on your mind.

Him:

You always seem to know when something is on my mind, don't you?

Her:

Well, you don't have to snap at me! What did I do wrong?

Him:

Nothing. Not a thing!

Her:

Hold me...please.

Him:

Oh, Christ!

Her:

Did something happen at work today? You know you can talk to me about it.

Him:

No, nothing happened at work. Nothing ever happens at work.

Her:

Well, something must be bothering you.

Him:

I'm just tired is all.

Him: (voice coming from offstage)

Yeah, something is bothering me, all right. I can't stand you. Always trying to manage my life but never contributing anything to it.

Her: (voice from offstage)

What is the matter with him? I've always done what was best for him. I make him a nice home and do all the damn work around here. What does he want?

Him:

Well, I had a difficult day today. I had trouble with my boss and I'm really upset. I wish you would have a little more consideration.

Her:

What's this got to do with consideration? What do you want from me? You know I have it tough too. You aren't the only one with a tough job.

Him:

Yeah, I never said that you didn't have it difficult. What does that have to do with anything?

Her:

Why do you always have to get so angry at everything I say? I never did anything to deserve that.

Him:

Please. Just leave me alone! I don't need another one of these go nowhere conversations.

Her:

Where is it supposed to go?

Him:

I don't care anymore where it goes. Just let me sleep.

Him: (voice only)

It's like talking to a wall. There really isn't anyone home there. How do you tell someone who isn't home that there is company?

Her: (voice only)

What does he want from me? God knows, I try to please him every way I can.

BEFORE YOU BEGIN TO WRITE

2006-01-17T08:08:00.000-08:00

Before you begin to write . . .

Writing begins with an idea. The idea comes to you without bidding. Before turning the idea into the great American Novel of the Twenty-First Century, there are many steps you might choose to take before you begin formal writing. Here is a listing of some of them:

The beginning of story writing doesn't appear on page one. As a matter-of-fact, it doesn't appear in the manuscript at all. The beginning of a story takes place in the mind of the writer, or perhaps in a notebook if you are very organized (which I admit I am not).

Much writing by new writers appears to skip the critical steps I just mentioned and will describe at greater length below. The list below is not in a particular order. To discuss each issue would take an entire book, and we will come back to most of these issues in depth later. For now, it is important to become familiar with the fact that there are many issues we must deal with before a word is committed to paper. We need to make, amongst others, the following decisions:

* The nature of the protagonist. We needs to create a three-dimensional character and sets her loose in a plot. Our character must have many facets that, in combination, can make her unpredictable -- even to the writer.

* The basic storyline. What is the story about? Here is an example of a storyline that gets the action going but has no input into how it will get to its destination. It differs from a plot outline in that a plot outline is a detailed account of what is going to happen and who is going to make it happen. Here is a storyline sample:

A storyline for a bank caper might look like this: Three men who met in reform school and the former girlfriend of one of them meet again twenty years later. Each has a reason for needing a large amount of money quickly or a reason for turning to an illegal activity to get it. Two meet by co-incidence and involve the other two as they develop a plan to rob the former employer of one of the four.

The storyline brings us to the next set of important decisions in the beginning process:

* The individual major characters. What is the back story (history of the character that you may or may not share with the reader) about each one that you need in order to develop the story? What are their strengths and flaws? What in their background makes them susceptible to becoming a believable part of the scheme? What in their lives creates the potential for conflict and chaos when they join with the other protagonists?

* The narrator. Now that you have a story and the primary characters, you need to
pick a narrator that fits best with the style and substance of the story. Will you use a First-Person POV (Point-of-View) and choose one of the characters? Would this story be written best from a Third-Person limited POV, a Third-Person omnicient POV? Perhaps you are overlooking a minor character who hasn't been introduced yet who would make the best POV. What kind of voice do you want to give the narrator? Does the narrator have to have the same kind of background as the characters? Decisions, decisions.

* Plot outlining. Each decision you make creates a need to make further decisions. Do you make a plot outline with a conclusion now, or do you allow the characters to develop the story so that the conclusion will become a natural outcome of their interactions with each other, with others who are introduced as the story develops, their strengths and weaknesses and outside elements they can't control?

* Back story. How much of the information about the characters do you need to share with the reader? How do you share it in a manner that doesn't impede the forward motion of the story?

* The major problem. How do you introduce the protagonist's major problem without being too obvious about it? How do you pull the reader into the conflict without appearing to force the issue?

* The hook. How do you get the reader to want to read on to the end? The first hook is a key that you want to develop that represents your style, the nature of the manuscript and will help the reader suspend disbelief.

* The introduction of the characters. How do you plan to bring your cast on to the stage? You want to be realistic, yet not waste too much time with introductions? How do you plan to build the characters so that they change as events and other characters impact upon them and they impact upon events and other characters?

* Dialogue by each character (the character's voice) as well as between characters. Does your dialogue immediately distinguish your characters? Does their dialogue contribute mightily to the progress of the storyline? Is there tension and conflict in the dialogue to move the story forward from page 1?

* Description. Does your description of the characters list all their attributes and characteristics like the slats of a picket fence or do you allow your character to grow in the mind of the reader? Does your description of events and locale overwhelm the reader with adjectives and minutia? Do you show your story rather than tell it?

* Setting. Where have you placed the action? Does your story need a particular locale? If it does, do you know enough about the locale to describe it and use it accurately? The example I always recall about the description of locale bears repeating. It killed the veracity of a mystery I once read. The scene was placed on Fourteenth Street in Philadelphia. There is no Fourteenth Street in Philadelphia. Between Thirteenth Street and Fifteenth Street is Broad Street. It is the core N - S street in that city and was designed by the city's founder, William Penn in the seventeenth century. It was and still is the focal point on the N - S axis of that city all these years after he drew the first Platt maps. Without that knowledge, a careless writer and and editor allowed that faux pas to pass muster and be printed.

* The time frame and date. Another task is to set the amount of time you will use to conduct the business of the story: Hours? Days? Years? Also, you need to set the era in which it takes place: Now? Some identifiable time in the past? Some identifiable time in the future?

* The format. Are you writing a book-length project, a short story, a short-short, a novelette? How you approach the material will vary according to what format you are writing. How many characters, who will narrate, the time span, the focus will depend on what kind of writing you are doing.

* A working title. Sometimes a title can serve as the parameters around which you will build the story. It may not be the one the marketing department of a publisher will use, but it allows you to get the story in focus and to the editor.

* The opening line. If it is: "It was a dark and stormy night," your name better be Snoopy or you can forget it. It may be raining, cold and windy, but you better find a unique way fo bringing it into your story. You can bring the same concept in from a personalized place.

I was wet, cold and angry. My first thought was to throw in the towel, but not until I used it to dry myself off.

Ok, that was pretty loose, but you get the idea. Be original, no cliches -- not even in your outline. Even in an outline, write your best, so you won't use an opening that was ineffective a hundred years ago.

FINDING THE BEST WORDS FOR YOUR STORIES

2005-12-14T15:51:00.000-08:00

The Last Word is the Right Word
The Best Word is the Correct word
by
Milton Trachtenburg
copyright, 1998

I find writing difficult, but not necessarily hard. The previous sentence is a takeoff of a posting in which the writer, referring to an exercise she was asked to perform, said, "I find the exercise hard." I replied, "I don't find it hard, but I do find it difficult." I find that cooking eggs for ten minutes makes them hard, while picking up mercury with your fingers is difficult.

Words: Although there are over two hundred and fifty thousand of them in the English language, we find it difficult to get a story right (rather than left?) -- no, what we find difficult is: To construct our story in such a manner that it gives to give reader an accurate portrayal of our thoughts and ideas. In order to accomplish the goal of “getting it right,’ we must select the best word, not some of the time, but, every time.

Contemplate the task of the writer seeking the best words to describe her ideas with that of a physician performing major surgery. Can you picture the surgeon saying, "Oops, well, it was close. The patient will probably survive." The patient may, but the doctor won't. To become a professional writer, we are held to the same exacting standards as the surgeon; we must say exactly what we mean to create the elements of a powerful story or we will not find a receptive marketplace.

When I advise a new writer how to find the best word, I tell her, "Don't use your head to find your best word; use your dictionary, thesaurus and every other tool of writing you can get your hands on. Without the correct and best words, there will be a flat plot, dead dialogue and worst of all. An uninteresting story. Words do not make a story. The correct and best words perform that function.

As a carpenter wouldn't try to drive a nail with a sledgehammer, nor a logger try to cut down a gnarled oak with a paring knife, why would a writer use non-descriptive words that lay flat, give flawed impressions and otherwise leave the story stranded? Starting a paragraph with a word such as "this" may be easy for the writer, but the reader will have to hunt her memory for the reference. The same rule applies when beginning a paragraph with the pronouns “he” or “she.” "Who is “he?" mutters the reader, pausing to remember . . . and perhaps remembering instead that she promised to call a friend and then makes the call, forgetting the book. If William Tell had settled for the same degree of accuracy the stories in this examples did, he would have been serving shish-ka-bobbed son for dinner -- with a pristine apple for dessert.

In an e-mail this morning, I received a newsletter from a writer who I had met on line. He sent a story to me that began: "It . . ." I didn't read past the first word. If the writer was so confident that the world would read anything he wrote that he didn't care enough about his readers to polish his first sentence, then I didn’t have enough interest to waste my time reading his work.

Careless writing is different from unskilled writing. New writers can be taught skills. Careless writing takes place when the writer either avoids attaining skills or is too lazy to edit his work, except, perhaps, to run the piece through a spell checker.

A developing writer needs to accept that the words they first commit to paper in a rough draft are nothing but the first words that came to mind, and rather than stop what she is doing to seek a better word, she typed or wrote the word that came to mind. A lazy writer will stop seeking a word at that juncture, hoping the reader, who herself may be a developing writer, will overlook it. Or worse yet, believe that she has a “right” to use any word she pleases to describe the story.

I agree with the writers who scream about their rights to say what they please. As a writer, we have the right to say anything that pleases us. However, as readers, we have a reciprocal right to stop reading anything that displeases us. When a novice writing group encourages this same writer by posting the following, "You've written a great story. I wouldn't change a word," her opinion that there is no need for greater accuracy is reinforced and she will take a pleasant opinion over one that offers structural or procedural advice.

Writing exciting poetry or prose requires us to convey images as well as ideas to the reader. When we choose less than the best words, we convey less than the complete image or idea. Metaphors, similes and paradoxes allow the reader to visualize our words. However, when we use one of these tools in an inappropriate or less than accurate manner, we leave our story flat, uninteresting or disharmonious. For instance, if I say, "It was colder than a log cabin in December," what have I said? The answer is: Nothing. Where is the log cabin? Wasn't it heated? The reader is now off on a side trip thinking about the nature of log cabins instead of the fact that the character is trapped in a cold place and may forget about our story altogether. Yet, many writers will leave careless mistakes such as the one I demonstrated. Since she knows what she meant, she assumes that the reader will also. The reader may deduce the meaning in a second, but in that second, the reader is out of the story, not immersed within its invisible boundaries. One element that makes a play believable is that the actors treat the props as if they were real. Writers need to show the same care with their words. Stories exist in the moinds of the reader only if we use the proper tools and the proper seeds to plant them there.

Words often have meaning far beyond their dictionary definition. The sounds of words, the rhythm of putting them in certain contexts to creating sentences and paragraphs that fit our story is as important as the words themselves. Editing and rewriting require more than a dictionary and thesaurus. The task of editing also require a “reader's ear.” If the words seem to have proper meaning, but a trained editor takes them apart, her actions should help you understand that you are reading with a preconceived notion that what you said means what you intended. If you hear the words rather than see them, the inconsistencies will appear. We need to weigh each word that we send out. Ask yourself, What is the exact meaning of this word?" and, "Is the word I chose the best word to describe the setting, action, thought, expression or feeling I'm trying to convey to my readers?" Treat each word you use as if you had to pay a dollar for it and you will begin to choose stronger words to represent your ideas.

I believe that anyone can learn to recognize the best words. The difficulty we encounter is that reading word by word takes time and energy. For a novice writer to achieve a tight story, she must care about results and have the discipline necessary to pursue the effects she desires . To get from here (your present level of writing) to there (developing the skill to tell a story that will delight a discriminating audience) requires you to perform the following tasks: First, you must forget every cliche you ever heard. Second, you need to learn new ways to describe action, appearance and intent without overusing adjectives.. Third, you need to eliminate most of the adverbs and replace them with action verbs. Fourth and most important, don't imitate other writers. Those that have great talent are unique and can't be imitated, and those that don't, have nothing you can use.

Write with care and diligence. Be open to opinions that differ from yours. Accept that writing to a level that will be marketable takes much time and even more effort. The writer who attains instant success probably took twenty years to achieve it.

To end where I began, remember, the right word is the last word on the last line only in countries where language is written left-to-right. The correct word is the best word no matter in which language you write.

INTERVIEWING YOUR CHARACTERS

2005-12-01T07:26:00.000-08:00

Interviewing Your Characters to Reveal all of their Hidden Facets
by
Milton Trachtenburg
copyright, 1998

You've written a story about a bank heist; the plot has more convolutions than a licorice twist. The story is exciting from the opening hook to the denouement and you've developed an unexpected ending that will blow away even the most jaded reader. With eager anticipation, you submit the manuscript to editors you discovered by researching the marketplace. You believe that what you wrote is exactly what publishers are seeking. You query editors with a brief plot outline, and to your great pleasure, you get a response from one of them requesting a significant portion of the manuscript. Dreams of sugarplum limousines and ego-inflating book signings dance in your head.

A month goes by . . . The long-awaited letter arrives. The tension mounts as your shaking hands fumble to open the envelope, almost turning your ticket to fame and fortune into confetti. You read the letter:

Dear Sir,

Though you have an interesting plot, the characters don't do much for me. Try rewriting it. It has potential.

John Smith, editor

Your stomach sinks faster than a 747 crash landing in a cornfield. You are too hurt to recognize the free and supportive knowledge he is giving you. This letter isn't a rejection. It is a clarion call to tell you that you have potential as a writer, but that you need to further study your craft to give your manuscript the power it needs to attain publication. The editor is telling you two things in this brief letter: First, he believes you possess the skill required to rewrite your manuscript, and that the manuscript is worthy of a fresh treatment. More important, he is telling you that he is willing to read the rewrite, if you remedy the issue he presented: The issue he presented is: your characters are flat, uninteresting and have nothing to distinguish them from each other; they contribute little to a plot-drawn vehicle.

There are two rules of great writing. The first rule is: Characters must carry the story. The plot is only a malleable wrapping within which the characters act and are acted upon by natural elements, their own shortcomings and other characters. The second rule of great writing is: What you write about a character is guided by your knowledge of his or her life. You know far more about your character than you realize. Later in this article, you will find a list of questions that may help you access your knowledge so that you may power-up your characters to new heights.

Rather than learning only surface qualities, or developing a specific characteristic, I yearn to get inside each character to understand all of his or her nuances. Think of memorable books and movies. Those that are memorable featured a multi-dimensional protagonist who grabbed you and held on to the end. When you reached the conclusion of the story, you wanted more. There is no doubt that creating dynamic, exciting, conflicted characters is a key to getting your story published.

Now we come to the hard part. You ask, "What do I need to do differently to create memorable characters?" Get to know the character before you write about her. The best way to get to know a character is to have her to talk to you before you begin writing the story. Much of what you'll learn from her may not appear in the story at all, but once she’s turned loose on the pages, the information will have a dramatic impact on the story. You will share only snippets of your knowledge with the reader, on a need-to-know basis. The first efforts of new writers are often based on their own experiences in which all the characters are thinly disguised versions of real people. As we grow as writers, we write about characters and situations that have nothing in common with our own lives. Your imagination contains the seeds that will allow you to develop thousands of characters.

Next, you might ask, "How do I get my character to talk to me off the record? Do I dream about her? Do I walk down the street mumbling to myself?" No, you set up an interview at your mutual convenience. Prepare your questions in advance, as a reporter would. Treat your character as a stranger whom you would like to know better. Make her comfortable and ask only questions that will broaden your knowledge of her. Gently and politely, ask her if she would be willing to tell you about her life. If she agrees, give her free reign to talk all day about an issue. Ask her the questions listed below, as well as any others that come to mind in the process. Even background information, which may not appear in the final draft, will help you to write the story.

The questions below represent a prospective outline of some of the information that may help you to get to know your character. When you know her well, you will be able to use her more effectively in your story. The better you know her, the better the opportunity for the reader to get inside her, too. If the reader understands who the character is and what makes her act and react, she will have the answer the question: "Why should I bother reading about her? I've read lots of stories like this one."

You can ask some specific questions to make your interview more productive. Ask open-ended questions. An open-ended question can't be answered "yes" or "no." Each answer you receive will lead you to another question. Continue the interview until you know all the information and character traits you need. What you learn will affect the way she will react to her circumstances and how she will interact with other characters. This complex task needs only to be used in interviewing major characters. With minor characters, you may want to do a partial interview according to their function in the story; remember that it is often a minor character who takes center stage for a few moments and gives your reader an added treat.

When you and your major are comfortable, ask her important questions such as the following:

* What was it like living in your home when you were growing up?
* What was the worst experience you had as a child?
* What is your best memory from childhood?
* Who were the people who raised you and what were their most memorable qualities?
* Who are you today?
* What makes you angry?
* What are you afraid of?
* What is missing from your life?
* What is work for you and what is play?
* What do you have that you would fight for?
* What do you want that you might kill for?
* What do you most like about yourself?
* Where are your friends when you need them?
* What makes you sad?
* What is the funniest thing you remember?
* How do you feel about yourself as a person?
* What experiences have you had with love in your life?
* If you had a free wish, what would you wish for and why?
* What would people not like about you if they really knew you?
* Of all the people in your life who are not here any longer, whom do you miss the most and why?
* Whom do you miss the least?
* If you were celebrating, what would you choose to do?
* If you could be an animal, what kind would you be?
* Do you have a best friend? How does it make you feel?
* What is your secret fantasy?
* Are you happy where you live?
* Describe your family.
* What are your most important traits?
* What would you change about yourself?
* What bad habits do you have?
* Are you religious?
* What have you done that makes you most proud?
* What have you done that makes you feel most ashamed?

The above list is but a sample of the kinds of questions that can help you to create a multi-dimensional character. You do not have to have the character answer all of the questions, but use as many of them as you need to create a character that is whole. When she tells her story, allow her to tell the gritty as well as the pretty. Make her the sum total of her experiences, hopes, dreams, desires, faults and virtues. Allow her to make excuses, lie, or try to deceive you and the readers. The more complex the character, the more exciting the story.

To write a great story, you need to advertise for great characters. No cardboard characters need apply. Characters can have at least as many characteristics and significant events as you would have if you were writing your autobiography.

Now for some additional instructions that will enable your character to grow after you start using her in a story:

* Give the character a voice that is her own, not yours.
* Allow her to speak in her natural voice and her own vocabulary, not yours.
* When you put her in the manuscript, allow her to talk directly to the reader --
Remember, the character and the reader are alone in a room and she must speak for herself. You won't be there to interpret for the reader.
* Don't allow her to hold back -- She needs to tell the important things to the reader even if she is afraid the reader won't like her.

Use the list to practice creating a character even if you have no story in mind now.

To demonstrate how I would go about discovering information about a character’s life and personality, here is a small part of an interview between a female character and me. The character's name is Leslie. The story is about a woman who was abused by her mother as a child and the effects of the abuse upon her adult life. The character was originally developed for a self-help book, “Stop the merry-Go-Round: Stories of Women who Broke the Cycle of Abusive Relationships,” McGraw-Hill. Years later, I used the character in a short story.

Leslie has told me that she is thirty-three years old, with four children. She's been divorced for a number of years. She works part-time and receives support from her ex-husband. That information tells me nothing about her. After I have the basic information about age, sex and marital status, I can begin probing:

"Leslie, who are you?"

"I told you, I'm divorced, I got kids. What else do you need to know?"

"I need to know who you are, not what your labels say. Labels tell me you are like half the women in your generation: divorced with kids. Tell me about who you would be even if you'd never married."

"Oh, you want all the dirt, right?"

"All the diamonds, too."

"All right, but you're not gonna like me very much after what I'm gonna tell you . . . I was abused by my mother when I was a child. I was abused by my husband as an adult. I abused myself with drugs and alcohol. I abused myself by having sex for money, or with men who had no love for me. It felt right at the time because I had no love for myself -- I still don't. I feel unworthy. I want to hurt Somebody. I hate myself." She paused, brushing her long hair from her face.

"If telling your story hurts too much, we can take a break."

"No, it's like dumping a can of garbage. No sense stopping in the middle. I'm not proud of much in my life. I take my anger out on my children. I destroy friendships through my anger and insecurity. I run to sick men to seek comfort and security. I don't know who I am.

“How do you handle all your pain?”

"I cover it all with jokes and smiles and assurances. I can't stop the pain. I'm thirty-three years old and still suck my thumb and play with a piece of satin to try to make myself feel better. Hey, I'm in great shape, aren't I?

“How do you feel about the people closest to you?”

"I hate men and I don't trust women. Sometimes, I even resent my kids because they are there and I want to be alone, or I want to go out and have fun."

"What is fun for you?"

"Fun . . . How about all the wrong things? I have this friend, see? He tells me I'm special and I have all kinds of good qualities. When he says those things to me, sometimes, I just want to rip his face off. Doesn't he know how much I want to believe those words but inside I know it's a crock and he's gonna be just like the others and want something back from me? Maybe if I shut my eyes he'll disappear."

"Leslie, how do you feel about the future?"

"I think I'm gonna be okay soon. See, there's this guy I met. He makes me feel great. He really turns me on. Maybe if we get it on, I can forget my pain and feel good for a little while. I have to keep it my secret though. Too much to lose if I talk about him to anybody ‘cause everybody is gonna tell me I'm not ready for a relationship. What do they know, anyway?"

Can you tell what she looks like from the way she presented herself? What were you able to see in her face when she talked? Sometimes, it is what we don't say to the reader that gives the best description.

The vignette above shows how one character presents herself. You don’t have to use a character who is broken by life. For your story, you can develop a character full of potential whose life is simple, yet her knowledge, perspective and life force make reading about her a must. Think of the protagonist, Scout, in "To Kill a Mockingbird," by Harper Lee. Scout was a child with insights that carried the story. Her believability came from her experiences. What Scout knew and how she reacted to the world around her allowed Ms. Lee to weave a powerful tale. Only a small part of Scout’s history was revealed to the reader, but a great deal more could be inferred from the context of the story.

In interviewing the character, I created a life for her as well as a voice. In the vignette above, the character uses the word "I" more than any other word. She appears to be self-centered and oblivious to the feelings of others, and as a writer, I felt this speech pattern best presented her. It is important to choose a voice and words that fit your character. Developing the character's voice is a critical part of the task of the writer.

So, if you're game, sharpen your pencils and create a character. Start with a skeleton and then put some meat on his or her bones. Ask her about herself; you will get more information by asking than if you try to invent a life about her. As she speaks to you, she will take on a life of her own. Sometimes, in the process of interviewing a character, a new story idea emerges. Plots are few but characters are without number. The characters you have hidden within you can make the difference between an ordinary and an extraordinary story.

A CUT ABOVE THE REST

2005-12-01T07:04:00.000-08:00

A CUT ABOVE THE REST
by Milton Trachtenburg
Copyright 1998

The word was out on the street before anyone had time to make a single phone call. "The meanest dude ever born must've just moved to town." The talk spread up and down the street filled with decaying brownstones, and the people who inhabited them, faster than a fire in an insured, unsuccessful business. For days all you heard on the street was conjecture, rumor, and the wild exaggerations that accompany too much talk, too much heat and too much cheap wine. It was, "Rodney this," and, "Rodney that." By the time the word got around for the second and third times, the story had the makings of a `B' movie script, a dirty ballad, a cheap detective novel. Maybe no one but me will ever know for certain what really happened. Maybe all I'm doing by telling you the story is contributing to the confusion. The newspapers sanitized it. Neighborhood gossip glorified it. The cops pretty much wrote it off as just another pimp war, though I'm sure they'd tell you differently. The question you might ask, is, what is someone like me doing associating with the likes of Rodney . . . ?

Rodney Webber was perhaps the most prosperous and most successful man who worked in his overcrowded and highly competitive business. People who knew him said, "That Rodney, he was born to be a pimp!" He didn't disappoint any of the well-meaning busybodies who gathered on the brownstone steps and rickety webbed chairs to share gossip and drink cool wine on hot days. Rodney Webber was, indeed, a mean man in a profession that called for mean men. He demanded 75 % of his ladies' earnings - and almost never got a short count. "I'm more than worth it," he would say. His girls had to admit that when they were straight with Rodney, he was straight with them. "Not only does he protect us, but he can be one hell of a good-time man," said Jade, his number one lady. "He was always buyin' me nice clothes and, let me just tell you something, was he some jazz man in the kip, if you know what I mean."

One of the Rodney stories that had been circulated for a long time and contributed significantly to his reputation as a ladies man, told of his first sexual encounter at the age of ten. The story was that four teenage girls from his neighborhood, all with particularly overactive glands, had decided to initiate Rodney as they had so many others they picked out on the mean streets where he grew up. Supposedly, they had lured him into an alley, held him down, pulled off his pants . . . "Lookit that thang!" one of them was heard to exclaim. About two hours later, the four girls left the alley with smiles on their faces. Rodney discovered that night that he had a power over women - and reveled in that knowledge. By the time he was eighteen, he began profiting from his knowledge.

Rodney believed in the eloquence and finality of lessons learned on the streets. Once, one of the customers used a soda bottle in a sadistic fashion upon the body of one of Rodney's ladies. For nearly a month she was unable to contribute to Rodney's accustomed high standards of living. This irked Rodney far more than any concern he might have had for the discomfort suffered by his employee. Shortly afterward, the unfortunate, but deserving customer was found with his brains splattered all over his living room carpet. The police determined without too much difficulty that the damage had been done by a soda bottle which was inserted indelicately into his anus after it was used to separate the top of his head from the remainder of his body.

Rodney knew that occasional exhibits of such violence not only protected the stable of women in his employ, but also served to keep them in line. "Violence swings both ways," Rodney would say. "Just so long as everybody know I'm the swinger! In more ways than one." Rodney liked to hum that old Jim Croce ballad, Bad, Bad Leroy Brown. Except, he believed he could take both Leroy and Slim! And, up to that time, anyway, no one had proven him wrong.

Rodney was a man of regular habits. One of his habits was to meet his `ladies' in a small, conveniently located, but little used park several times a day to collect the proceeds of their labor and to make certain that they were maintaining productivity levels commensurate with his economic needs. The gentle upward slope toward its center made the park a safe haven because it offered Rodney both a panoramic view of the surroundings and near invisibility from prying eyes. He stood on the crest under a gnarled oak tree. From that vantage point, he was able to see anyone who approached because they stood out in stark relief against the background of the well lit streets. Rodney hated surprises.

It was nearly midnight and the park was deserted. Nobody used the park after dark except people like Rodney and others who were up to no good. "Where the fuck are they?" Rodney said to the still night. "I find those bitches holdin' out on me, I'm gonna slice them one end to the other. They don't like Rodney's razor. Not even a little bit. They don't work for me, they don't work for nobody! They not here soon, I cut them so bad, when they spread their legs, they open clear to the chin!" Rodney smiled sadistically. He enjoyed hurting people - especially women. And, when things didn't go exactly as he planned, he became paranoid and his penchant for violence increased.

Rodney sensed more than saw or heard the presence of someone approaching. Alerted, he kept his hand firmly around the small caliber automatic he kept concealed in the pocket of his baggy jacket. "Hate to think about havin' to ruin another perfectly good $500 suede jacket, but, you know, business is business," he said to himself. He hadn't heard the squeaking of the hinges of the old iron gate on the fence surrounding the small park. That meant that someone had been in the park the whole time. He saw a movement in the shadows. Somebody's out there, he thought. And, whoever it is, better know who they're playing with! Rodney maintained his silent vigil. There was no light under the tree against which he leaned and even close up, Rodney appeared as just another huge gnarl on the old tree.

Rodney watched the woman emerge from the shadows about fifty yards from him. The mercury lamps along the pathway cast a purple glow upon a figure Rodney couldn't identify. Her long, slender, unsheathed legs below her black miniskirt and black leather jacket were juxtaposed against the darkness of the park which momentarily created the illusion of disembodied legs approaching him. When Rodney could see her outline more clearly, immediately he noted that the woman walked with a casual insouciance that told him that she was a working girl - definitely top-shelf.

The woman sashayed, more than walked, directly toward Rodney as if she knew exactly what she was doing. The click of her high-heeled boots ceased as she left the path and walked across the soft grass. Rodney maintained his sense of awareness, but calculated that she believed he was a John and was about to solicit him.

Man, is she in for a surprise, he thought. We'll just see who solicits who for what tonight. She's goin' to be working for a new main man before this night gets much older. Rodney temporarily forgot about his ladies as he concentrated on every movement of the lithe body approaching him. He was disturbed to find that he was becoming aroused. Hey, come on there, Rufus. This is business. You get your turn later. His penis wasn't listening, but simply becoming increasingly tumescent as the woman approached. Rodney didn't like feeling out of control - not even a little bit. His eyes were riveted on the triangle at the juncture of her legs, clearly outlined through her tight skirt. She ain't wearing nothing under that thiing. Damn!

"Got a light, mister?" Rodney had to glance upward to see her face. Even without the spike heel boots, she would have been somewhat taller than him. Rodney was always intimidated by tall women and compensated for his feelings by acts of bravado and coercion which kept them in fear of him.

"Pretty lady, I got anything you want." She stood close to him, her crotch almost rubbing against his pulsating erection. I swear I can feel the heat coming off her, Rodney thought as he reached into the pocket of his now too-tight slacks to offer her his solid gold lighter. Lookit my hand shaking. I'm acting like a twelve-year-old cherry, for Christ's sake! The woman held his shaking hand while she accepted the light he proffered. An electric shock passed through him as she brushed casually against his erection.

"Man! My imagination sure is runnin' in high gear tonight." He felt as if Rufus was going to jump out of his trousers and attack her without him if he didn't take action soon. Staring at her crotch, he became increasingly agitated when she failed to react. "No bitch can stare down Rodney and this one ain't goin' to be the first!" he thought.

"Want some?" she asked, staring brazenly at the obvious bulge in his trousers. "My, my! That is some beautiful piece of manhood you got there, mister."

"Yeah, baby, and I know how to use it to take you to heaven."

"Well, I've been about every place else. Maybe if you're nice, I'll show you some places you've never been before. How would that be?" As she spoke, she placed her forefinger on his lips and began tracing a pattern, first around his mouth, then straight down his center - past his chin and neck, through the center of his chest, slowly, inexorably downward. As she passed along his erection, Rodney shuddered involuntarily. She continued the line between his testicles and as her finger began the long climb up his back, she proceeded to slither between his legs face up making certain that her lips brushed against his testicles. Rodney gasped. He wanted to grab her and have her that moment, but he felt powerless to move. Her finger traced over the top of his head and back to his mouth. She pushed his mouth open forcing him to suck on her finger.

"Man!" was about all Rodney could say.

"Come on, let's go someplace really private. I haven't even begun with you."

A small voice deep inside Rodney was warning him that something was wrong but his throbbing erection was talking too loud for the voice to be heard. Rodney contemplated the security of having the revolver in his jacket pocket and the razor in the back pocket of his trousers. "Hey," he thought, "I've had grown men pissin' their pants when I come into a room. No way I need to worry about this skinny bitch. After I fuck her brains out, we see who's boss. Maybe Rufus deserves his turn first. Anyway, she just some hot-pants bitch lookin' to make some time. She's just pretendin' to be a workin' girl. We'll soon see just how good she is. Hang in there, Rufus."

Rodney remembered leaving the park, but time seemed to telescope after that. He awoke to find he had been transported to a bedroom. The blinking red light reflecting in the mirror above the dresser in the otherwise darkened room told him he was in a motel. Lying naked on the bed, he tried to reach up to scratch his nose but couldn't move his hand.

"What the fuck?" he hissed. By this time, he was more angry than frightened. "I'm tied to the damn bed. Hey!" He heard water running in the bathroom and the sounds of objects being placed on the vanity. Rodney's mind raced. "Maybe she's into kinky. That's fine with me, but don't nobody tie me up. I do the tyin'."

The bathroom door opened. The sudden light temporarily blinded him. When he reopened his eyes, the woman was standing at the foot of the bed.

"What you think you doin' to me, woman?" Rodney said in his most intimidating voice. She smiled and said nothing. "Hey! I'm talkin' to you!"

"I'm not really in the mood for talk. There's a lot of other things we can do."

"You untie me, an' I mean right now!"

"No, I don't think so. That would spoil everything. You just relax and let me do all the work, okay?" Her voice was calm and soothing and at the same time, the sexiest sound that he'd ever heard. Rufus was beginning to react again.

The woman placed one high-heeled booted foot on the bed. Rodney's gaze was riveted on her long white legs, now fully exposed. Her skirt was raised above her hips. "I was right!" he thought. "She's not wearin' a damn thing under that skirt." In the darkened room, the stark juxtaposition of the dark triangle at the juncture of her legs was more Rodney's imagination than reality.

"Why don't you take off those rags and let me see what you got, baby?" he cooed.

"All in good time, my dear. All in good time. Half the fun is the anticipation, right?"

Rodney relaxed since the more he strained against the ropes which bound him to the bed, the tighter they became. His thoughts returned to the foul-smelling alley where he was initiated into the rites of manhood by a group of `horny neighborhood chicks,' as he came to call them after the incident. "This is more of the same and I'm just goin' to lay back an enjoy it. Then after... man, is this bitch ever gonna be sorry she played with Rodney."

Perching on the foot of the bed, she kneeled and placed her hands on Rodney's bare legs. Slowly, she slid her hands along Rodney's legs and torso, careful not to touch his tumescent penis. The soft touch excited Rodney even more. She proceeded to kiss him, nibbling him all over. He moaned softly, totally forgetting his vow to destroy the woman. He was lost in the ecstacy of the moment.

Rodney thought he would explode before he had the chance to enter her body. His ego wouldn't permit him to lose control in the presence of a woman. He was unable to command his body and prayed that she would stop playing games and let him have his way with her. Just as he was about to ejaculate, she leaned back and stared at him. He was unable to decipher her expression.

"You ready for something you'll remember for the rest of your life?"

"If you are," Rodney answered, his bravado returning.

Without another word, she mounted him, drawing his penis deep inside of her. Rodney felt the muscles lining the walls of her vagina squeezing his ready to explode penis. Feeling the tension building in him. "Slow down, big guy. There's plenty of time. Just lay back and enjoy the show."

Rodney had no choice. He watched the muscles in her limber legs contract as she pushed herself up from him and then down upon him. He wished he could reach out and squeeze her breasts and thighs, maybe enough to put some hurt on her - "Women like that," he thought - but he had to take his time. Sooner or later she would cut him free, and then, "It's my way, bitch!"

The woman leaned forward and began biting his neck; first, tiny nibbles and then harder bites. She kept him tightly inside her all the while. Rodney winced at the pain and thought to himself that soon it would be his turn. Slowly, she sat erect again and while continuing to gyrate with Rodney inside her, slowly unbuttoned her blouse. Rodney could almost feel the soft silk as she pulled the blouse out of her waistband. When it was unbuttoned, she allowed it to hang free. He almost believed he could hear the whisper of the delicate material as it brushed against her nipples. She leaned forward so that her breasts hung free of the blouse. She passed them tantalizingly close to his mouth, but not close enough that he could touch them with his now puckering lips.

Rodney emitted a low moan and felt himself losing control. "Now, baby, now. Yeah, do it!" he shouted, oblivious to anything else. If he had noticed her reaching behind her back, he might have become frightened or cautious. If he had seen the flash of stainless steel as she brought her hand down between their joined bodies, he might have tried to make some kind of resistance. But, as fact would have it, just as he began to ejaculate, he felt a sharp pain at the base of his penis. He was so caught in the throes of ecstacy, that for a moment he did not realize what had happened. When he looked up, the woman was standing across the room, continuing to undulate. The enormity of the pain was beginning to hit him. He felt soaking wet, still not aware of what had just happened to him.

The woman stood at the foot of the bed, smiling. She flicked something wet and shiny on his chest. "Oh, here's your razor back. I won't need it any more. I told you it would be something you would remember for the rest of your life. She reached down between her legs and removed his now flaccid and detached penis from within her. She placed it delicately on his chest next to the razor.

"I'll bet you're asking yourself who, what, why, whatever - right? Well, I'm not the kind of girl who fucks and runs, so I'll tell you." The circle of blood emanating from Rodney's crotch was inexorably spreading. "Bleeding a little there, bunkie? Well, you certainly made enough other people bleed, one way or another."

Rodney was experiencing the kind of detachment that comes with severe shock. He felt more than saw his penis on his chest. "How did you...?" he slurred.

"How did I get you here? Simple. I've been following you for weeks and I know what makes you tick inside and out. That's just the way I am when I want to get someone badly enough. I was laying under a blanket in the park every night just waiting for you to show up. I watched you sit up there under your tree like the king of the hill. I watched you smacking those women around when they didn't give you as much money as you wanted. You know, if I hadn't already decided to kill you, what I saw would have given me reason enough.

"Anyway, to cut to the chase, when I played my little finger game with you, I had a little surprise on my finger. You couldn't imagine how easy it is for a nurse to get just the right prescription for the job. I knew your ego would make you do whatever I wanted you to. When you passed out, I brought you here, and you pretty much know the rest."

Rodney slurred something that the woman barely understood, but she knew what the next question would be. "Jeffrey Holt," she said. Rodney's eyes went wide with terror. "Yes, Jeffrey was a philandering pig and a lousy lay, but he was my husband. And, he didn't deserve to die the way he did with his brains splattered all over my carpet. I don't know, maybe I'm more upset about the carpet, but in any case, the score is settled."

Angela Holt removed her silk blouse which was covered with Rodney's blood and rolled it into a ball. When she exposed her breasts, even in his condition, Rodney had a last sexual reflex and opened his mouth into a wide `O' making it easier for Angela to stuff the blouse into his mouth in a single movement. "We wouldn't want you waking the neighbors - if you get uncomfortable, now would we?" Angela stepped out of the leather mini-skirt. From her oversized carry-all, Angela extracted slacks, a modest sweater, and a pair of Reeboks. She dressed quickly in a businesslike manner. "Now, that's more me."

Angela put the skirt and her spike heeled shoes in her bag and turned to leave. As if it were an afterthought, she turned back to Rodney. "I guess it's okay to take a souvenir of my adventure, isn't it?" She delicately picked up his penis as if it were a confection and placed it in her bag. "Oh, yes, let me leave you this," she said, laying his automatic on his chest next to the razor. "Maybe whoever finds you will get a kick out of seeing you lying there with your little automatic phallic symbol. I have to leave you something, after all!" She turned without a further word and left the room and Rodney's waning life as quietly and much more unobtrusively than she had entered it . . . .

On the mantle over the artificial fireplace in my apartment is a brine-filled jar containing what at first glance appears to be a large, darkened pickle. The contents amuse some of my friends and amaze others. When they ask me, "Angela, where the hell did you get that thing?" I smile mysteriously and say, "That's a long story. But it sure is a cut above the rest, isn't it?"

WORDPAINTING - WORDSMITHING - WORDFRAMING

2005-12-01T06:54:00.000-08:00

WORDPAINTING - WORDSMITHING - WORDFRAMING
A New Way to Look at your Writing
by Milton Trachtenburg
copyright 1998

Writing is as simple as ABC -- make that WWW -- Wordpainting. Wordsmithing. Wordframing. How will these concepts help us better understand how to write for publication? The three words teach nothing new about the art and craft of writing, however, they may help writers prioritize the variety of tasks we need to perform from the genesis of a story idea through the act of handing a properly boxed manuscript to the postal clerk.

WORDPAINTING

The ART of fiction writing is accessed through the writer’s hidden creativity, which emanates from the same source as dreams, wishes and fantasies and can be opened for conscious examination. Often, we can access our creativity through a few key words and phrases or by the imposition of an idea that can "trick" our minds to allow us to translate ideas into words. Words like 's'posin,' 'once-upon-a-time,' 'what if,' allow us conscious access to our creative muses. Muses never sleep but if we don't plug into them, they don't write, either. The idea that comes to us is raw and full of non-verbal images that need to be translated fore the reader into action. We can smell lilac perfume, but if we tell the reader we smell lilac perfume, the reader is shut out of the experience unless she has the pleasure of the memory of the scent of lilac. Our job as writers is to open the imagination of the reader so that she may share the experiences with us.

Words are the only connective tissue between writers and readers. Not only can we use words to connect with readers in the context of our writing, but we can also communicate with each other as writers using concepts that pique curiosity, stimulate imagination and allow us to visualize the writing process through a new perspective. We can focus on the art and craft of writing through a single concept. To help you to develop a single picture of a complex craft, I have chosen to condense the art and craft of writing into three functions: Wordpainting, Wordsmithing
and Wordframing.

Why did I develop this framework? As a teacher of writing, I developed it to help me spot check my own writing as well as help me understand what the needs of other writers might be. I hear questions such as: "I am writing a book and I want to know how to get an agent?" or, "I have an idea for a story. How do I find a publisher?"

New writers need to understand that the journey between an idea for a story and a completed manuscript that is ready for market is long, complex yet can be accomplished by anyone who is willing to exercise the discipline needed and follow a set of rules that tell editors that you understand writing. Very few, if any, writers "get it right" in a first draft. That is why we call the first writing a rough draft. The first task is to get the idea on paper or into your computer's memory. I call this process Wordpainting because it entails capturing raw ideas written as they emerge from your mind. The ideas turned to words become the material from which a publishable story may emerge. The rough draft is incomplete, not carefully developed, yet it follows an outline that gives it form and direction. The first draft is the basic story as it emerges from your mind. It is far from being ready to market. Even in this early draft, you need to follow rules of writing including:

Developing a plot outline so you know where the story is going.
Introducing strong, believable characters with motivation and goals.
Developing scenes that carry the story forward.
Introducing settings that are real and add to the context of the story.
Choosing a POV that best represents your story.

Wordpainting is the first step of the interaction between your imagination and the craft of turning an idea into writing. There are rules to follow; however, in the wordpainting phase of writing; you allow your imagination to guide the process as the story emerges. The creative process in writing is Wordpainting which begins with the discovery of story ideas within yourself. Wordpainting is memories rediscovered. Memories contain snippets of real conversations, including their sound and furies, incidents, objects, people you've met, real events in your life and information you have learned. When you co-mingle a variety of memories and mix with a liberal dose of "What if . . . ," a story is born in your imagination. Wordpainting is raw, undisciplined ideas that can be converted into words that allow others to share a three dimensional portrait. In the wordpainting phase of writing, we apply a general sense of discipline to our ideas so that a basic story will result in the first rough draft.

WORDSMITHING

Transposing raw writing into a finished manuscript that will allow our readers to access their muses demands that we understand and use the tools of writing. There are few natural writers in the world, writers who never had to study writing to be successful. I guarantee you that they learned their craft after their first success -- an accident.

When you have completed your first rough draft, you have begun the process of writing a publishable manuscript. The second stage of writing is Wordsmithing. Wordsmithing takes the raw material we have written and turns it into a polished manuscript that will capture the interest of an editor or agent. A smith is an artisan who takes raw material and converts it into a unique finished product. As writers, we too, are craftspeople who take raw words and bend them, hammer them, add and delete them and empower them, until they surrender to our command, presenting the reader with a story that takes her for a ride on a magic carpet to a place that is both new and familiar. The elements of writing add dimension to simple grammatical correction.

In this era of visual entertainment, sound bytes and a lowering of standards for reading, writers must employ some of the same techniques that are used in screenplays to engage readers. A published book with dead language guarantees it will be put back on the shelf, never to be seen--and more important-- never talked about again. Sleep with a dictionary and dine with a thesaurus. Make them our servants and masters. Often, the best word is not the fanciest. It is the one that conveys the exact meaning needed to move the story forward. The words you seek must show your story rather than tell it. They must convey to the reader the energy, the action and the breath of life in the characters.

The CRAFT of writing consists of taking our disobedient child of a muse and converting her random expressions into saleable prose. Wordpainting provides a shortcut that can elicit an outline of the steps we need to take from accessing the muse to submitting a finished product to an editor. Wordpainting begins with the first commandment: Thou shalt not accept a first rough-draft as a finished product. The second commandment is: Read with your ears so you may hear what the reader hears. Allow the power of the words to touch you.

To be word smiths, we need to have a thorough understanding of all the elements of crafting a strong story. We need to understand how to write a great beginning, including a hook that keeps our readers moving along with us. We need to understand how to make certain our POV is employed with consistency from the beginning of the story through the denouement. We must choose words that keep the action flowing through the difficult middle of the story and make certain that as we solve the problems, we create new and believable problems the protagonist must resolve. We must make certain that our characters are believable and that their dialogue establishes ongoing conflict and never sounds mundane.

If Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Brown meet in real life they might say . . .

“Why hello Mrs. Brown. I haven’t seen you in ages. Is everything okay?”

“Why, thank you for asking. I’ve just been so busy. It’s canning season, you know.”

If Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Brown met on the pages of a book, however, the conversation might look more like this . . .

“Oh! Mrs. Brown. I thought . . .”

“Yes, people are always thinking, aren’t they?”

We need to make certain our locale and setting is interesting, relevant to the story and detailed enough so our characters never appear on an empty stage unless the tale begins . . . "The
last man on earth sat alone in a room, and there was a knock on the door."

The setting we Wordpaint must be researched thoroughly so that a character is not left standing on Fourteenth Street in Philadelphia.. There is no Fourteenth Street in Philadelphia. The street between Thirteenth Street and Fifteenth Street is called Broad Street. That little mistake (and I have seen that very one in a published mystery) could cost us several million potential readers. Once we establish that we don't know what we are talking about, we lose the reader for the rest of the manuscript, perhaps forever.

The tasks of Wordsmithing are too numerous to make an all-inclusive list. However, we might begin with the following tasks:

Checking grammar, spelling and punctuation and upgrading every questionable word.
Eliminating dead adverbs and replacing them with strong verbs.
Checking existing verbs to use the most powerful ones to describe action.
Touring your thesaurus to ascertain that every word is the best one for the job.
Merciless cutting of excess verbiage.
Checking the plot to see that there are no loose ends.
Making certain that every problem you introduced is resolved.
Checking the dialogue to make certain it contains conflict and keeps the story moving.
Reviewing the scenes to make certain they are in proper order so they can move the story forward.
Reviewing flashbacks to see to it that the segues are clearly defined for the reader.
Rechecking you foreshadowing to be sure you weren't too obvious.
Reviewing the manuscript for mistakes in locales.
Checking to make sure the characters kept the same identity throughout the story.
Listening to the manuscript to determine if the words flow smoothly.

In order to develop a thorough understanding of the issues in the above list, we need to “hit the writing books” and learn each element of the craft in detail. My focus in this article is to provide a framework within which the rules and tools of writing can take a great idea and convert it into a publishable finished product. As a matter of fact, each item in the list is represented by volumes on each of the subjects.

WORDFRAMING

Only after the above tasks (Wordpainting and Wordsmithing) have been completed are we ready to move on to the final stage of the writing process, Wordframing. Wordframing is an examination of the tasks of writing that are external to the process of writing, revising and editing the manuscript. Wordframing is packaging your product in a form that will attract the gatekeepers to the publishing world-- editors and agents.

The tasks of Wordframing include:

Knowing how to construct a query that will attract the attention of an editor or agent.
Understanding the protocols of the writing profession.
Researching the marketplace.
Understanding how to format a manuscript.
Knowing what to say in a query, and more important, how to say it
Picking the right agent, editor and publishing house.

Think of Wordframing in the context of visual art. The proper frame highlights a picture and sells it. It is not part of the picture, yet, in the wrong frame, the most wonderful work of art would be difficult to sell. A picture must also be featured in the right gallery. A post-modern masterpiece in a renaissance gallery will not sell. In the same way, you need to pick the best publisher. The wrong publisher will reject your manuscript not because your work is unworthy, but because he doesn't publish that type of book. Even more frightening is the possibility that he will accept
your manuscript but won't have the outlets to market it.

Many new writers are not aware of all the steps described above, and they have not yet discovered the kinds of help that are available to them. Trial and error is a hard way to learn to write. We could spend a lifetime without discovering what editors will publish and what they will reject, especially since many editors change jobs frequently. One of my goals as both student and teacher of writing has been to work towards making it unnecessary for editors to waste their time and energy rejecting us. Letters of acceptance are so much more pleasant to write -- and to receive.

The "secret" to learning how to write well is: there are no secrets. Just like the successful book, "Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten," Most of what writers need to know has already been written, either in "how-to" books and manuals or in literature itself. All we need to do is read and use them. Of course, I'm oversimplifying. What we need to do is to translate what we can learn from the "how-to" books, classes and groups and published works of other writers into our own writing. Applying knowledge into writing is far easier to say than to do. Every time we read about writing, talk about writing or practice writing, we learn something new about writing.

When have we learned enough? Never. The demands of the market and the desires of the reader are in a perpetual state of flux, so we must continue to learn and grow to be successful.

The fun part of writing is the part I call Wordpainting. It is the first exposure of our ideas to the printed page. We understand every nuance. We hear the music in the background and hear the sounds of traffic. We smell the fresh mown grass and feel the loamy dirt beneath our fingernails. What every writer must accomplish is to convey the impressions from our private, inner world to the reader. Upon completing a first draft of our manuscript, our job as writers begins rather than ends.

Wordpainting without Wordsmithing and Wordframing is analogous to making a sandwich without bread and then serving it without a dish. You may have wonderful ingredients, but there is nothing to hold them together, nor have you provided a means to carry them away from the kitchen counter.

Learning how to write for publication is an arduous task, but when the first acceptance arrives from an editor, you will know that it was worth all the months of struggling. If you can determine some of what you need to learn through the framework provided in this article,, and if, as a result, you learn to organize and use the tools of writing more efficiently, then I will have accomplished my purpose in introducing you to Wordpainting, Wordsmithing and Wordframing

A LETTER TO A WRITING STUDENT

2005-12-01T06:46:00.000-08:00

Writing Rules

Some time ago, a student in one of my writing classes sent me a letter asking why writers need to follow rules. “Why can’t we simply be creative?” In assessing the issue she presented, I had no simple answer I could provide her. However, the question led me to think about writing in a historical context. We take for granted the benefits and curses of mass communication. It is only in the past century that books have been distributed widely throughout the world.

My thoughts regarding the issue she raised were the subject of a letter I wrote to her. My response was as follows:

April 22, 2002

Dear Nadine,

I hope that your increasing knowledge of writing hasn't gotten in the way of your natural, creative inclination. A deep separation lies between the creative process of writing and the structural work you need to accomplish when the main idea is on paper (or screen). Before you think about revising, first write what you feel. Allow it to come out as you imagine it. Remember, good writing didn't evolve from rules; good rules evolved from writing. When a particular sentence, passage or story proved to be pleasing, scholars examined it to determine what about it pleased the reader’s senses. Every creative and evolutionary act explores new territory. The best writing broke the barriers that preceded it, but the writer had a deep and thorough understanding of writing precedent. My own theory is that the great writers had a natural ability to choose words that opened all of the reader’s senses.

Analysis allows others to understand how a writer used or broke precedent to create her story. Great writers of earlier centuries did not have the advantage of volumes about the art and craft of writing to aid them. They learned basic grammar, spelling and punctuation in school, and had a gift of internal organization that made their words memorable. We attempt to recreate the kinds of wonders they discovered so that we may please our readers.

Few plots are original. Shakespeare rewrote the history of kings and emperors, adding fictional events and characters to the mix, to turn history into a dramatic adventure. Henry Miller depicted portraits of lust, love and the hedonistic/artistic life in Paris. But, the words they each chose to describe their stories and the dialogue their characters spoke lifted their works above the crowd.

As more people became literate, the number who attempted to write grew exponentially; rules became more complex and were given more attention. In earliest times, only academics and clerics wrote -- or read. Few others were literate. For the most part, the academicians and clergy wrote for colleagues, not the general public. Books, until a few centuries ago, were handwritten. Often, only one copy of a book was produced. Oral communication, by necessity, served the masses.

The lines separating painting and sculpture from other forms of communication are blurred at best. The single commonality is that all have rules. What makes Mr. Strunk and Mr. White experts on how words should be aligned? The answer is simple: They were students of the written language. They took principles of language structure that evolved over centuries and codified a set of rules that could be applied to the emerging field of mass communication of published writing. The inventions of the printing press, the typewriter, the computer, and rapid transmission and transportation of ideas and materials created a burgeoning market for the written word; the development of right to education laws in most countries created an informed society that cried out for reading material.

Rules of writing were never meant to stultify creativity. They were developed to organize it in a manner that gave publishers a yardstick by which they could measure new works and writers some guidelines that would help them focus their natural talents.

How do we know when a work is salable? Simple: When it sells it is salable. What do editors look for when they examine a writer's submission? At the intersection of your writing and the editor’s keen eye is where the rules of writing come into play. It is possible to measure a work against a set of constant rules when it fails to flow naturally. Rules allow us to explain why a particular work will not be pleasing to readers. For writers whose work has stood the test of time, such as: Shakespeare, Hemingway, O'Neill, Angelou, Miller (both Henry and Arthur), to name a few, their marvelous ability to organize ideas into powerful manuscripts gave them the ability to know which word or twist of plot would give their writing the meaning they desired it to have. Their writing acumen was analogous to the musical genius of Mozart; he wrote complex musical compositions at such a tender age that he could not possibly have first learned music theory. His works came out whole as if a tape recording was playing in his head.

I remain intrigued by the writing process. Learning how to write isn't about finding answers. Rather, it is about developing more effective questions. It isn't about rote memorization of rules. It is about fine-tuning writing to eliminate sloppy thinking, ineffective choices and obtuse descriptions. I couldn't tell you what many of the complex rules of grammar are off the top of my head. I'm not an English teacher who needs to express rules daily to teach them to others. Both my professional pursuits – writing and the practice of therapy call for the use of words that are specific and leave no unintentional ground for vagueness. I couldn't tell you the rules of tenses, however, an alarm bell goes off in my head when I mismatch them in a sentence or paragraph. The alarm sounds more frequently and accurately as I add daily to the sum my writing output; I am more aware of the kinds of mistakes I tended to repeat.

Learning any professional skill means accepting that there is a need to improve and grow. Writing is neither dream nor chore. It is a calling -- an old and noble one that began as an ability to create pictures that evolved into printed and spoken words. Written language is a latecomer to human evolution. A hot meal was always available for the chronicler of tribal history and the font of tribal legends. Thus began non-fiction and fiction as separate categories of communication. Now you know who to blame. The status of the chronicler was unique and revered. The knowledge carrier was exempt from hunting and war. The carrier of knowledge was as important as the fire that kept away the cold and cooked the food. Would that those early rules still applied. Today, telling stories is not sufficient to attain a hot meal. Today, a story must be crafted into a mold that allows the publisher to assess our work against a table of probabilities. He asks: Will it sell? rather than, “How well written is it?”

In the same way that the lottery has a new winning number every day, new books, magazines, journals are printed, electronically published and distributed to a world that absorbs words faster than we can write them. Like the lottery, for the many who chance to submit, few will win. However, if you remember only one think I say here, it is that good writing always finds a market. Always. The trick? Know enough about the rules of writing to be able to make an accurate assessment of what good is.

Lollipops and Unicorns,

Milt

A WRITER'S LAMENTS

2005-05-09T06:57:00.000-07:00

Writing strong prose is analagous to taking a sketch and filling it with color, form and depth. It is not so much what you say as what you cause the reader to infer from what you didn't say. If, for instance, you describe life as: " . . . a river that emerges with form, sound and color from an enthusiastic, bubbling mountain stream, flows gently or lugubriously through mapable paths and then ends underground in a cave constructed of one's own experiences," it would have a different meaning to each reader based on his or her own life experiences and locus in one's own life journey.

One particular skill is in how well you choose your similes and metaphors. Poor choices will leave the readers laughing at your funerals and crying at your weddings. Words are the magic few writers can control and most are too lazy to learn how to use to the maximum effect. Writing effective metaphors and similes is walking a fine line becasue a large percentage of possible choices have already been used by others. When a reader recognizes the words as the work of anohter writer or writers, he or she has a tendency to discredit your work so that you are reduced to the role of copycat instead of originator.

My pet writing peeve is: Why the hell do such a plurality of writers begin everything they write with a weather report . . . or worse yet, with a pronoun? When the first sentednce i read says, "It was a dark and stormy night," perhpas I am being an elitist, but I already have assigned two strikes to the work. In like manner, any report of the weather needs to be followed up with a lead into the storyline in which the weather plays an important role. A dark and stormy night is a necessity if it is going to set the stage for a road washout, a pholeline down, a car accident . . . but if what follows it demonstrates that the weather was simply a carpet shaker -- a techniquer used by the writer to get the dust out of his memory banks -- then I will read with less enthusiasm becasue I will feel deceived. I don't mind if I am deceived intentionally as the plot thickens. That is one of the thrills of reading. However, when I am subjected to the writer's lazy mind, the writer has taken a firsat step to becoming an unread work amongst a library that is now almost unmanageable in size and scope.

The fact is, that unless the weather is important to the story, it is best only hinted at as the least important fact you can give a reader at the beginning of a story that is being conducted indoors. And for making "He" or "She" the first word of a story tells the world that the writer cares not a lick for the reader. You know who he or she is and you not only won't share it with the reader, you think the reader cares about your anonymous he or she. Further, there is a hint that the wrter hasn't done his or her homework. The writer may not have thought enoughb about he or she to even have given them a name, let alone a backstory.

All stories must have a purpose beyond the ego of a writer who thinks you will want to read anything he says. I have seen some truly good writing from newer writers but few who are willing to risk sharing it. One of the reasons for the fear is that many who are poseurs in the writing world love to criticize others when they haven't yet produced anything of merit themselves. They teach before they learn. At the same time, without a group giving feedback, it is impossible to learn to write becasue it is the reader for whom we are writing. If we write to please only ourself, we might as well think instead of write and save all the wasted paper or gigabytes.

Writing is silent sound. We need to develop the technique of hearing the words that are on a screen or on a piece of paper. Without the sound and the rhythm, the yin and the yang, we have a sketch, not a painting. I end where I began which is just another technique that can make writing either grand or petty -- based on how you pulled it off.

AMAZING CHARACTERS ON A WRITER'S BLOCK

2005-04-06T07:54:00.000-07:00

AMAZING CHARACTERS LIVE ON THIS WRITER'S BLOCK
by
Milton Trachtenburg
copyright, 1998

Writer's Block can be the two most frightening words in a writer's vocabulary. In my daily experiences online and off, I hear so many "stuck" writers asking for help and calling their problem "Writer's Block." I hear a multitude of remedies offered: sit down and write, work on other writing tasks, edit, work on submissions and research. Some say that the way to break the block is to force yourself to sit in front of your desk even if you can't write, or even if what you write is nonsense. Others claim that imagery or writing exercises will open your mind to creativity.

In my opinion, there's good news and bad news regarding all the solutions offered. The good news is: all of the above methods work. The bad news is: no one method works for everybody. For myself -- and I'm not promising this method would work for anyone else -- when I am unable to decide how to begin writing a story, or don't know where it is going, I get into the head and life of a character. When we write, we need to think of a story as a flow of events. Life always goes somewhere and if you flow with the character, she will solve many of your problems about what to write. Ask questions such as: What would the particular character do in the plot you created? Before we were old enough to know the alphabet, some of us filled our lives with amazing characters. At age three, the characters were as real to us as anyone else in our world. The trick to writing amazing characters is to allow that same capacity to function for you as an adult. My four-year-old granddaughter taught me a few new twists on creating characters from my then four-year-old granddaughter when she told me all about her imaginary sister who was bull-headed, mouthy and bossy and wanted to do what my granddaughter did. With a character like that, I thought, I would simply record her actions, I could never dictate her actions, thoughts or feelings.

Stories are difficult to write -- at least for me. When a story comes to an abrupt halt, I try to get back into the characters that are stuck rather than the story that is stuck. Where are they going and where did they want to go at the beginning? What motivates them into action? Is the road you chose for the character one she would have chosen for herself? Sometimes, you back a
character into a corner from which she can't extricate herself because she could in no way have made the decision that got her there in the first place. For example: A shy, God-fearing, church woman of high moral values finds herself torn between two men who are as opposite as day and night. One offers her security, love and devotion. The other offers passion, lust and danger. To force this woman into a position of choice, the writer must first find a way to strip her of her moral upbringing. Every behavior, every choice a character makes, requires justification. When you find yourself blocked, it is often because you have not prepared the character to move forward, or if you haven't begun your story, it may be because you do not have a character with enough interesting quirks and qualities to force you to write about her.

Sometimes, you have to retrace your steps to see where you went off the road that you needed in order to take you to the story's conclusion. Every chapter or story segment is like a fork in a road. Take a wrong one and you may reach a dead end even though you have a promising beginning. Allow the character to make a different choice at a critical juncture where the story went astray. If you look at all fiction as a biography of characters, you will see yourself writing about the life adventures of interesting fictional people you create from your own memories, intuition and experiences. For example, if you were telling the story of Hilary Clinton after having done all your research, would you be likely to hit a roadblock? Treat your characters as if they were celebrities and you will find you can never say nearly all there is to say about them.

To demonstrate how I might create a story, I will try to create a character "on the fly," one I never used, never thought about and only this moment will begin to develop and enhance. I will start with a character, develop the premise for the story out of the character, then try to demonstrate how you might write a story without first having a plot direction.

I'm going to take you through my thought processes with me as I flesh out the details of a character's life. Hopefully, as I discover where the character has been, a potential plot of what might happen may develop. First, I need a character . . . . I prefer a female protagonist. My writing focuses upon relationships and feelings. So, here goes . . . Her name is . . . Niki. How
do I know? I see her face, narrow, thin-lipped, grey eyes, big as saucers, bright as quarters. She's . . . fourteen years old. Behind her, I see a trailer court -- the kind that sparked the stereotype -- trailer trash. To her left is a washed-out woman -- same face, same eyes -- fifty pounds heavier, gray eyes deader than coal-ash, appearing older than her years, hair, frizzy-permed like her daughter's hair. I never met either character before this moment, but as I imagine them from a writer's perspective, characteristics, traits, loves, losses, desires, quirks and
moods develop before my eyes. I've known Niki in other roles in life and I could meet her and her Mamma on The Jerry Springer Show, or on the city page of the daily paper where people like Niki and Mamma are bred for trouble and only with Herculean effort can they overcome the lack of learning that was needed for raw survival in a dangerous and defeating world.

Now, I've combined my own experiences and knowledge to develop two fictional characters that have potential to become the center of a story. They will both need a great deal of background and justification to make them believable. After the characters become almost real to me, my job as a writer is to present them with a series of obstacles and challenges they must either overcome or be defeated by them. The characters, not I, will make the choices. If they choose to solve the problem in one shot, I have flash fiction. If they smack into a few brick walls, it is a short story. If, however, they take the piece of string I hand them and turn it into the Gordian knot, I have an epic novel!

Now for a premise. Niki has big dreams. She wants to study ballet. Before I write another word, I ask Niki if this fits with her dreams. The only ballet she has ever seen was on a broken-down black and white television. In her fantasies, she wants to become a professional dancer. When she looks in the mirror at her lithe, muscular body, she imagines herself on a stage wearing a diaphanous costume, and held aloft by the powerful hands of a stud-muffin dancer. I will remember that line because when she is confronted with reality, I may have a comparison between dreams and reality that will engage the character and the reader. Mamma had the same
dream 15 years earlier. Her dream ended in a sweaty tryst in the back seat of a ratty car. She remembered that her foot rested in a pizza box as she pretended to experience the throes of passion.

See how the story grows? Ideas keep arriving without thinking about them. Each idea may or may not be significant and may later be edited out, but at the beginning of this story, I believe I could write about 7500 words about a day in the life of Niki Peeples. Just like that, she has a last name.

There are enough clues to write a dozen stories, each ending differently. Had I started with a premise, the characters would not have been as full of energy and conflict. By starting with the characters, their lives expand each time I turn to them. Within about three paragraphs, Niki will have a dozen quirks and Mamma will be fleshed-out with a backstory that sets up a conflict with Niki's desires. Now, I can add, for Mamma, a boyfriend - a drunken misfit, and for Niki, a schoolgirl crush. I may want to begin expanding the list of characters to include a teacher who is an unheeded guardian angel. A perfect way to increase tension is to have a character point out the obvious to the protagonist who disregards the information. The reader then knows something which the character refuses to accept. In William Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, the soothsayer warns Caesar, “Beware the Ides of March.” His failure to heed the prophesy results in his death.

The story begins to take on a life of its own and the only task I will need to perform for the first draft is to determine which words best tell the story. There are decisions to be made. Who will narrate? Will it be Niki? The Teacher? The ubiquitous Third Person POV?

It is obvious to me what tense I would write in -- past tense -- it is already a fait accompli and is being told to the reader. Personal taste: present tense works only if the events are happening as you are writing. Present tense stories need to be told almost in real time. Niki's story is a recollection on the part of someone. I have yet to choose who will best serve the story.

Thinking about writing, writing about writing and writing itself keep a writer from ever having to deal with writer's block. One more thing: if you ever find yourself unable to write, you can always edit a piece you've already written. Editing opens most of the blockages and blows out all the brain flossies that crowd out creativity. However, in order to edit, you must first write. Find the tool that works for you. Start off where you feel most comfortable. My method works best for a professional daydreamer like myself. My childhood was spent creating imaginary playmates and impossible scenarios in which to place them: this was long before I contemplated writing for publication.

On a gray morning that may hold promise of improving as the day progresses, these are my writing thoughts. Hmmm . . . maybe thinking about the slate-colored sky gave me the idea for Niki's gray eyes. Now, I can't wait to sit down and write her story. So, you see, I've just opened a new road I didn't know existed. Will I find it blocked? I doubt it. I'm already intrigued by the characters who have appeared. There are so many adventures and misadventures through which I can take them. Potential for conflict, and conflict itself, are the engines that move the story forward.

If you feel blocked, sit down in a comfortable chair and create characters. Talk to them. See which one has an interesting story about her life. Discover all you can about your character without feeling that you have to write anything. If she intrigues you, write her biography up to the day your story begins. What you have written is her backstory. Now, create a situation that will lead to a conflict within her, between her and other characters, or between her and a force of nature. Allow her to make the decisions as to how she will handle the crisis. Now, you are writing.

Writer's Block? As you sharpen your writing tools you overcome the inhibitions that you call writer’s block. Writer's block then becomes the street where you live.

WAKE UP AND SMELL THE COFFEE

2005-03-29T05:29:00.000-08:00

Wake Up and Smell the Coffee
by Milton Trachtenburg
copyright, 1997

The warm, summer sun shined through the still-closed curtains, its strong rays cutting a diagonal across the king-size bed. Robert tried to hold on to the last moments of sleep, his back to the insistent sun. He heard kitchen sounds, bacon frying, water splashing in the sink, the refrigerator door closing, penetrating his tranquil slumber. He moaned softly, and rolled into a tight ball, pulling the covers over his head. He tried to ward off the beginning of another day. The smell of fresh coffee brewing permeated the air and served as a siren's call demanding that he get up to face the day.

"Wake up and smell the coffee!" Joanne, began every workday by calling up the stairs and waking Robert.

Robert tried without success to hold onto the beautiful and pliant young thing he had created in his dream, pursued and was in the process of thoroughly enjoying. The nubile young dream-love was replaced by the reality of the of his wife's strong high-pitched voice calling him from the kitchen. He recalled his first meeting with Joanne, eighteen years earlier. He thought she was the most beautiful girl in the world. Hell,he thought, she's not bad for thirty-three and two kids, but she sure isn't sixteen.

"C'mon, Robert, you don't want to be late for work, do you?"

Work, he thought. As a matter of fact, I do want to be late for work. It's a nowhere job, nothing salary, nonsense work. "I'm coming," he mumbled, his tongue still coated with sleep moss. "Be up in a minute." Sadly, he said a last goodbye to the nubile, young thing and stuck one foot tentatively out from under the covers. He imagined what it might be like waking up next to Miss No Name instead of his workaholic wife who was out the door as he came down the stairs. "Breakfast," he muttered disgustedly. He thought, what's so important about breakfast? Just once, it might be nice to spend a little time playing in bed.

"Coffee's on!" came the insistent voice from below.

Rolling out of bed and stumbling into the bathroom, Robert resisting coming fully awake. He peered at his bleary image in the medicine cabinet mirror, trying mightily to overlook the increasing jowl line where his once-firm jaw resided. "Gotta cut back on the eating," he said resolutely, knowing he didn't mean a word of it. Removing his pajamas, and avoiding looking at his ever-increasing paunch, he tried unsuccessfully to remember himself as a slim, firm kid who was every girl's dream date in high school. He admitted only to himself that his social prospects were bleak in high school.

He turned to enter the shower and disgustedly pulled at Joanne's pantyhose draped over the top of the shower door. One of these days, I'm going to get tired of being assaulted by her damned pantyhose and make her eat them! he thought. Opening the bathroom door, he threw his pajamas on the bedroom floor then reached into the shower, carefully adjusting the water. He thought of fussy Goldilocks as he did so. "Not too hot, not too cold. Ah, just right!" For a brief moment, he thought about ravishing Goldilocks in the shower, but his reverie was interrupted. "Yow!" he screamed as the water turned from hot to boiling. "Can't you learn to leave the water the hell alone for five minutes while I shower?" he screamed. He finished showering, mumbling curses under his breath as he toweled himself dry.

Robert cut himself shaving -- twice -- and covered the bleeding cuts with scraps of toilet paper. His anger toward Joanne continued to build as he dressed. The middle buttons of his tailored shirt barely closed over his increasing girth. Maybe if I didn't have so many things to worry about, I wouldn't eat so much, he thought. He finished dressing and, with resignation, began a slow descent down the carpeted stairs. The smell of coffee, toast and bacon permeated the air, and for a moment, Robert was overcome by his appetite and almost forgot that he was angry at Joanne. He thought of all of the breakfasts she had made for him over the years.

As Robert entered the kitchen, Joanne said, "Hey, Rob, wake up and smell the coffee."

"Smells the same as every other morning."

Joanne reacted as though she'd been struck. It's over, she thought. She felt as though something inside her had realigned, and, although she couldn't immediately identify what was happening, she felt that her marriage might be ending. However, if anyone had asked her whether she loved her husband, her knee-jerk reaction would have still been to say, "Of course!" Over time, something special had eroded. She had not yet begun to define it consciously, but it had finally shifted the fabric of her being.

Joanne stood still, a spatula in her hand. The eggs she had been frying began scorching. Robert, without noticing any change in his wife of fourteen years, simply stated, "Hey! The eggs!"
Joanne paid no attention and continued staring into space, lost in her own thoughts. "C'mon, what's with you today?"

"With me?" Joanne asked, caught in a warp between two worlds. Automatically, she reached over and turned off the stove. Too many years of responsibility had accumulated for her to become irresponsible at this late date. Without thinking, she took the pan and scraped the eggs into the sink and pushed them into the garbage disposal with the spatula.

"You've wasted perfectly good eggs," Robert intoned, with parental indignation.

"Yes, I've wasted perfectly good eggs," Joanne replied, more to herself than to Robert. She put the pan and spatula in the sink, turned off the stove, wiped her hands on a towel and walked out of the room without a word, leaving Robert standing in the middle of the kitchen, completely dumfounded.

"Well, what do you expect me to do now?" Robert asked, in part sarcastic and part with a new sense of fear creeping into his being. In all of the years that they had been together, Joanne had never acted like this, and Robert did not know what to make of it. Joanne didn't answer, but continued walking out of the room and up the stairs. Robert began fumbling angrily with the toast and bacon. He had never buttered a piece of toast in his life, and when he tried, it tore into several pieces, with the butter spread mostly on the dish. He took the bacon out of the pan and couldn't understand why it was so greasy. When Joanne served it to him it was dry and crisp, just the way he liked it. Maybe she's got, whatchamacallit, PMS.

When Joanne reached their bedroom, she was shaking almost uncontrollably. She had known for some time that her marriage was not perfect, but then again, whose was? she thought. Nothing is ever going to be different. This last thought passed so swiftly that she barely took cognizance of it.

Joanne studied herself in the bedroom mirror. The face that stared back at her was an attractive face, a face with smooth skin, a spray of freckles across a pert nose, serious grey eyes, and just traces of delicate wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Not at all bad for thirty-three she thought. She pictured her friends, most of whom looked ten years older than she. And not a single grey hair, though Lord knows, I've had enough aggravation to earn a goodly number.

The bright blue numbers on the clock showed 8:10. Joanne panicked for an instant, thinking the kids had missed the school bus. She caught herself and realized that, first of all, the kids were responsible enough to remember the bus without any reminder from her and secondly, they were away in camp for the summer. She had to concentrate to picture them as thirteen and eleven-year-olds. Robert, Jr., had the good fortune to have been blessed with his father's good looks and her good sense, although Rob always claimed that his son was an exact duplicate of himself at the same age. Erica, looked like Joanne's grandmother, and was so bright and talented that sometimes Joanne was frightened for her.

Joanne thought for a moment about how her daughter had spontaneously developed interests in writing and painting without any encouragement. Robert had told her that she better concentrate on something in school that could make her a living. "After all," he intoned, "this is the '90's, and you can't expect a man to take care of you all your life." Even though she was only eleven, Erica looked at her father with her dark, brooding eyes, and Joanne could see that even though she seemed to be agreeing with him, she would pick her own destiny. For a moment, Joanne reminisced about her own more limited life choices. She shiverred involuntarily.

Joanne picked up her appointment book from the nightstand. Briefly, she contemplated the cover with the bright red lettering, BRICKMAN REALTY, INC., noting that her first appointment wasn't until 10:00 o'clock. She had begun her career as a real estate salesperson when the kids were preschoolers. In the early years, she worked only part-time, making her schedule fit with Rob's. She rarely used baby sitters because Rob believed, that it was a mother's job to raise young children. "After all," he would say, "my mother stayed home full-time to take care of me, and I turned out all right, didn't I?" As always, Joanne compromised. Her first major compromise came when Rob wanted to get married when she was nineteen. Unlike most of her friends, Joanne, didn't have to get married. Although she and Rob began sleeping together when she was seventeen and he was nineteen, she always made him use protection until she got up the nerve to go to the local clinic and get fitted for a diaphragm. Joanne didn't want any little mistakes she would have to spend a lifetime caring for.

Joanne became pregnant four months after she and Rob were married after her sophomore year in college. She was wearing her diaphragm, but . . . After recovering from the initial shock, she joked about the poor state of American made products, and Rob retorted with his own comment about the best planned lays. Joanne's major regret was that she was forced to leave college shortly before Robert, Jr. was born. She lost her merit scholarship, and although she went back to school sporadically to take courses that interested her, she never completed her degree. She never blamed Rob, but always felt that she avoided finishing her education to placate him. Rob never went to college but built a career as an industrial salesman. He denigrated formal education as something that fills airheads with extra helium. He spent an inordinate amount of time complaining about the college educated young know-nothings who were promoted over him.

Joanne removed her nightgown, folded it, and placed it at the bottom of the bed. Without thinking, Joanne made the bed. She noted Rob's pajamas in a bundle on the floor where he often would leave them. She picked them up, folded them neatly and set them next to her nightgown. Everything in its place, she thought. She padded into the bathroom, turned on the shower, stood under the hot water and began crying. Joanne was never one to show her feelings, but this time cried uncontrollably for almost five minutes, the sound of the shower drowning out her sobs.

When she felt more in control, Joanne finished showering, and went back into the bedroom without drying herself. She stood dripping in the middle of the room, creating an increasingly large, dark water stain on the light blue carpet. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror on the closet door. For six years, she asked Rob to hang it. Finally, she got so fed up, she hired someone to do it.

Joanne examined her body critically, as if seeing herself for the first time. Thirty-three years, two kids, one miscarriage, and hard work had done little to age her still-trim body. She noted a little thickening at her waist, and her breasts sagged just slightly, but, overall, she was pleased with what she was seeing. She took pride in how she cared for herself, and resisted giving in to her abominable sweet tooth. Rob complained constantly about how old she was getting, but she failed to see what it was he was complaining about. "Girl," she said, "I don't think I'll kick you out of bed just yet. You've got a few more dances in you."

Joanne failed to notice that Rob had come into the room and was watching as she studied herself in the mirror. She stretched, and did a pirouette, remembering the movement from long-ago dance lessons. "Oh," she exclaimed as she nearly bumped into Rob as she turned. She self-consciously reached for her nightgown and held it in front of her. Joanne had never been modest with Rob, and it startled him when she covered herself. He was already confused by her actions this morning, and this last affront was more than he could handle.

"What the hell is it with you today?" Rob yelled, his face inches from Joanne's. "What did I do? Did I cheat on you? Did I spend my pay on booze? Did I beat you? Well?"

Joanne just stood still for a moment, looking at Rob and, perhaps, seeing him for the first time. "No, Rob, no, no, and no. I . . . I don't know how to say this, but . . ."

"You're having an affair. That's what it is, isn't it? One of those real estate 'magnets' who makes all kinds of money? I'm not good enough any more, is that it?" Rob's lower lip was quivering and he was near tears.

Yeah, Joanne thought, one of those real estate 'magnets' who I got stuck on. She tried not to laugh at her own joke but found herself smiling.

"I don't think it's very funny!" Rob sputtered, holding back tears.

"Oh, Rob, come on. I'm not having an affair. I've never been with another man. You know that." Joanne realized that this was not the time to talk about her feelings. She knew that Rob wouldn't hear her.

Rob reached for Joanne, but she pulled back, saying, "Rob, I'm all wet. You don't want to get your suit wet when you have to leave for work."

"Yeah, OK," he replied, like a disappointed child, "but put down the nightgown and let me look at my little girl." Joanne complied, feeling very cold inside. She felt that she had accidentally walked naked onto the stage of a peep show, and that dozens of strangers were grasping at her body.

"Turn around," he said, his voice beginning to sound excited. She felt nothing inside as she followed his instructions. "Getting a little heavy in the back there, aren't you?" Rob said as he patted her on the rump. Joanne remained frozen.

"Well, I'm off to work. Maybe by tonight, you'll be back to yourself," Rob said, as if everything which had happened in the past half-hour had not occurred.

After she heard the front door close, even though she had just showered, Joanne went back into the bathroom and turned on the hot water. She soaped herself until she had worn the soap bar down.

She dressed quickly in a business suit, picked up her appointment book and prepared to leave for her first appointment. As she walked down the stairs, the smell of coffee reminded her that she had not had breakfast and she had forgotten to turn off the coffee maker. No, she reminded herself, Rob forgot to turn off the coffee maker.

She checked her watch and saw there was time for a quick cup of coffee. She breathed the aroma of fresh brewed coffee and remembered how she and Rob used to love to sit in the kitchen in their first apartment and enjoy a cup of coffee in the morning. She always woke up a half-hour before he did and made his breakfast. Just like his mother did, she thought. She was so young then. She enjoyed being maternal toward Rob, and loved taking care of him in every way. Now that she had kids of her own, she realized that the difference between her kids and her husband was that the kids were growing up.

Joanne thought about her life, and had to admit it wasn't all that bad. Maybe if times were different, she thought, I would just keep my mouth shut and count my blessings. For a few moments, she thought about her parents' marriage, Dear dad was just like Rob. Mom took care of him all his life and never complained. Joanne thought about her mother, now alone and most of the time lost in her memories, though only fifty-five. Her dad was dead two years now. She remembered when she told him that she was going to marry Rob, he said, "Rob is a lucky boy to get someone like you to take care of him." She remembered how proud she felt that her father believed she was so capable.

What do I want? she asked herself.

The more that Joanne thought about her situation, the more confused she became. Everything she had learned as a child told her that her marriage was the way it was supposed to be. She was doing her duty, her husband was doing his. Yes, there was increasing tension between them, but they could work it out; they always did.

What's really bothering me? She couldn't come up with an answer. Joanne had always been sensible and never rushed into major decisions. This one was the most important in her life, and she wasn't about to pack a bag and leave for Reno, or wherever it is that people go to get quick divorces.

Joanne finished her coffee and washed the cup and saucer. She remembered to turn off the coffee machine and turn on the answering machine. Like my life, she thought, turn-offs and turn-ons. She gathered her jacket and briefcase and headed out to the car.

Rob had a terrible day. He couldn't stop worrying about Joanne's unexpected changes. He had always taken for granted that Joanne was managing his home, and therefore, gave little thought to his wife or children while he was at work. What is wrong with her? He was completely puzzled by her behavior. I know I didn't say anything to upset her. Just one more worry to add to my worry folder, he thought.

Rob never was very contemplative. He had always found that if he ignored a problem long enough, either someone else would take care of it or it would go away. He had a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach that something was different. Rob recalled the good times with Joanne, how she had always taken care of him the way she was supposed to. He never questioned his love for her, therefore decided that they would have to get this problem, whatever it was, straightened out. It's time to assert myself and get things back to normal. I'll talk to her right after dinner. He was glad that the kids were away at camp so they would have time to have a real talk.

Rob came home at his usual time - 5:45. As he walked in the door he became aware that there was something different. He couldn't smell dinner cooking or coffee brewing. On those few occasions when Joanne had been tied up at work, she called him at the office. For an instant, Rob panicked. "Joanne?" he called. The empty house echoed slightly. "Damn it! Where are you?" Rob laughed at his last remark, almost expecting an answer even though Joanne was not there.

All of Rob's plans to confront Joanne dissolved and his new worry was what to do for supper. To say that Rob was helpless in the kitchen was an understatement. "I'm hungry," he whined. Not knowing what else to do, Rob went into the living room and sat in his favorite chair to wait for Joanne. As minutes, then hours, passed, his worry became near-panic. He thought of all of the terrible things that could have befallen her. I couldn't manage a house and two children without her!

After her last appointment of the day, Joanne began her regular journey home. However, when she passed a little diner called THE COFFEE CUP, she turned her car into the parking lot. Funny, she thought, I never noticed this place before. Briefly, she considered calling Rob but decided not to.

She looked around the almost empty diner and felt as if she had stepped back in time to her childhood. The chrome trim and backless red stools at the counter allowed her to recall Sunday lunches after church with her father. She hadn't been in a place like this in over twenty years. Dad always ordered the same thing. It had become a family joke. After carefully considering the menu for about five minutes, dad would say, "I think I'll have the homemade meatloaf and the Idaho potatoes whipped with butter with the savory brown gravy." And, as if it were an afterthought, despite the fact that it came with the dinner, "And . . . I think I'll have an order of the fresh green beans." Dad always ordered word-for-word what was on the menu, even adding 'the' to the beginning of each item as if the waitress might not have served him if he changed a single word from the menu. I was always so embarrassed when dad did that. She wondered whether he might have asked for a glass of 'the' water had he been thirsty. She was always careful to order something different each Sunday and never preceded anything with 'the.' Joanne realized how much she missed Sunday dinners with her father. They had been a part of her life for as long as she could remember, but when she turned thirteen, they stopped. She couldn't recall exactly why they stopped, but she remembered that one Sunday her father simply said that maybe they should go straight home after church. She remembered feeling a sense of relief along with a vague sense of disappointment. During the last couple of years of their weekly ritual, Joanne recalled, her father had said barely a word to her.

Joanne remembered her father's affection toward her until she was about nine or ten. Joanne would always curl up in her father's lap and enjoy his musty odor. "You're getting too big for this kind of stuff, princess," her father said one day. "No I'm not, daddy. I'll always be your little girl." "Well, not so little anymore," he answered. Their relationship became increasingly distant after that day.

Joanne thought of her father as she remembered him toward the end of his life. He would be a voice from the wilderness, offering slightly off-base advice from another room. Joanne could recall just one more hug from her father. That was on her wedding day when he told her that her husband was a lucky boy. She thought for a moment that he was going to cry. That would have been a first; she never knew her father to show emotion. "Not manly," he would say, gruffly.

And mom, thought Joanne, now there's the invisible woman. Even though she still saw her mother at least once a week, she knew almost nothing about her. She could picture her only as my mother and dad's widow, with no real identity of her own. She was as invisible as a servant in her own home. Joanne jolted. Damn, that's me! she thought. She was the kids' mother, Rob's wife, a saleswoman, a homemaker, but who the hell was Joanne?

"Cup of fresh brewed coffee?" The voice brought her back to the present.

That's my line, she thought, grinning.

"I say somethin' funny?" the waitress asked, looking worried.

"Oh, no! It's just that I say something like that to my husband every morning. You know, `Wake up and smell the coffee!'" Tears began running down Joanne's face. She quickly wiped her eyes and nose. "Sentimental me," she muttered. "Yes, think I will have a cup of 'the' fresh brewed coffee," she smiled as she remembered her father and felt pleasure from this small remembrance.

When the waitress brought her coffee to the table, Joanne breathed in its aroma. "Smells good, Mm, tastes great! Maybe I could do commercials for you." She and the waitress laughed.

Joanne's thoughts turned to Rob's comment about the coffee that morning. It isn't only the coffee. Lately, everything about our marriage reeks of sameness,the same meals, same conversation, even sex on the same night of the week.

Joanne looked at her feelings from a fresh perspective. It's over, she said to herself. She found herself momentarily overwhelmed by fear. When Joanne thought about what she had wanted in a marriage, she had to admit that for the most part, she got what she had bargained for. She began to realize that she had changed and Rob hadn't. No, that's not fair. He changed, too, just not into what she wanted him to be.

Joanne ordered a second and then a third cup of coffee. She ordered meatloaf, whipped potatoes, and green beans. She smiled as she ordered, intentionally omitting any reference to 'the' or 'savory.' She enjoyed the meal immensely. At the same time, she gained a greater appreciation of her dad. Maybe there's something to be said for repetition. She thought about her morning ritual with Rob, "Wake up and smell the coffee!"

"Will there be anything else?" The waitress looked at Joanne and waited.

"No . . . yes, as a matter of fact there will be. I'd like something sinfully sweet. This is a special occasion. I'm celebrating my thirteenth birthday! How's about . . . can you make me a sundae with everything on it? You know, nuts, goo, fruits - the works!" The waitress looked at her, shook her head and shuffled off to the kitchen. She emerged a few minutes later with a dish piled high with every imaginable sweet and a long spoon.

"Don't mind me," laughed Joanne, "I'm just cheating and it feels great!"

"Yeah, honey," smiled the waitress. "I know just how you feel. Beats pickin' up a man and it won't getcha pregnant."

By the time Joanne finished the sinful sweet and another cup of coffee, she felt stuffed. She had a whipped cream and chocolate stain on the front of her blouse and felt like a kid who had just raided the refrigerator, and the freezer. When she looked at her watch and realized that it was almost 9:00 P.M. Joanne panicked for a moment.

What about Rob's supper, she thought. He can certainly find some way to take care of himself for one meal. He's thirty-five years old!

But he's used to having me do everything for him.

Well, now, that's going to have to change, isn't it?

Joanne left a five dollar tip for the waitress and felt both guilty and opulent. Now that was the best dinner I've had in a long time. She loosened her belt and let out a sigh of satisfaction as she got into her car.

Joanne looked at her watch as she approached her front door. It was nearly nine-thirty. She had never stayed out this late without calling. She remembered the few occasions when she had stayed out beyond her curfew as a teen. The inquisition board consisting of mom, dad, and gram, before gram died when Joanne was eighteen. They'd sit in the living room waiting, no conversation, no expression that she could read. Joanne was certain that they knew the minute she walked in the door exactly what she had been doing. She remembered the first time she had allowed a boy to touch her breast, she believed they could all see the mark of his hand right through her clothes. They didn't say anything, but they knew, of that she was certain. When she got to her room she examined herself carefully in the mirror. She saw nothing out of the ordinary, but they knew.

Then she thought, come to think of it, they never accused her of anything. They just sat there and it was enough to keep her from getting into real trouble.

Joanne reminisced about the first time she and Rob had attempted to have sex. It was after her Junior Prom and every girl in her class bragged about how her romantic evening was going to end. She and Rob planned their first sexual experience for weeks before the prom, both feeling that it was a proper move in their relationship. Although Rob had bragged about his numerous conquests, Joanne sensed that he had no better idea what to do than she did. Rob was nineteen, so Joanne thought it best to allow him to keep up his facade. She knew how sensitive Rob was and she knew he needed his man about town image. They had been going together for about a year and knew that someday they were going to be married, so by the standards of their generation, the liberated seventies, sex was OK. They went to a disreputable motel on the outskirts of the city, a place, she saw as having no purpose other than sexual liaisons. She recalled the absolute pain and mortification Rob felt when he ejaculated as he was putting on a condom. It was one of the few times she could recall seeing Rob cry. She just held him and reassured him that it was only their nervousness because it was her first time. Afterward, Joanne was relieved that she was still a virgin - at least she thought she was. She wasn't certain if intent counted. The church told her it did. In any case, when she got home and had to pass the inquisition board, she was red as a beet. She could feel the heat of her embarrassment from her hair to soles of her feet.

Later that night, Joanne's mother came into her room and asked, "Did you have fun with Rob at the prom?" It was then that she knew that her family had no idea what went on in her life and really didn't want to know. They preferred the illusions of their own needs to reality. The next weekend, Joanne and Rob had their first successful experience with sex. Joanne had to admit that it really wasn't anything to get excited about. For her, it still wasn't. At least, not most of the time.

As Joanne entered the foyer, she realized she had been standing on the front step for fifteen minutes. "What a strange day," she said.

"What's that?" said Rob, waking from a restless sleep on the living room chair.

"I'm home." Joanne paused. She felt almost the way she did that first night they tried to have sex. She didn't know what to say or do next. Apparently, neither did Rob. Joanne stood and Rob sat, immobile and indecisive.

"I'm hungry," Rob said plaintively, breaking the tension growing between them.

"You're hungry," Joanne responded , more a statement of fact than a question. "I'm hungry, too, Rob."

"Well, why don't you make dinner, and we'll eat, OK?" Rob looked at Joanne expectantly.

"I already ate," Joanne snapped, impatiently.

"But I thought . . ."

"Rob, I just can't go on like this. We talk but we don't communicate." Joanne paused and waited for Rob to respond, but he sat, silent, and simply looked confused. "Let me try again. Rob, I'm just not happy."

Joanne had as little experience with real communication as Rob and knew that she wasn't getting through to him. I have to try, she told herself. I owe that much to both of us.

"Let me fix you something to eat. We'll talk after. OK?" Joanne threw her coat over the couch and went into the kitchen and began searching for ingredients to make dinner for her husband.

He really needs me.

No, he really needs a mommy to take care of him.

And whose fault is that? She stood, shocked by this new revelation.

Joanne thought about Rob's life. How he had worked hard and made a good career without formal education. And, with no help or guidance from anyone. At the same time, he was helpless as a baby at home. He couldn't butter toast, or pick up after himself, or . . . She stopped in the middle of her thought and wondered if it was too late for him. Or, for her.

Joanne had taken care of Rob all of their years together. I took over right where his mother left off. She thought about her own mother, now a lost soul because she didn't have anybody to take care of.

The smell of bacon and eggs brought Joanne out of her reverie. She hadn't recalled making this meal, but it struck her that it was the same meal she had begun preparing for breakfast. The coffee smells great, too. She buttered the fresh, warm toast, and called into the living room; "Hey, Rob, wake up and smell the coffee!"

Rob came into the room cautiously, as if any move on his part would trigger off another explosion. He looked at the meal sitting at his place waiting for him. Joanne poured him a cup of coffee and put two spoons of sugar into it and stirred it gently. "This is more like it," Rob exclaimed, forgetting the problems of the day.

Joanne sat quietly while Rob consumed his meal. She chewed absentmindedly on a piece of bacon although she certainly wasn't hungry.

"That was really good for a change," Rob said as he wiped his mouth with his napkin. Without thinking, Joanne began gathering his dishes and putting them in the dishwasher.

When Joanne turned back to the table, Rob was gone. Joanne heard his footsteps climbing the stairs. She finished filling the dishwasher, turned it on, and followed Rob upstairs.

"Hey, it's nice to see you up here early for a change. Wanna play?" Rob looked at Joanne expectantly. Often in the past their arguments ended with a romp in bed. Rob looked forward to making up after arguments. Joanne was at her most passionate then.

"Rob, we have to talk." Joanne sat on the edge of the bed and watched Rob as he undressed.

"Let's talk after, babe. OK?"

"No, Rob this is too important." Rob stood there, a comic figure with his pants around his ankles and his broadening belly sticking out over his shorts. Joanne looked at him and smiled. "Finish changing and we'll talk."

Rob removed the rest of his clothes and lay on his back on the bed. Joanne continued to sit in her business suit. Rob felt silly and vulnerable but was unable to move. "Joanne, get undressed and just lay with me. We'll talk - like we used to when we were kids." Joanne just looked at him and made no move. "Joanne, I love you. I don't know what's happening and I'm scared." Rob began sobbing.

"Rob! I haven't seen you cry since that time . . ."

"Yeah, since the night of your Junior Prom. I was such a big man with the ladies that I couldn't get past putting on a rubber! I was so scared that you'd know I was a . . ."

"Rob, I knew. And I thought it was so cute how you had to pretend." Joanne began crying too. "You know, this is the first time you ever really came out and told me."

Joanne began undressing. She carefully hung her suit in the closet and put her blouse and underwear in the hamper. She began reaching for Rob's things, scattered on the floor and the chair as usual, but stopped herself. She sat cross-legged on the bed facing Rob. He stared at her, fearful of what was coming next.

"I'm not very good at this," Joanne began. "I've been thinking all day how to say this. Things just aren't right. And they have to change. I feel like . . . well like a servant around here. I don't get the feeling that you really care about me. As long as I do what you need done around here, everything is OK. I cook and clean and take care of the kids, and work full-time too. And all I hear from you is how fat I'm getting or how lousy my cooking is. Maybe I just need a little recognition or appreciation from you. When the kids are around, it isn't as noticeable because I expect to have to clean up after them and cook for them because they're kids.

"And I'm not doing my part? Is that it? I mean, I work like a dog and see those snot-nosed college kids get the promotions while I do most of the work. What do you want from me? And if you think you're such a pleasure to live with. try being Ms. Perfect's husband sometime." Rob was surprised by his outburst. Joanne looked shocked.

"What do you mean, Ms. Perfect?" Joanne answered when she had a moment to absorb what Rob had said. This certainly didn't fit her image of herself.

"You know," said Rob, "everything you do is right and I sometimes feel like a helpless kid around you."

Rob lay still, covering his face with his hands. Neither Rob nor Joanne was used to communicating with the other. Back when they were teens, and best friends, they talked about everything, but after they married, they learned to live together with a minimum of real communication. Rob thought about how they could talk for hours, especially when they lay together in bed. He remembered back to the time early in their relationship when all they did was talk and hold each other. I told Joanne I would wait forever for her, Rob thought, and sometimes I feel like I'm still waiting.

"I never knew you felt like that," Joanne said. "Why didn't you ever say something? How could I know?"

"When?" asked Rob, anger creeping into his voice. "You were always doing something every minute. If you weren't taking care of the kids, or the house, or cooking, it was working or reading or something."

"And maybe I should have just been there at your beck and call, Prince Charming?" Joanne retorted, her own anger beginning to rise. "If I didn't cook and clean and take care of the kids, who would have? You?"

"Well, I didn't know how - at least not good enough to please you. Remember, I used to get up and make breakfast, but you would always complain that the coffee was too strong or the eggs weren't the way you liked them." Rob looked at Joanne and was surprised to see that she was really paying attention to him instead of moving around the room doing fifty different things.

Joanne smiled. "You know Rob, I came home all ready to give you a laundry list of all of my complaints, and you have a list as long as mine. Why did we stop talking to each other?" She reached out and placed her hand on his stomach.

"And we never . . . touch anymore," Rob added, figuring that if he was going to get out his complaints, he might as well go for all of them!

"Yeah," said Joanne, "that's on my list, too. How can you expect me to be close to you and make love to you when all you do is criticize me and tell me I'm getting old or fat. I mean . . ."

"Joanne, you know I think you're the prettiest girl in the world. I always did and always will." Rob reached out and pulled Joanne down next to him and she didn't resist.

"Well, lately, you've had a funny way of showing it. Telling me my ass is fat and I'm not as young as I used to be. How can you expect me to feel good about myself - or about you, if you do things like that all the time? And, I never criticize you that way."

But you could," Rob answered, tentatively.

Joanne looked at Rob and understood. He wasn't criticizing her. He was really criticizing himself. She remembered how proud he used to be of his body, and looking at him now she realized that time had taken more of a toll on Rob than on her. Funny that she had never really noticed the changes in him. Maybe I never looked at him as a person before. He was a boyfriend, a husband, a father, but never Rob.

"I don't want to lose my marriage," said Rob, suddenly and earnestly. "All day today I thought that you were going to tell me it was over, especially when you didn't come home after work."

Joanne leaned over him and studied his face carefully. "Rob, it crossed my mind. And not just today. I asked myself what was marriage for. The kids are growing, we have our jobs, we have a house. Is that all it is? And I decided that if that was all there was, I want out."

Rob remained silent a moment and then said, "I agree. I never knew why I was so angry all the time. I always looked for someone to blame it on, and you were the only one there. I don't want to live like this anymore either."

Both remained silent. Then, as couples who have known each other for a long time often do, both blurted out, "What now?" This set them both into a burst of laughter.

"Well," they said in unison, "we can give up, or we can work it out." They hugged each other and began playfully touching in ways which they hadn't done since . . . well since before they were married.

"Maybe we can start working on what we have right here and right now," Rob said.

"That hasn't been so great lately, either. Maybe we have to, um, communicate?" Joanne began tracing patterns on Rob's chest with her finger. "Rob, tell me what you like?"

"We never asked each other that before. Not in bed, and not anywhere else, either." Rob felt the anger drifting out of him. With suddenness, it became comforting to Rob to know that at least for tomorrow, Joanne's pantyhose would be hanging over the shower door. What would I do if they weren't there? he thought.

"Just tell me what to do," Rob said. "I really want to know."

"That and that and . . ." Joanne said.

Much later, Rob and Joanne fell asleep in each other's arms. The last thing Joanne remembered was Rob saying something about talking like this more often and she answering that it was all she ever really wanted.

"Honey, wake up and smell the coffee!" Joanne rolled over luxuriously, smelled the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee, noticed the bright sunlight streaming through the bedroom curtains and then bolted upright in bed. That's my line, she thought. Maybe life's a bore only when you allow it to be.

THE HOOK: HOLDING THE READER

2005-03-21T16:08:00.000-08:00

The Hook: Ensure your Great Beginning
by
Milton Trachtenburg
copyright, 1997

I jolted to a state of full alertness. I'd been resting -- half-sleeping -- in my favorite blue leather recliner, polished to a patina that only years of diligent use could give it. The chair was my chrysalis in which caterpillars that were my writing dreams became butterflies of prose. My dream was that someday, I could polish my writing to the same sparkling level of patina my special chair had. Time to stop dreaming and write about beginnings.

The paragraph you have just read is called a "hook." If it captured your attention, and at the same time, foreshadowed the writing to follow, it did its job.

A few years ago, I edited a professional newsletter. The publisher, a wise and crafty veteran of the magazine industry, told me, "If a story doesn't capture you in the first sentence -- no make that the first half-dozen words -- toss it. Our readers don't have time to fish for the theme. The writer needs to grab them before they have a chance to think of other things they could be doing. It needs to tell the readers why it's important for them to read your piece, and the writer had better do it in a way that makes the readers want to read on."

I listened to every word he said about great beginnings. He was also the man who told me, " . . . write spare. Treat words as if they are rationed and make every one of them count for something."

Instead of quoting great beginnings of other writers, I decided to put modesty aside and tell you about the beginning of one of my books. By using myself as an example, I can talk about motivation and purpose as well as present the words that made up the hook.

I am a practicing psychotherapist. In deciding to write a book for clients who might benefit from learning more about solutions to their problems, I wanted to create a powerful hook both to draw the attention of the editor, and tell in as few words as possible, the focus and purpose of the manuscript. By the time I made the decision about the hook, I had already the body of the manuscript. I called the beginning a prelude instead of a preface to create a lyrical quality to match the tone of the writing.

The single problem standing in my way was that I had no acceptable beginning. So, I wrote first lines; the first few emerged and they were -- judge for yourself:

"This book contains the stories of . . . ," which evolved slowly to: "I am a therapist who practices with abused women . . . ."

Would those slugs stop an editor in her tracks? Would she continue eating her salad or put down her fork? A better question might be: after reading those Perma-Pressed beginnings, would she still have an appetite for her salad?

For a brief time, I remained stymied. I contemplated. Who was I? What was I trying to accomplish by writing this manuscript? What themes was I trying to convey? By adding one additional focus, I solved the puzzle for myself: What is my personal motivation for writing this material? The answer led me to my hook. Abused women have no voice. Often the first time they told their stories was to me, or if they told them before, they got no satisfactory responses that allowed them to take control of their lives.

I wrote the manuscript because I had to write it. Writing was a reaction to the years of accumulated pain that my clients communicated to me and the prior silence that condemned them to a life of violence, fear, pain and chaos. To know my opening line, I found it necessary to narrow the focus of my question. Realizing that the focus of my manuscript was to give a voice to the voiceless. To be heard and understood is the beginning of freedom and acceptance. So, after a few more false starts I boiled the ideas down to the essence and began the book:

"Sometimes, I hear voices."

The editor later told me that he couldn't put it down after that beginning. I'll leave it to you to judge for yourself whether my four words and a comma rate as a hook that leads off a great beginning. To demonstrate how much effort and planning went into the choice of four words and a comma, I chose to take you through the thought processes that got me there. I agonized for most of a day over whether to use the comma.

As a result of my choices, the other 101,764 words comprising the manuscript were accepted for publication as well. Nine years later, I still receive correspondence from readers, and not a single one contained a letter-bomb!

Here are five of the rationales for creating a Great Beginning:

1. A hook draws the attention and interest of the reader.

2. A hook gives the reader a mental image of the plot.

3. A great beginning gives the editor and the reader a reason to continue reading.

4. A great beginning gives you a charge that will carry you through to the last word of the story.

5. A hook forces you to sum up what you are writing in a brief statement.

To conclude, a hook is the first statement, paragraph or page of your story. In a book-length manuscript, your beginning may be somewhat longer than in a short story and contain somewhat more description. To paraphrase my publisher one more time, "If you don't catch the reader within a few words, you've lost her." I don't write over a hundred thousand words and spend six months of my life crippling my hands on a keyboard or straining my eyes to read the ten point print in the thesaurus just to foul it up by being too lazy to make the beginning ring like a silver bell.

The best beginnings are written last. That is because by the time you have written the manuscript, it is likely that there is no resemblance between what you set out to write and what appears in the finished draft. The hook sums up everything you are going to write, but you can't know what you are going to write until you've written it.

Is writing a hook complicated? It is until you realize that writing is five percent inspiration and ninety-five percent discipline. The editor will open the manuscript to page one. Unless you have a beginning that pulls her right through the page into the story, she will not turn to page two.

A great beginning greatly improves the possibility that there will be a happy ending -- for you, the writer. I'm going back to my chair now to cogitate about my next piece of writing . . .

AWARD NIGHT

2005-03-06T15:12:00.000-08:00

Fiction is always about truths, not facts. What made this story different from most of the others I have written is that it is closer to the truth than any fiction I have written before or since. The party really happened. The meeting really occurred. The Academy Awards ceremony was playing on the television.

Much of the dialogue is what I remembered. I changed the circumstances of the male protagonist so he wouldn't be me. My life story is different from his -- in some ways. The screenplay is very real. Kerri is exactly as I pictured and described her with two exceptions: Her name isn't Kerri and her inner dialogue about the man she meets isn't real because the man isn't real, nor is his situation like mine. After all, I had to change something to make it fictional.

I showed the story to the real "Kerri" and she loved it. Kerri never became a famous actress. As far as I know, she may have gone back to Texas and presently is raising a brood of kids . . . or cattle.

AWARD NIGHT

by Milton Trachtenburg
copyright 1989

Actresses. They fall in love hard. They fall in love often. But they always try to fall in love advantageously. Kerri Miles had been assiduously avoiding the frump at a variety of social gatherings both had been attending. She sized him up to be a typical hanger-on who can always be found around beautiful actresses at parties. Maybe an accountant, she thought, with distaste. If he is, I'll bet he wears one of those green eye shades and works for Scrooge. She smiled to herself. I haven't seen clothes that out of style since I worked on that sit-com about the sixties..

Despite her first impressions, Kerri couldn't help but notice that the most important people in the room gathered around Mr. Frump. Come to think of it, the important people always seem to be around him. Maybe he does their taxes. It is April. Which reminds me, I have to get my damn taxes done. What a fucking pain in the ass that is. I sure don't want him to do mine. She snapped out of her reverie in time to hear Bobby Stark, the producer, say to the man, "There probably won't be more than minimal revisions. We all think you developed a script we can go with - of course depending on what Darryl has to say. "Of course," she heard the man mumble in response. She missed what they said next, but she homed in on their conversation like a cop with a radar detector zeroing in on a Chevy with a chain-link steering wheel.

Script? she thought, what does he have to do with scripts? What are they saying?

"I was shocked when you called, she heard him saying. I never expected something like this would happen. I never wrote a screenplay before." She focused her attention as he spoke and wondered how she could have been so mistaken about this intense, shy and honest person.

The man looked up for an instant, their eyes met, then he quickly looked away. Her gaze and smile continued for a few moments longer. He returned to his conversation, but she caught him furtively looking at her - she counted three times. Kerry decided she would wait for a propitious moment to approach him. What do I have to lose? she thought. I lost that a long time ago.

"Hi!" she said in her best actress voice, rich in undertones that offered more than she planned to deliver. Her smile said that the door was open to pursue this conversation if he chose to do so. Perhaps even if he didn't choose to.

If he's a screenwriter, maybe there's a part for me - if I play my cards just right, she thought.

"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation . . . ," said Kerry.

"Sure you could. It's ok to say you wanted to overhear it. You're an actress, right?" His smile softened the blow somewhat. Kerry, who prided herself on being able to judge character was taken by his soft, light brown eyes. They contradicted the harshness of his response. She wasn't used to such honesty. Not, at least, since she left her home town some years earlier.

His eyes held her focus upon his face, even before his words had a chance to penetrate her mind. She was used to the typical show business power conversations, with their phoney compliments, while just under the surface, the real messages lay, and I do mean lay, she thought, with distaste. The men's eyes usually made the full circuit, from her face, to her breasts, to her crotch, to her legs, and then sometimes even returning to her face. Most of the men got vapor-locked about a foot south of her clear, blue eyes. His gaze never left her eyes, except to wander to her mouth when she spoke. She didn't know what to make of it, but, since she had heard every line under the sun, she waited patiently to see what his would be.

"I'm sorry?" she questioned, not certain that what she had heard him say had actually transpired.

"I'm not," he reiterated instantly.

She squirmed uncomfortably; for the first time in her career, she felt out of place in her low-cut, clingy silk dress. She had never before been placed in a situation with a man when she didn't immediately attain the upper hand. Her devastating looks and little-girl persona had always wasted every wise-ass who thought he could get her to melt before his so-called charms.. She shifted gears, and asked, "What did you write?"

Not a bad recovery, he thought. In the past, his honesty had always given him the ability to fend off the sycophants who circled successful people like groupers around a shark. He studied her and wondered what was beneath that manicured exterior.

"I wrote books, mainly," he answered after an unduly long pause, "but I recently completed my first screenplay. It's called . . ."

"Oh, God, you're . . ." She looked at him with a new realization and put her initial impressions to rest. Frumpy became individualistic. She thought to herself, I'll bet he still has a line just like all the rest of them.

"Am I keeping you from watching the awards? You must be interested in them." she asked.

"Interested? They bore me to distraction. I'm here because I have to be here. I guess the actor-droids and the bean counters think they're important. Oops! Hope I haven't offended you." They looked at each other, and both began to enjoy this conspiracy.

"Hell, no,!" she shouted, loud enough to attract the attention of the crowd gathered around the fifty-two inch television screen in the far corner of the room. She slipped into a Panhandle drawl, which appeared to the man to be her natural speech pattern.

"Texas gal?" he asked, tentatively.

"You kin tell?" she replied, with pleasant sarcasm.

"Shore can, Mam," he mimicked in his best Randolph Scott imitation, remembering that Randolph Scott had come to Hollywood from Pennsylvania.
"I've seen you in Garth's acting class. You're damn good. You look like you have a real sense of yourself a lot of the other actors in the class are lacking," he continued, realizing that he was beginning to enjoy this conversation.

"Thank you," Usually the first thing anyone mentioned was how pretty she was, or how funny, or any of the personal characteristics she worked so hard to develop.

"Why don't you drop the ingenue role you're playing. If you take off your mask, I won't hurt you. I promise." He smiled and looked directly into her eyes.

"Wow! You are something!" she responded with a giggle. "How do you know that?"

"Your intelligence shows through. Your dumb act is so perfect that only an intelligent person could pull it off so well." They both burst into gales of laughter. She touched his chest gently and he covered her hand with his for a brief moment. "I won't hurt you," he repeated. "That's not what I'm about."

"You are somethin', y'know. I never met anyone quite like you. I don't know quite how to take you." She remained close to him and looked at him as if to discover secrets hidden in dark corners of his soul, but she saw only the openness he presented.

"I forgot something very important. I'm Marc - Marcus really - no not Marcus really. Marcus Leonard, comma, really." She laughed somewhat nervously, not quite knowing what to make of this unusual encounter, yet not wanting to break the connection. She had temporarily forgotten that she had originally approached this man to try to promote her career and here she was, opening doors which she had assiduously barricaded for years. "What's your name?" he added, bringing her back to reality.

"I'm Kerri," she responded, "Kerri Miles."

"Pleased to meet you, well actually, I have already met you, so, I'm pleased to be introduced to you as an afterthought to our meeting." She looked puzzled for a moment and then realized that he was playing with words. I suppose writers like to do that. Maybe that's what makes them so crazed, she thought.

"You're funny, and strange. I like that." She touched him again and this time, he chose not to react to it. I heard you're a therapist as well as an author?" she said. He laughed. "What's funny? Did I say something?"

"No," he said, "I was just thinking. I was ready to play therapist and ask you why you asked that question." He touched her hand gently and noted that she didn't withdraw it.

"I never saw a therapist - I mean, not professionally." By this time, both Marc and Kerri were giggling almost uncontrollably.

"Hey, quiet down over there!" the detached and agitated voice called from the darkness on the other side of the room where the group was engrossed in the television presentation of the awards ceremony, silent except for an occasional punctuation of cheers for an award to a favored candidate.

"Oops!" Marc and Kerry exclaimed in unison and giggled even harder.

"Tell me about your screen play," Kerry blurted. Anyone who can talk the way you do must write interesting characters."

Marc looked at Kerri for a moment, but saw none of the self-interest which had led her to initiate this conversation. She was looking at him with an openness that appeared real. He noticed they were beginning to attract attention from some of the others in the group of about thirty people. They had been standing together like co-conspirators for over a half-hour now and, you know the show business crowd; if they didn't have a topic to gossip about, they would create one. No, folks, we're not talking about going to bed together, he thought, quickly shutting out the existence of the group and returning to their conversation.

"I wrote about someone who used to be my client," he continued. I fictionalized her story. She was the child of alcoholic parents and was abused by them and went on to become an abused wife." Marc noticed the flicker of pain crossing Kerri's ingenuous face. "Did I push a button?" he asked gently.

"You see right on through me, don't you? I never talk to people about myself. What they don't know won't hurt me." Kerri studied Marc carefully, trying to make certain she was safe.

Marc reached the few inches separating them. He gently took Kerri's hands in his. He felt the surprising strength in her hands, realizing that this was a woman who probably had been used to hard work before she came to California. Marc pictured Kerri putting the lights out on some yahoo who had the temerity to try to hit on her at the local soda fountain - or whatever served as her hometown hangout. Now that he intuitively knew what he was looking at, he saw all the pain, loneliness and rage needed to create a good actor. If you don't have a wonderful life, create one, he thought, reminiscing about his own invalidated childhood of loneliness. pain and rage. He recalled with joy the doors acting had opened for him long before he chose to become a therapist, author and playwright. Writing this screenplay changes everything in my life, he mused. Maybe I can find public anonymity. He laughed.

Tears welling in Kerri's enormous, blue eyes brought Marc back to reality. He felt the powerful need for simple human connection coming from her. "You know," he said, I don't mean to intrude upon your life, but perhaps our meeting was more than co-incidence. I began this conversation expecting you to hit on me for a part in the screenplay. Before I wrote it, women like you . . . well, you know. I don't want to put myself down, but I can pass for pretty ordinary."

"Oh, God, you're anything but ordinary."

"But until you get to know me . . ."

"I see what you mean. I hope you don't think that I . . ." She reached up and brushed her eyes, attempting to appear to be rubbing them.

"It's really ok to cry when something hurts you, Kerri. I do it all the time." He paused, and they stood, each giving the other one last test to determine if trust would be offered and confidences shared in this encounter. They had, by this time, been standing together almost motionless for over an hour, oblivious to the activity around them. There was suddenly a raucous cheer from the group around the flickering tv on the other end of the huge loft. "Politics as usual," he said, wincing at his non-sequitur.

"You know, if I offend you with anything I'm going to say, you can kick me in the shins and leave. Kerri, I know what pain is and if you want to talk to someone who in just a few minutes has developed a genuine respect for you and a sense of who you are - without knowing why - go for it. I'm not going to try to play therapist. As a matter of fact, I feel there are some things about me that I would like to share with you - but you go first. Tell me what your hurt is - the one that is so strong that the mention of a character in a script sets it off.

"I can't just talk about this. I . . ." She looked at Marc in embarrassment.

Marc took Kerri's hands in his again, and this time she squeezed his hands tightly. "Kerri, I use an expression as a therapist that sometimes helps my clients open up things they can't deal with. I want to share it with you, ok? You can do anything you want to with it. Want to hear it?"

"Yes, of course. Yes." She began softening, slowly accepting that she was about to do something new for her.

Marc released her hands and moved even closer to her. He was oblivious to the stares from across the room.

He said, "Tell me what you cannot tell me, so that tomorrow you may dream the dream you dared not dream."

"I . . . wow! You do have a way with words, mister. Say it again." Marc repeated the simple, complex, profound words.

Kerri stood for a moment, repeating them for herself, absorbing their meaning into herself. ". . . so I can dream the dream . . . I don't know where to begin. You're right. I'm not what I play myself as. My dad and my brother - they have drinking problems. My other brother - he's retarded, but don't get me wrong, I love him just the same. Because I'm pretty, everybody thinks I must be happy." Kerri finished, and they stood silently for a few moments. Then, Marc told her about his failing marriage and handicapped son.

"I can't believe we're talking like this. I've known you only a few minutes and I'm standing here sharing my whole life with you. And it feels so right. I learned something tonight about judging people too quickly." Kerri smiled, comfortable as she'd ever been in her life. "You know, I have one secret I don't share with anybody, but I want you to know. I have a husband back in Texas. I don't know what's going to happen to my marriage either, but I'm not ready to give it up yet."

"Maybe we both learned something important about ourselves tonight," Marc answered. "I expect people to treat me as if I don't exist, so they do. You expect everyone to treat you like a ditsy actress, and they do. But tonight, we took a chance and treated each other like we were important, and something special happened, at least for me."

"For both of us," Kerri responded.

"By the way," Marc said, "if you would like to try out for a part in the screenplay, give me a call. I can't promise anything, I'm only the writer, but what the hell, I'll talk to the right people anyway. It can't hurt."

"I . . . thanks, Marc. I really mean that. Thanks for everything." Kerri took Marc's hand and explored it like a blind person reading braille.

"I have to leave now," Kerri said. "Have to go home and walk the dog. Thanks for tonight. I really mean that."

Marc watched as Kerri walked across the room to get her coat. As she moved further away, he could almost feel her masks being reapplied so that she could deal with the crazy world of her chosen profession He saw her making affected goodbyes to the crowd and felt his own frump mask realigning. He smiled briefly knowing that there was a different level of reality to which he could attach occasionally when the right person came along.

Marc moved over to the crowd and sat on a sofa arm. The crowd had thinned considerably and the program was almost over. "You and Kerri were having quite a conversation there," a voice called out in the darkness.

"Yeah, weren't we, though." Marc smiled and stared at the screen as an actress with an ample bosom spilling out of a too-tight dress breathily announced the award for best picture of the year. The crowd cheered or grumbled. Marc was too busy feeling a strong yet delicate hand tracing patterns in his own to know or care about what was happening in the room.

SYNERGY

2005-02-27T14:49:00.000-08:00

The other day, a fellow member in a writing group on Orkut challenged me to write a complete story in less than 50 words. The passage below was my response. I found my best case example in that old science fiction tale, "The Last Man on Earth." The entire story was complete with a beginning, a middle and an end, tension and the possiblilty of a sequel all in one sentence: "The last man on earth sat alone in a room and there was a knock on the door . . . ." I think about all the unstated issues in that story regularly over 50 years after I first read it and realize that it was the elipsis that made the story. The story below is my humble contribution to a minimal tale that may have broader implications as well so i will steal the use of the elipsis.

Synergy: A Horror Story
by
Milton Trachtenburg
copyright 2005

In a run-down neighborhood in an unnamed and featureless city, two indistinguishable and unremarkable factory complexes, owned by the same corporation, stand next to one another. In one of the factories, the workers beat swords into ploughshares. In the other, they beat ploughshares into swords. . . .

WRITING SEAMLESS STORIES

2005-02-27T13:00:00.000-08:00

Roadmap Through the Minefield of Novel Writing: Writing Seamless Stories
by
Milton Trachtenburg
(copyright 1998)

The distance between a story idea and a published work is a journey of many miles, a distance covered with increasing understanding of how writing can be developed to affect the imagination of the reader. If a writer is to have any chance of competing in paying markets, she must first polish her skills so that her work reveals the story, not herself.

The best stories are seamless; no trace of the writer is visible to detract from the reader's ability to absorb the essence of the characters. To create a seamless story, you need to stick to the story rather than using the writing to express your personal values and beliefs. Further, seamless stories, you want the reader to keep focused upon the story. Avoid sentences or passages that are convoluted by flawed or ambiguous grammar. A seamless story touches the nerves of the reader with action verbs that create the illusion of motion, taste, odor, touch, sight, sound as well as tension that demands that she read on. A seamless story relies on dialogue to shape the characters. Hold description to a minimum. When your descriptions are spiced with strong sentences, a feel of real action is created by active verbs. Most of all, a seamless story is character-focused; readers identify more with characters than plots. We know that plots are fiction with events that do not happen to the average person. Characters, on the other hand, possess some of the same qualities we have -- though they are exaggerated. Characters, however, must find a means of overcoming the obstacles designed by the writer, created to foil their ambitions. Writers allow their characters to lead them through the plot as they shout silent encouragement to those characters they favor.

New writers may be confused by the vast array of writing tools. We are trained in school to believe in absolutes. One plus one always equals two. Two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen always equals water. A preposition at the end of a sentence is something up with which a teacher will never put. Hmmmm . . . . Sometimes you must break writing rules to establish a tone or a theme that captures the reader's interest. If the sentence I have written about the preposition were to appear in a work of fiction -- or for that matter, nonfiction -- the writing would be rejected, and should be. Though correct, it is stilted, awkward and nearly impossible to read without being jolted into a state of disquietude.

There are many rules of writing we can violate if we understand that we are breaking them and we can justify what we do in order to create an effect upon the reader. To understand language, it is necessary to learn it first. Few published writers, including many who have been published in venues from newspapers to novels, lack understanding of the basic rules of grammar, spelling and punctuation.

Beyond the fear of rules of grammar is an even more frightening trend; there is a fear of words. Too few writers are willing to use a thesaurus and dictionary to seek out the best word, and instead, settles for the most convenient. Just as a surgeon wouldn't enter an operating room without having a set of the instruments prepared and laid out for convenience, neither should a writer embark on a journey into writing without a library that contains at a minimum: a complete and unabridged dictionary, a comprehensive thesaurus, a modern volume of the rules of acceptable grammar and the best works on the elements of fiction and non-fiction writing. Look for one that covers elements of writing such as plotting, scene building, dialogue, characterization, description, creating conflict, hooks, epiphanies and denouements). We, as writers, also need material that describes the requirements necessary for manuscript submission including the protocols of the specific publisher, the essence of a query, a market survey and a list of what each agent and publisher is looking for.

After you have read about writing, read published works that have demonstrated their ability to transcend the times in which they were written. Discover why and how classic literature in any era is timeless. Though we do not copy from the masters, we need to learn the principles they applied – those that made their works successful. For instance, four hundred years after Shakespeare wrote his plays and sonnets they are still performed and enjoyed. Why? What elements did he employ that made his works classic? Standing above all else are his characters. Each character, even minor ones, have a variety of motives, behaviors and attitudes that, to this day, all the king's psychiatrists have not been able to unravel their mystery. The fact that fictional characters, like Hamlet, have become the topics of professional research and speculation four hundred years later though he didn't exist in the first place, tells you how powerfully he was constructed.

Following character development in importance is dialogue. In order to make characters come alive, we need to throw away description of them and allow them to grow in the mind of the reader. A single line of dialogue can say more about another character than a page of description. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much," was a means chosen by Shakespeare to give the audience a foreshadowing of character and plot. Shakespeare's characters continue to provide a challenge to the most skilled actors. Regardless of the kind of story we are planning to write, it is essential that we help the reader suspend her disbelief. Dialogue is the best tool we can use to accomplish this goal.

Dialogue needs to be confrontational; it is the engine that drives a story forward. Shakespeare's dialogue was focused upon three kinds of confrontation: confrontation between two characters as in “ Taming of the Shrew,” confrontation between a character and a situation as in “Julius Caesar,” and confrontation within a conflicted character as in “Hamlet.”

Since there are so few plots, an important task of a writer is to give a new twist to those themes that already exist. Whether the basic plot involves boy meets girl as in “Romeo and Juliet” or filial loyalty, as in “Hamlet,” the writer creates a unique view of plot twists, and it is a new take on the plot, unique characters whose dialogue is exciting that separates great writing from pedestrian writing.

I've learned an important life-lesson that I use to keep my writing focused: If you aim for mediocrity, the chances are that you will fall considerably short of your target. Aim for mastery in every endeavor and not only will you elevate your skills, you will continue to grow as a person. No writer ever attained a state of perfection. A sharp eye will find mistakes in every story. The writers who become icons make fewer mistakes because they are attuned to the sound of their writing and understand the rules that bring a story to life. Their choices are nearly perfect.

If you want to be a published author, you must first take the time to learn the rules of writing. Before attempting a novel, practice short story writing and read works by a wide variety of writers. Only then, find a story that intrigues you. Allow the characters to emerge from your imagination and learn about their intricacies. Set the characters loose in the plot and allow the story to shift and develop as the characters interact with each other and with the traps and pitfalls of the plot. Allow them to fail, to lose control, to become politically incorrect. Give them significant flaws that emerge in context instead of giving a laundry list of characteristics in the first passage in which you introduce the character. Think of a character in a film. He doesn't enter stage right and say, "I'm Bill's brother, John. I have a nasty temper and I drink too much."

Allow your characters to take over the direction of the story so that even you are surprised. When you finish your first draft, check to see that there are no loose ends. Then go over the manuscript line-by-line to determine if every word is the best available word needed to accomplish the job you created for it. If the story doesn't work after a couple of drafts, set it aside and go on to a new project. It is too frustrating to continue to beat on a dead manuscript. A manuscript isn't a treasure. It is a simply a bunch of words until it is contracted by a publisher. A manuscript can be altered, revised, shortened, lengthened or discarded. If you fall in love with your own words, you will have an audience of one -- yourself. Remember that the reader is supreme. Only the reader can judge the merits of a book. Our job as writers is to learn what elements please readers and apply them to our own private stories. The world doesn't place restrictions on characters or plots. It does, however, insist that you find a unique way to show your chosen subject. How you approach your subject must be different from the way every other writer treats the same subject.

Through experience comes knowledge. Through knowledge comes understanding. Through understanding comes the ability to be self-critical. Trial and error give way to successful accomplishment. Are there shortcuts to writing success? Yes, however, the probability of winning the lottery is higher than the probability of sitting down and writing a publishable novel before you have developed a full understanding of the elements of writing.

As with any journey to an unknown destination, begin the journey to publication with a road map to guide you. For the most part, the people who wrote the books about writing have been there and learned from their own mistakes. Or, if you prefer, you can lose time by learning through rejection. Editors are not nice to prospective writers who demonstrate that they don't understand the elements of writing. Rejection can be cruel, discouraging and disheartening. Writing a seamless story minimizes rejection and when it does come, it is often accompanied with the line, "Loved your story but, sorry, it isn't for us. Why don't you try another publisher. They may even state the name of a competitor and tell the writer, “They are looking for a project like yours." Editors, unlike a common misperception about them want to see worthy writers get published. I have experienced having an editor of one publishing house tell me that his firm didn’t publish works like mine but gave me the name of a publisher who might want to look at it. The outcome of the contact was that the manuscript was published as my first book. The words most important for a writer -- manuscript published. The central purpose of all the work of a writer is to attain publication.

A JOURNEY TO HAND-OUT CITY

2005-02-24T17:54:00.000-08:00

JOURNEY TO HAND OUT CITY
by
Milton Trachtenburg
copyright 1997

The drive from the Michigan Peninsula to the Texas Plains is long and boring. The only breaks in the utter tedium of flat landscape and the monotony of endless highway signs are the occasional clusters of ubiquitous roadside restaurants and service stations, often one and the same.

I needed the time and distance the drive gave me just to think - to be alone. And cry. And feel sorry for myself. And miss Jo-Ellen. Jo-Ellen . . .

Freckles. That's the first thing that comes to mind when I think of her. Freckles. Not just on her face. All over her. When she was a kid, she hated to wear shorts or short sleeved blouses in the summer. "You'll all laugh at me," she'd say. "I'd never," I'd answer, as serious as a nine-year old can get. She knew I wouldn't -- but as for the other kids . . .

I don't know when I realized I was in love with Jo-Ellen. Maybe it was at her fifth birthday party shortly after I first met her in kindergarten. I wasn't the kind of kid who got many invitations to parties. Jo-Ellen invited me first - and in front of the whole school class. It didn't help my popularity any in the long run, but for that week, I was king of my own mountain, that's for damn sure! When they sang happy birthday to her, I started to cry. When I was a kid, I didn't know why I cried so much. I do now. Because I was so happy for her I could bust. The kids teased me but she came right out to defend me.

"You, Junior Gentry,” she said, as sharply as a five year old can make her words. "Don't you dare tease Randy. He's my. . . ," she paused.

My heart nearly stopped. "Her what?" I thought. I'd never been anybody's anything before - except for my ma, of course, but she doesn't really count. She had to love me.

"My friend," she added, and the look she gave me wasn't any five-year-old's, that's for certain. I felt the heat rise in my face. I must have been the color of the wine-apples my ma grew out back of the trailer.

I believe Jo-Ellen was born an adult. She had a way about her of just knowing. Sometimes it scared me. But, when you're a lonely kid and crazy in love, you can overlook anything. And, when the love of your life acknowledges your existence, you can go straight to heaven without so much as dying.

"I've got to get my head out of the past. It doesn't do any good to wallow in it," I said to the empty car. I'd been driving for a half a day and felt no closer to Texas than when I left. The digital clock on the dash read Seven PM, time for a meal, though I felt no hunger - at least not for food. I decided to take a break anyway. It's not the best notion to drive too many hours; the road starts dancing in your face and there's no telling where you might find yourself when reality raises its ugly head.

`Chicken Fried Steak.' That's what the menu said. I thought, It won't be like down home cooking, but, what the hell, it beats the yuppie crap that passes for food up north. I was right. It wasn't like home. Come to think of it, home, most of the time, wasn't like home. Sometimes, ma couldn't even afford chicken fried chicken, and in those days, chicken was almost as cheap as bone soup.

I thought about those times; I had first-hand experience at dirt-poor living. The townees called our part of town, Hand Out City. We all lived in a disarrayed trailer court on a windswept lot out back of the town where the nice folks didn't have to see it -- or us. Trailer trash was about the nicest thing they called us. Funny, I never thought of ma and me as being poor. Nobody had much and everybody would share what little there was. Most everybody in `Hand Out City' was just down on their luck, is how I saw it. A lot of ladies were raising kids without a man. Some that had a man would've been better off if he'd just up and left. But, one thing that there wasn't much of in Hand Out City was good luck.

My ma raised me to be proud of who I was. "Your daddy didn't run off like some of them others. And don't take that as any reflection on them, you hear me, Randolph?" She'd point to the lamp table in the living room. There, in a silver frame, was a picture of my daddy in his marine dress blues. He was so strong looking; when I was little I thought he should have beaten all them - ma called them Ko-reans - all by himself. I was only a little seed inside ma when he volunteered. He was one of the first to go, ma told me. Ma got a few letters from places that were blacked out on the envelope and then one day, while she was cooking supper there was a knock on the door. If you've ever lived though a war, you know what came next. Official condolences, military funeral with marines firing rifles into the air -- you'd think if they made it through the war, it would be the last they'd ever want to see of guns, or flags folded into triangles. They handed the flag to ma; even though I was just a toddler, I remember she never even looked at it. When we got home, she put it in her bottom dresser drawer. The next time I remember seeing it was when ma died; uncle Billy suggested that we should bury it with her. It was all she ever go back of my father. I told him to do whatever he felt was best. It wasn't what I wanted to be thinking about that day.

"And, funerals aren't what I want to be thinking about now," I said to myself as the waitress brought my chicken fried steak.

"Anything else I can get you, hon?" she asked in that flat, Midwestern accent I never could get used to.

"Not hardly," I answered, slipping into a Texas twang I hadn't consciously used in a lot of years.

"Texas!" she said.

I observed her for the first time. Usually, unless a man's on the prowl, he really doesn't notice waitresses -- except when they don't come to take his order. She was a milk-fed blond type -- attractive, if you like the down-on-the-farm look.

She tilted her head to one side and smiled. "Something wrong?"

"Just a long road behind and ahead."

"Well then, you better have yourself some dessert and coffee before you get on with it, mister."

"Yeah, I think I'll do just that." I gave her my order - I think more to get rid of her than because I was in the mood for Mrs. Smith's apple pie. I wasn't ready to talk to anybody more than absolutely necessary.

"Here you are, doll," she said, being careful not to slosh the coffee into the saucer. When she saw I had no further interest in conversation, she moved unobtrusively to a station in the corner. I couldn't help but notice she kept looking over at me. I thought, Maybe she's feeling like I felt just before Jo-Ellen invited me to her birthday party." I wasn't in any mood to rescue anybody that afternoon. She would have to find some other knight in shining armor to take her away from the featureless, rectangle, wood-slat building with a giant "EAT" sign on the roof, and a dirty picture window with an accumulation of grime and dead insects on the narrow sill.

I finished the meal. It wasn't much as chicken-fried steaks go. Just a lot of grease and breading. The meat was tough and colorless, like a serrated, used shoe sole. It always happens when you try to go back to the past. It's never the same. Except how I feel about Jo-Ellen. That will never change.

I got up and tried the best I could to wipe off the remnants of the meal, but in the end, I was still wearing gravy, ketchup and apple pie crumbs on my cardigan. I looked at the mess and smiled for the first time in two days. Come to think of it, I was never much of a smiler, except around Jo-Ellen - and that was a long time ago.

I left the waitress a fiver for a tip to add to her escape fund. I guess I felt more guilty about ignoring her than I thought. At least that was the excuse I gave myself. Real reason was probably that I was grateful I didn't have to talk to her, and guilty because I knew what it was like to be on the other side of that coin.

By the time I got back into the car, I'd put it at the back of my mind. The sun was beginning to tilt to my right. I decided to put in another good shift of driving and knock off whatever cow and corn state I was passing through before stopping for the night. I was beginning to feel the push-pull of home. . . .

Home. Maybe my memories were shadowed by all the things that happened since I left Hand Out City. Maybe it's best not to remember too much about reality. Memories, like old photographs, eventually take on the same tone. I guess the only thing that differs among us, when you get down to it, is that what's happened in our lives will give a different shading to how we remember things. One thing is for certain, it sure is easier to remember being poor when you're looking at it from above and it's far behind you.

As I negotiated the empty road, I allowed my thoughts to drift back to Hand Out City. In the summer, it was hotter than a picnic in hell, with dust thick enough that you'd need to keep your mouth shut or you'd be swallowing a peck of it a day. In the winter, it was colder than a frog's ass on an ice covered lily pad and the snow would blow so hard you'd better have on a bullet-proof jacket or you'd end the day with more holes than ma's colander. Maybe that's why I smiled so rarely. Who knows anymore.

The farms surrounding the highway looked like a multicolored chess board. Fields of corn followed by fields of vegetables followed by pastures. Haystacks piled up like so many pawns on the chessboard. And the smells. That was like down home. The sweet vegetable smells and the sulphur-y animal smells. Made me want to kick off my shoes and . . .

"Kick off your shoes, or are you planning to go in the water with 'em on?"

"Huh?" I snapped out of my reverie. It was almost thirty years ago and it was like it was just happening. Jo-Ellen stood there, with her hands on her hips, like a trail boss. She was nine, skinny as a rail, and small enough so she was called `Mutt;' but there wasn't a boy in our class she couldn't flatten -- or one in the class before ours, for that matter. From the day of her fifth birthday party, we were inseparable. Our mamas were always joking about how they better learn to like each other seeing that they were going to be in-laws someday. They would laugh and we would blush, but deep down, I think we had about the same idea.

It was hot. I mean you could see the steam coming out of the ground. The grass in our part of town had long since given up the ghost and I guess us kids really believed that the tumbleweeds were our yard plants.

There were only two ways to get cool in Hand Out City. One was to come up with twenty-five cents to go to the Rialto, the only movie in town. Most of the time, you might as well have asked us to come up with twenty-five thousand dollars. The other way was to go jump in the lake. That was for the older kids. The water was deep and there wasn't anybody to pull you out if you went under. The folks from the front end of town never came back to the lake. I guess they figured poverty was catching.

The lake had no name. Now that I've seen Lake Michigan from the shore, I guess ours wasn't much of a lake. It was surrounded by woods and was maybe a mile around. It was big enough so you could have your own swimming spot. Jo-Ellen and I weren't allowed to go without our mamas. But that day, my ma wasn't feeling so well and Jo-Ellen's had one of her ‘uncles’ over. When I was a kid I thought she must have a huge family. There was always a new uncle coming to visit. I think Jo-Ellen knew what it was all about from the time she was old enough to sit up in her crib. She had those knowing eyes from the day I met her.

Normally, we wouldn't have disobeyed our mothers, but we were both good swimmers and it was so hot, we only wanted to cool off for a few minutes. I stood inert, holding my shoes. Jo-Ellen was unbuttoning her blouse. "Well, what are you waiting for?" she asked.

"I thought we'd just swim in our clothes."

"And when we get home, how are you planning to explain wet clothes to your ma?"

"But you're a girl!"

"Well, I thought you'd never notice!" She had finished removing her blouse and was taking off her jeans. "What is the matter with you? You've seen me without my shirt before. 'Til last summer I never wore a shirt in the hot weather."

I couldn't take my eyes off her face. She was right, but all of a sudden I was overcome with embarrassment. She kicked off her jeans and stood facing me. She had on only her briefs.

"Randy? Look at me. There ain’t nothing either of us has to be ashamed of. It isn't like we're goin' to do anything we would regret. You and me, we couldn't be closer if we was siamese twins."

She still had freckles all over. Once I looked at her body, I felt a little better. I was relieved to see that she still looked the same as the past summer. Hesitantly, I took off my own jeans. We stood, like two skinny statues, our white briefs contrasted starkly with our Texas tans.

"Turn around," she said. I heard a splash and when I turned back, her briefs were lying on the shore and she was ‘woo-in’ to try to beat the chill. The lake was fed by an underground stream, so it was always skin-puckering cold. In a moment, two pairs of briefs lay side-by-side and I was in the water, feeling like a big goosebump. We swam and played, and when our bodies touched I got a strange, yet wonderful, feeling all over me.

I never knew much about man-woman things. Growing up, it was just me and ma. Sure, I knew what her body looked like. Living in a one-and-a-half room trailer, you can't help but run into each other naked. Don't get me wrong, ma wasn't the type to parade her body in front of me or anything like that but when you share a bedroom, you can't help seeing each other sometimes. It was no big deal. She was an adult, and somehow in my nine-year-old mind, that made it different.

Ma never allowed any man to court her. She told me, "Your daddy was my first and only man, and I don't need any more in my life. We wasn't together more'n ten times before he went off to Ko-rea, and it wasn't that great. You know what I mean?" I didn't, but I nodded like a wise man. "Don't get me wrong," she continued, "I loved your daddy like parched land loves rain, but that part of it . . ." It was several years before I understood what ‘that part of it’ was.

"I'm cccccold," I said, after we had been in the water for what seemed like three hours, but was really no more than twenty minutes.

"Let's get out and dry off in the sun. C'mon." Jo-Ellen took me by the hand and we emerged from the water like a couple of wood nymphs. For a few minutes we looked at each other -- I mean really looked. It was like two kids playing `you show me yours, I'll show you mine,' except it wasn't a game. We were very careful not to touch. For whatever reason, it was okay in the water, but not on the land where we were completely exposed.

"I like your body," Jo-Ellen said looking at me with those serious, knowing eyes.

"And I like yours. You really do have freckles all over, don't you?"

She knew the way I said it, that it was something good. She stretched out on the grass with her hands behind her head and closed her eyes. "I never felt so . . ." She couldn't find the word, but she didn't need to. I felt the same way and didn't have to say anything.

We kept our innocence for five more years, even though we went skinny dipping every opportunity we got from then on. It was our secret and it was enough for two poor nine-year-olds who never saw any of the world but Hand Out City and once in a while a downtown that was one whole block long and had maybe twenty stores and a town hall. I guess being free, having a friend, having a secret, and knowing somebody really, really cared was enough to get us by the hard times and the taunts of others.

NEXT EXIT
2 MILES
Food, Gas, Lodging, Phone

The road sign snapped me out of my reverie. My eyes burned and I needed a night's sleep. The motel was your standard highway variety. Small office, clerk who was probably also the owner, rack of tourist attraction pamphlets like the ones for the annual milking contest, the state fair and a display of Indian artifacts, probably bought from a wholesaler in Kansas City.

"Howdy, friend! Be needin' a room for the night?"

I knew by the greeting I'd crossed over into the Southwest. "Yeah, and a nice rough towel to wipe off the road grit."

The room wasn't bad by motel standards - clean, neat, a shower you didn't have to keep your shoes on to stand in. I threw my overnighter on the bed and unzipped the zippers. As I removed a pair of fresh pj's to lay out on the bed, two letters fell out.

Two letters. My whole life was tied up in those two brief letters. The handwriting was straight up and simple - just like the writer. One letter was old, written on loose leaf paper; it now looked like it had been read a thousand times. It had been read many more times than that. The other letter was still in its envelope -- a business sized one with a lawyer's return address in the corner. It was written on lined, yellow paper.

I picked up the older letter. I had long since memorized it, but keeping it had been my only connection to Jo-Ellen. I could still hear the childlike, scratchy voice of the nine year old Jo-Ellen as I read it, despite the fact that she was eighteen when she wrote the letter.

My Dearest Randy,

You know I'm not much for writing, but I got to say
some things and they just can't wait. I think of you
all the time and you know I'll love you forever. I
have so many sweet memories of us that I don't know
which one's the best.

I guess what I remember most is the wonderment in your eyes
when you looked at me. You're the only boy in the
world who could make me feel pretty and special.
Everybody else either made me feel like shit or wanted
things from me -- yeah -- in their dreams.

Damn, this is tough. How do I tell my best friend and
only love that I can't see him no more? I know you'll
be hurting when you read this, and I'm so sorry. You
just hold on, Randy. You're going to be ok.

Randy, dear, I have to do this. You got yourself a
new life and it's out there in the world. You earned
that scholarship to the University of Chicago. You're
the first person ever left Hand Out City who wasn't in
handcuffs, a pine box or a pimpmobile, and I'm not
about to do anything to mess that up.

I know you keep telling me in your letters that you
want to come home and be with me. I can't let that
happen. You're going to be somebody important. I
know it. I knew it when you was in first grade and
the teacher always turned to you for the answers to
everything. That's why you didn't have no friends –
except for me, of course! You was just too smart for
everybody and they was scared of you.

Being near to you was the closest I'm ever going to
come to getting out of this miserable place. And the
memories of what we were to each other are enough to
last me the rest of my life.

Randy, you listen to me now. You finish your
education. If you quit because of me, I'd hate myself
the rest of my life. You follow your dream and be a
doctor, or if you can't, be whatever the best you can
be. Did I say that right?

Please don't write, don't call, and don't try to see
me. It will be better for both of us that way.

I can't write no more or I'll start crying and you
know how I hate to do that. Life is tough enough
without seeming weak to people around this place.

God bless you and keep you. You find one of those
college girls and treat her same as you treated me and
your life will be just fine.

And don't you worry about me. I'll be ok, you hear
me?

With all my love,

Your Jo-Ellen

I held the letter to my face to extract any last remnant of her that might still be in it. After nineteen years, all I had were my memories. I didn't even have a picture of her, yet her image was as clear as it was the last time I saw her . . . .

We were going to celebrate my acceptance to the University of Chicago on a full scholarship. We scraped together all the money we had and planned a weekend in Houston. We were going to stay in a real hotel and be together for the first time someplace where nobody could walk in on us, or where we had to pretend that nothing was going on, even though everybody knew we were together.

Jo-Ellen had never been to Houston, and I'd been there only once when I was little. It was so big, Jo-Ellen got scared and wanted to go home. I reassured her that it was the same as anyplace else, only more so. I took her hand in mine and she squeezed so hard I thought she was going to crumble my bones.

The hotel was the grandest place we'd ever seen. Later, when I got out into the world, I learned to my disappointment that it was a second-rate establishment. But to two kids from Hand Out City, it was heaven.

A uniformed bellboy carried our bags up to our room. Jo-Ellen whispered to me in the elevator, "Why's he have to carry them for us? They think we can't do it for ourselves?"

"That's the way they do it in hotels. Didn't you ever see it in the movies?"

"Oh, yeah!" she said, her eyes sparkling like a little kid who just discovered ice cream.

When the bellboy left the room, Jo-Ellen pointed at the bed and said, "What the hell is that?"

"That is what the elegant folks outside of Hand Out City refer to as a bed."

"Why's it so big?"

"Maybe they knew how many things we wanted to do in it and wanted us to have movin' around space."

"Hey, you got sex on the brain, today, mister?"

"And in several other places."

"Yeah, I can see that...."

Much later, I lay there, totally exhausted. Jo-Ellen, who had been lying next to me, rolled over on top of me. "No more, I beg you," I said.

"Me neither. I just want to feel you through ever pore in my body." She lay silent, her head tucked into my neck. I fell into a deep sleep and awoke to find her sitting on her knees, next to me on the bed, just gazing at me and appearing to be far away. I smiled at her. When we would lie on the grass by the lake I used to do that to her all the time. Once, I even tried to count all her freckles while she slept. I lost my place somewhere in the four hundreds. I got distracted by something more interesting about her.

Jo-Ellen was crying. "What's the matter? I thought you were happy to be here?"

"This is the happiest moment of my whole life, Randy. I'm just . . . afraid I'll have to make it last forever, is all. You'll be leaving next week and . . ."

"I'm going to college, not to Mars, silly. There's no way I'm going to be away from you for a minute longer than I have to."

"I'm just afraid it'll never be the same."

"Don't be a silly. You think I'll ever stop loving you?"

She looked at me with those knowing eyes of hers. "It ain’t always about loving. There's a lot you have to learn about life."

"And you better remember, that you have to be there to teach me."

She didn't answer, instead, she leaned over and pressed her lips to my stomach. I could feel her tears. I said nothing while I held her, feeling her chest rise and fall, her breath coming in ragged bursts.

We didn’t say another word about that conversation for the remainder of the weekend. Laughing and playing like two kids turned loose in a toy store, we went window shopping in some of the fancy stores the likes of which we'd never seen before. We ate in restaurants, and we even took a taxi back to the hotel. We slept in each others arms for two whole nights. In the mornings, I watched Jo-Ellen sleeping. I never knew before that she sucked her thumb in her sleep. Seems she has secrets she keeps even from me.

I watched her as the rays of the early morning sun entered through the space between the drawn curtains, tracing patterns across her body, and making her freckles look like sparkling spots of gold. I never realized before that moment how tiny and delicate she was. When she was awake, she gave the appearance of being big and strong. Asleep, she looked more like a twelve year old, held together by the galaxy of freckles covering her like a sequined blanket.

Our remarkable weekend in Houston was to be the last time I would ever see Jo-Ellen alone. She came to the bus station the day after we got home from Houston to see me off to college, but my family and her ma were all there. We barely had a chance for a hug and a brief kiss. Less than a month later, I received her letter.

Years passed. I did finish college. I did go on to become a doctor. By the time I'd finished residencies in pathology and immunology, I was almost thirty years old. So many times I thought of going back home, but after ma died and uncle Bob sold her trailer, there wasn't really a home to go to. Ma had told me shortly after I got Jo-Ellen's letter that Jo-Ellen and her ma had up and moved. She didn't know where. I guess I figured she really didn't want me to find her or she'd have made sure I had her address. There's more than one Hand Out City in the world. There's lots of places poor folks can go. They're treated about the same in all of them.

After I completed my studies, I took a job with the University of Michigan teaching and doing research. My colleagues advised me that I could make a lot more money going into private practice, but growing up the way I did, as long as I had an extra shirt in case the one I was wearing got dirty, I felt like a millionaire.

I thought about Jo-Ellen a lot, but I got used to the fact that she wasn't going to be there with me. I had a few opportunities to get married, but always made some excuse why the woman in question wasn't right for me. Some of the women I met were very nice people, but I guess when you get stuck on one someone, it's tough to see anybody else taking her place. Maybe because ma had felt the same way about my daddy, it made it easier for me.

When the special delivery letter arrived the day before yesterday, I thought it was from a foundation regarding a grant we were applying for. I didn't read the envelope carefully. "It's from some lawyer," I said aloud.

My stomach jumped into my throat. There was no mistaking that straight, no-nonsense handwriting. I was laughing and crying at the same time.

My Dearest Dr. Randy,

I guess you must be surprised after almost nineteen
years to hear from me. I've never forgotten you, nor
have I replaced you in my heart or in my life. What I
did, I did because I thought it would be best for both
of us. I'm so proud of what you've become. It's much
too late to deal with the "what ifs." And, you know
what they say about regrets. Regrets and twenty-five
cents will get you . . .

It seems I only write to you when I have something
that's difficult to say. But, when you grow up like
we did, what isn't difficult, right?

By the time you receive this letter I will be in the
ground and I hope at peace. You get old fast in Hand
Out City. Yeah, we moved back a few years after
we left. You know the old saying, you can take the
girl out of the town but . . .

I've been very sick and I just feel I don't have much
time. I left instructions with the lawyer that he
should send this to you after the funeral. I didn't
date this, so in case I live for a while, it'll still
be good.

I have a special favor I have to ask of you, and I
hope you still care enough about what we were to each
other to do it without asking any questions. I want
you to go to my place right away. When you get there
you'll understand why I'm asking you to do this. The
address is at the end of the letter.

I will love you forever.

Your Jo-Ellen

The next morning, I completed the long drive. Hand Out City was much worse than I remembered it. Everything was smaller, dirtier, uglier. I found the address with no difficulty. There are only three lanes in the trailer park. The trailer was like the others, yet not like them. There were planters outside filled with flowers and the paint was fresh and colored gold - almost like Jo-Ellen's freckles in the sunshine. I walked up the three steps to the aluminum door and knocked gently.

A pretty teenager, who appeared to be about fourteen, answered the door. Her hair was the color of rust in the sunlight and there was a spray of delicate freckles across the bridge of her nose. She smiled and said, "You're Randy, right? Come on in. I'm Jaime. Sit down. Let me get you a cool drink."

There was something about her. She had the same rawhide tough, cactus flower softness that Jo-Ellen had when she was a kid. Maybe she's a relative, or even her kid, I thought. A lot can happen in nineteen years.

"I made lemonade. I hope you like it."

"It's fine."

We stared at each other for a few minutes; neither of us seemed to know what to do or say next. It was her eyes. She had that same knowing look, except her eye color was different from Jo-Ellen's. I couldn't figure where I'd seen those eyes.

It was as if she anticipated my first question. "She was my ma."

"I thought so. You look so much like her. I don't know if you know who I am. I haven't seen your mother in a long time."

"She told me all about you -- many times. We managed to keep up with your career. You're pretty famous, you know."

I had never thought about it. I'd been written up in the papers a few times for my work in the development of a vaccine.

"I'm flattered," I said. "But, it really is no great thing. I'm one of hundreds of people all working toward the same goal." I struggled to make conversation. "What are you going to do?" I asked, after an inordinately long pause. "Do you have family you can go to?"

"I'll be leaving for college in a couple of weeks. And, grandma lives here with us -- me. I'm going to be okay." Despite the pain in her eyes, she smiled.

"College, I took you for about fourteen."

"Nope. I'm past eighteen. I know I look young. I was born June, 1980."

"That was only nine months after I . . . Oh, God!" I looked at her more
carefully, now certain whose eyes she had -- mine. They had the same brown
with gold flecks that Jo-Ellen said she loved to look into. I reached out to her, my eyes filling with tears -- this time, tears of joy.

If I had known, I would have come home to marry Jo-Ellen; I would have taken care of my family. Now I knew why Jo-Ellen had kept me out of her life. In the end, she made sure that the two people she loved most in the world would escape from Hand Out City. She hoped, of course, that Jaime would have a parent who would learn to love her. If I had come back when I wanted to -- who knows. We might have become just another Hand Out City statistic.

I wiped my eyes. Folks don't cry in Hand Out City. They all believe it's a sign of weakness. Jaime smiled, and looked at me with those knowing eyes.

"We have a lot to catch up on, don't we?" I said, looking at my daughter with a sense of wonderment, the same sense of wonderment I might have felt if I'd met her on the first day of her life.

LEARNING TO WRITE: FORMULA FOR SUCCESS

2005-02-24T12:22:00.000-08:00

This is another of a series of published articles on the art and science of writing I found on a dusty floppy disk as I cleaned out and organized the detritus of almost nine years of living in the same "writing room." I will post what I consider to be the best of what I found and continue to find. When you have written the quantity of words I have been accused of producing, you tend to forget the earlier works, some of which can be recycled and continue to have some merit.

If you like them, let me know. If you don't like them -- it's not too late for me to change them. Writing is organic and never stops growing. That is why works have multiple editions. Many times, the succeeding versions are subtlely different as readers find "misteaks" and writers discover a better way to express the same idea.

I added a few lines to this work just now and found that it gave an immediacy that was lacking. I used Hunter Thompson, the "gonzo journalist," as an example. He killed himself earlier this week. I would never attempt to shoot myself in the head as he did. With my luck, I would miss wide left and blow away my wife's favorite vase -- the ugly one her sister gave us when we bought our home ten years ago. Maybe I should just shoot the vase. Funny? My lovely wife wouldn't think so!

Learning to Write: A Formula for Success vs. a Recipe for Failure
by
Milton Trachtenburg
copyright 1998
revised from an article originally published in Novel Advice 6/98

There are few guarantees for the outcome when you sit down to write, however, with the help of hard reality, I've discovered that there are a many paths that promote success and only a few twisted and bumpy roads that lead to failure. If you read a hundred works of fiction and nonfiction you will notice that, although each work has a unique voice that identifies the writer, they have common elements that can be learned and applied. The authors of most published works show their story rather than tell it. Their dialogue is crisp and fraught with conflict. Their opening hook sucks you into the piece before you can think of putting it down. Their plot flows smoothly. They don’t keep secrets from the reader, but what they do reveal creates an old answer and a new question.

Not every story or article is Pulitzer prize-worthy. Not every writer can paint a story with the power of a Toni Morrison. However, published writers follow basic rules -- developing characters, dialogue, point of view, voice, hooks. They also use the basic tools available to writers: dictionaries, thesauri, books on grammar and punctuation.

Read novels from different eras and different genres. The characters will speak a different form of the language but the conflict they display in their dialogue is always there. One may say, “What hast thou wrought?” while the other says, “What are you doing to yourself?” The nature of both statements is to arouse questions in the mind of the reader by creating conflict. The technique is simply one person confronting another. It worked in ancient times and it still works as a literary device.

Compare Shakespeare’s works to Hemingway’s. The common thread is characters who are whole people in commonplace situations (or not) that test their mettle through plot devices. There are few themes we can choose as our focus. There is love, death, deceit, war, pestilence, cowardice and heroism, youth, aging, relationships, honesty and dishonesty to give a few examples. What makes any story stand out is how you use the common threads of life and weave them through the perceptions and actions of characters to make an old idea fresh and alive.

Having traversed the road toward writing success for over thirty years, I’ve discovered a number of principles that apply. I choose to call those principles: A Formula for Success.

A Formula for Success

Writing for publication consists of tasks you need to perform and rules to which you should adhere if you want to take control of your story (or article, for that matter) ideas and mold them into publishable works. A work of writing is like a jigsaw puzzle with a thousand pieces. Pour the pieces in a pile on the table and you see no meaning in them. However, when you sort out the borders and begin establishing some form to the chaos, you begin to see a picture emerging. Writing is taking the disparate parts: your idea, your first outline of the idea so you can see it as a progression of points, your determination of how the idea will be best presented to the reader, and translating the puzzle into a story that will interest a stranger who has no vested interest in your life. Few writers are allowed to break rules and ussually, they developed that permission from their peers after long years of struggling to be heard. Hunter Thompson broke all the rules of journalism by writing in the first person rather than as a neutral observer. It doesn't work for the next guy in line.

Magic incantations alone do not lead to publication; they are simply a convenient way to access creativity and organize information. Daydreaming, using the information you gather from everyday life, having tales of wonder and awe at your command do not begin to guarantee that you will have something that is publishable. When you have clarified your story idea is when the work of writing begins, not ends.

Imagination, the source of stories and characters, is raw and undisciplined. Like the unworked jigsaw puzzle, it has potential to become a picture, but you will be required to perform a great deal of work before your raw ideas create a competed picture. The key words here are raw and undisciplined. Imagination is like a child who has been let loose in FAO Shwarz' magic kingdom of toys. She may have fun there, but I wouldn't want to be the person who has to clean up after her. When the store opens in the morning, displays are set up to trigger children’s imaginations. When the children are through with the store at the end of the day, they have added their own imaginings to the milieu and all sense of organization is gone.

Writing is a set of tasks that takes your ideas, translates them into acceptable prose and markets them with the skill of a successful refrigerator salesman whose sales territory is Greenland and the North Pole. Writing is not a single act of sitting down and putting your ideas on paper and passing the result off as a completed work.

Read published stories. Note how writers followed the paths I described. Examine the conflict in their dialogue, the depth in their characters, the constant movement in their plots. Read the acknowledgment page and see how many people the writer had to thank to make the story a success. The list always includes an agent, one or more editors, experts to make the fiction "factual" and numerous others who read, commented upon and critiqued the manuscript as the writer developed his material.

As we grow in our knowledge of writing as an art and craft, we discover that successful writing combines layers of skills and techniques, natural story-telling talent, attitudes, values knowledge and beliefs. Accompanying the rules and tools of developing professional writing competency are a pair of forces that always accompany success and, without which, failure is almost guaranteed; the qualities underlying success in any professional field are: discipline and continuing willingness to learn new techniques and keep abreast of market trends.

A Brief Recipe for Failure (far fewer ingredients needed than the Formula for Success)

Some newcomers to writing arrive with a set of false beliefs, that, combined with limited knowledge of the practical aspects of professional writing, serve as a roadblock to attaining publication.

To guarantee failure in this exacting profession, begin with the attitude that you know all you need to know. Never listen to anyone. Emulate the style of successful writers. Spend all your time with other pre-published writers talking about your writing but not listening to criticism of it. When your submissions are rejected, make certain to knock the editors and agents. Assert that published writers belong to a closed club and that there is a conspiracy to keep you out. Wait for an invitation to become successful. Begin at the top. Why should you waste time trying to get published in smaller venues when Time Warner costs the same thirty-two cents to query?

Never join a writing or critiquing group. Share your writing only with your friends and family. Believe their impressions when they tell you that your writing is great. Never open a dictionary or thesaurus. Never read a book that forces you to think. Listen only to others who share your opinions. Never allow anyone who has achieved success tell you anything about how “instant success” took her ten to twenty years of struggle to reach..

Choosing a Path to Follow

Professional writers write for publication. Writing for amusement should be built in to the goal. I enjoy the discoveries I make through characters or insights caused by following a writing idea. I consider a perfectly tuned sentence as a mind confection and a reward in itself. However, I always think of the needs of the market when I choose my words. The best words are the ones that best serve the reader.

Writing for your own pleasure is like singing in the shower. You may be the next Mario Lanza, however, nobody but your tolerant wife will ever know. Art is meant to be shared. Even early cave paintings were intended to be seen by someone other than the painter. A story unshared is not yet a story. Like acting, writing needs at least two parties: a writer and a reader. A published piece of writing needs a full cast of characters that include editors, printers, salespeople, librarians.

Writing is an old and noble profession. Just like anyone can call herself a therapist, only licensed practitioners with years of professional education and training can identify themselves as psychologists, psychiatrists or social workers. Likewise, anyone can call herself a writer, but to become a professional writer, you need to develop the writing, editing and marketing skills that give you the ability to compete in the marketplace. The world places a great deal of emphasis upon credentials. Writing credentials need not come from college; they can come from building your writing skills and publishing in increasingly demanding venues. However, you need to learn rules of writing, editing and marketing thoroughly to assure that your work will be considered by editors.

Sometimes, a positive rejection is a door opener, not the end of the line. If an editor likes your work but doesn’t have need for the particular work you submitted, you have an open invitation to submit something else.

Make the choice. Do you want to be a professional writer or are you simply interested in sharing your stories and opinions with friends? People born with a clear-cut writing style make great letter writers. To take the next step up requires an understanding of all of the rules and tools we discussed above -- and many others not mentioned . . . .

MIRROR MIRROR

2005-02-22T07:44:00.000-08:00

Forewords:

The following story is true. I am a psychotherapist and the woman whose story you will read exists. She is somewhat older now but continues to be one of my personal heroes. Her children are now grown and her life is still exciting. The funniest thing . . . she is the person who told me I should write a book six years before I did so. When I finally did write a book-length manuscript, I wrote one that was partly about her her life. The names are changed but the real person behind the character hopefully knows that she will always be my beacon, my muse and my icon. She is one of the few people I have met who can fulfill all those roles and still have time and energy to lead a whole and special life. Wherever you are, God bless you.

What makes this magazine story worthy of an introduction is the fact that it was excerpted from a 75 page chapter of a book, modified (censored) to fit a conservative audience and sold as a separate entity to the magazine in the credits. The lesson is: No writing is done until there is no more audience for it.

At the moment, I am going over discards from my two previous books and finmding that much of the work has relevance in the manuscript I am presently working on. Thank goodness that computer disks last forever -- well long enough for my purposes. My only regret is that I have hundreds of 5.5 disks from the early years of computers and whatever is on them is lost. I hope that I am a far better writer 25 years later and haven't lost anything significant. I know they have all of my newspaper articles but I have all of them in hard, albeit yellowing, hardcopy. The best of them are sealed in plastic and bound in a journal. Maybe someday, someone will find them and read them.

Sometimes, I am amazed that someone paid for many of my words. I would write for the sheer joy of it. It is good to be valued for something. This is a world that is more rejecting than accepting. Celebrity isn't based upon accomplishment any longer, rather, it is based upon how good you look when you are doing whatever you do. If I have a chopice for the words that will be etched upon my tombstone some day, it would be: "He wrote as if his hair was on fire."

MIRROR, MIRROR

by: Milton Trachtenburg (copyright 1988)
Published in this form in Triumph over Tragedy Magazine, May, 1997.

Condensed from: Stop the Merry-Go-Round: Stories of Women who Broke the Cycle of Abusive Relationships, HSI/Tab Books, Inc., A Division of McGraw-Hill. 1988
Reprinted with permission of the author (all rights reverted).

Marianne sat alone on her bed, her legs crossed and her hands folded in her lap. Like its occupant, the room was delicate and orderly. The curtains were frilly and ivory colored, trimmed in gold. The furniture was simple, yet showed that the owner knew quality. Upon the dresser was an 8 x 10 portrait of a handsome young couple, smiling at two small children, but the room now displayed only the possessions of a woman. Marianne stared at her image in the mirror and saw pain, fear and hopelessness. "It's over. Why don't I feel better?" she asked herself.

Marianne continued staring at her reflection. "It keeps me sane to deal with what I'm feeling, it helps." She looked deeply into the sad, blue eyes and watched the tense yet delicate face in the mirror. As she began to talk to the mirror, the angry face of her husband Dan glared back at her rather than her own reflection.

Sometimes, I can't figure out how it came to this, Dan. We started out with so much love and so much hope. Even now, after all that you did to destroy what we had, I still do love you, you know.

When did it all go wrong? I remember when we first met. Oh, did you put moves on me and I pretended I couldn't care less. Maybe I pretended because I was so impressed by you. Nobody ever said the things you did - and meant them. I was flattered out of my mind when you told me how much you loved me. Nobody ever told me they loved me. Sure, they said the words, but next thing you knew they were all over me. Everybody wanted me, but I never felt that anybody really loved me.

I was really cautious about guys. I remember my first date; I was just a sophomore. You remember Eddie Hughes? He thought he was the world's greatest lover - at least that's what he told everybody! The first time he asked me out, he tried to paw me at the movies and I smacked him in the face. The next day in school doesn't he tell everybody in the sophomore class he got in my pants? I was more hurt than angry. What's the sense in keeping a good reputation if you're going to be ruined anyway? I think I cried for two days after that. In those days, I cried a lot. Back then, I still knew how to cry.

Sometimes I think that if I had grown up in a healthy home, my life would be so
different now. Maybe you looked so great to me because I never had anyone who really cared about me. My parents loved me in their own way, but both of them were drunk so often that I never knew who it was coming through the door. Like I used to say, "Tonight it might be elves or it might be giants!"

Dan, even when I was a little kid, I knew I was different. You sensed that too, didn't you? At least when you were sober enough to see me as I was rather than the way you wanted me to be. God, sometimes, I really lost me. I tried so hard to be the perfect wife you said you wanted. I knew a long time ago that something was wrong with our marriage, but I thought it was me. That's what mom and dad were always telling me and I got so used to hearing it, I truly believed it. I'd complain, "Dan is always so mean to me," and mom would tell me, "Well, just do a better job of taking care of him and maybe he won't have so much reason to be angry!" All that time, there was a little voice inside my head telling me, "Hey, Irish, the whole army is out of step. You really are ok." For the longest time, I didn't listen to my voice. Too many people like you and mom and dad were telling me I was wrong.

I remember when I was sixteen. All I wanted to do was get out of my parents' home. You know what kept me sane? I had a teacher who could see me as I really was, not as the child who covered up for her parents drinking and abuse. How many days I went to school so beaten up that I could hardly make it through the day. And I always sat there with that smile frozen on my face. I was loyal, though. No way would I ever tell what went on. After all, I came from a good home! My father was a vice president of a big corporation and my mom was head of the ladies auxiliary at our church. And you know me, with my smilin' Irish eyes, right, Dan? I had them all fooled - all fooled. All except Mr. Laffer, my English teacher. What a perfect name. He was always cheerful. He took a special interest in me. He always had an extra word of praise for my compositions. It's funny, my stories always told the truth - but about a make believe person, but not about me. Part of me wanted somebody to see what was going on, but I was taught to be loyal and not give away the family secrets. Mr. Laffer told me I should give serious consideration to becoming a writer. Those were his words, "serious consideration." When he said that to me, I wanted to die and go to heaven. I wanted to tell him all I was doing was making up stories because mine was so painful.

I remember the day Mr. Laffer asked me to come to his room after school. I thought for sure I must have done something terrible. All I could hear was mom's voice screaming at me, "Marianne, get the hell in here. Where the hell are you, you irresponsible bitch?" "What does he want? What did I do?" I was so frightened, my legs were shaking and I thought I was going to wet my pants right in front of him.

When I got to Mr. Laffer's room, he told me to sit down. I couldn't look at him. "Marianne," he said, ever so gently, "I just wanted to let you know that I care, and if you need somebody to talk to, you can always come to me." I felt myself crying and I couldn't stop. For a crazy moment, I almost felt like telling him what was going on. I was so afraid that he would tell somebody, somehow I stopped myself. But at least for that instant, I believed that I was a real person and somebody cared about me. I think that one moment of somebody really caring was what gave me the courage to walk out of my parent's home the day I graduated from high school. I got my own place and said I would never look back. I went out with my teeth clenched and my body shaking like a leaf. That first week, I cried myself to sleep every night.

Dan, you were the first person I really trusted. I could talk to you when we started going out. You talked about your crazy home and drunken, violent father and I talked about mine. We were more than going together. I felt like we were best friends, and we were, then, weren't we? You know that before I met you, I never let anyone into my life. I was the girl who helped everybody else and I was so strong I needed no one for myself. I never let a guy touch me before you and I even made you wait a year. I loved it when you said you would wait forever for me. It let me know I was important and you respected me. After hearing my parents accusing me of being a slut from the time I was twelve, I needed someone who really respected me.

I was so scared the first time we made love. I was nineteen years old and still a virgin. My friend Bridget told me that if I didn't use it soon, it was going to have to be bronzed and sent to a museum. It wasn't because I was a goody-goody. I was so afraid if I let anybody that close to me, I would fall apart and tell them everything. You already knew me and I felt safe with you. Anyway, if love was what my parents had, who needed it?

You and I were so in love I was willing to overlook your little flaws, like the drugs, and the fact that you never could hold down a job. It was ok, I had a good job. Good? For age 19, I was really moving. I was manager over 14 people and they had great plans for me, so we had no financial worries - until I got pregnant, anyway. I would have been mortified if I'd gotten pregnant with anybody else. With you, I knew it would be all right. We wanted to wait another year to get married, but, hey, Dan and Marianne, we were a team, right?

What happened, Dan? It changed almost overnight. We didn't talk any more. Was it marriage? Was it too much responsibility? I spent five years making up excuses for you and trying to help you. I suppose after what I went through as a kid, I was prepared for tough times. I sure was prepared to raise kids. After all, I got my younger brothers and sisters dumped on me from when I was 8 years old. Mom wouldn't be feeling too good, as she would say, and it was "Marianne get the hell in here and watch your brothers and sisters!" Sometimes, I thought that they were my kids, not hers.

I handled it all, and still tried to be a good wife. When your anger started turning to violence, I worked twice as hard to please you. I figured I must be doing something wrong for you to be so upset with me that you'd hit me. I was well trained to play that role, wasn't I? I tried to do everything just the way you said you liked it. I'd throw out perfectly good dinners because I was afraid something wasn't cooked just perfect. I'd clean over and over so the house would be spotless. But, you always found something wrong, didn't you? I hadn't learned yet that you needed some excuse - any excuse - for your anger and violence.

Then, last year, I knew something was terribly wrong with me. I remember, I looked in the mirror and there was nobody there. Instead of being scared, I felt that it was the way it was supposed to be. I was dead inside anyway. It was the morning after the night you banged my head against the wall. I think it started with you telling me to get your supper on the table and I had the baby in my arms and didn't move fast enough to suit you. While you were screaming and ramming my head into the wall, I was standing outside myself watching it all happen, and the craziest thing - I was rooting for you to finish the job. "C'mon, Danny," I screamed. "You're gonna have to hit her a hell of a lot harder than that to finish her off. C'mon kid, you can do it! This is one thing you can succeed at." While it was happening, I didn't feel anything. At that moment, I truly believed it was my destiny to be beaten to death. My parents trained me for the job and you were put in my life to finish it. The crazy thing was, even while it was happening, I still loved you.

After it was over and you went out to get even drunker, I was standing there in the bathroom, naked, dripping wet from the shower, and I wasn't there. I remember walking into the kitchen and picking up a knife and just staring at it. I don't know how long I just stood there, naked and dripping all over your perfect kitchen floor which you were always telling me was never clean enough for you. I don't know what I wanted to do with the knife. I believed I was already dead, so I guess I really didn't want to kill myself. Maybe I wanted to cut myself to prove that I was dead. I wanted it to end. I couldn't take any more.

"Mommy, you're all naked and dripping,!'" "What?" I said. Jeffy was standing there with his eyes opened wider than saucers. "Naked and dripping?" I said. I started laughing and crying. I just sat on the floor and took my baby in my arms and rocked him. I must have scared him out of his wits.

Dan, at that moment, I was reborn. I didn't know what I was supposed to do or how I would go about doing it, but I realized I had some value to somebody. I had the kids and right at that moment, Jeffy was as wet as I had been and very real. And Krissy was crying for her milk.

Dan, it took months of therapy for me to reach the point where I am tonight. I
learned a whole lot about me and about life, and I realize there's still more for me to accomplish before I really feel whole again.

I remember the first night I went to therapy. I was scared out of my wits. I felt the same as I did that day in Mr. Laffer's class after school when he told me he was there if I ever needed somebody. I was afraid this stranger would find out all my secrets and I still believed I had to keep them hidden.

At first, I talked about everything but me. I talked about how I wanted to help my husband make our marriage better. I talked about how I maybe got married too young. He stopped me after about ten minutes of that and asked me, Why are you here?. He said something so strange, yet so right, it changed my whole life. He said, `"Marianne." The soft way he spoke was just like Mr. Laffer. "Tell me what you cannot tell me." It was like a door opened inside of me. Tell him . . . tell him what? Tell him about twenty-five years of hiding everybody else's dirty laundry. I looked at him and felt all my walls crumbling. Maybe it was because I desperately needed someone to trust. I couldn't make it one more day on my own.

I told him about my parents. I told him about you. I told and I told and I told and . . . He let me talk for hours. I was waiting for him to tell me what to do, but he didn't. I'm glad. That night, I just needed to believe I existed. I wasn't ready to do anything.

Dan, I learned a whole lot about myself these past few months since I asked you to leave. I learned I don't need to accept abuse from anyone - not ever. I learned I am Marianne and that is something worth being. I am not just Dan's wife, Joe and Mary's daughter, Jeff and Kris' mother and everybody's friend and dumping ground. I am Marianne. I have feelings. I have pain. I have anger - no - I have rage. I also have joy and love. And, Dan, for the first time in my entire life, I have hope. And no one is going to take that away from me again. Ever.

I can live without you now. I'll always love you. You were my first love - my only love. But now, I can love me, too. Someday, maybe I'll find someone else I can love. But for now, I'm not even thinking about that.

You are not about change, Dan, and as much as I love you, I'm able to let you go. If I want to survive, I have to let you go.

Now, when I look in the mirror, I see somebody there. Somebody I am learning to
care about very much. Somebody who, I am beginning to believe, is worth caring
about . . . . Me, Marianne!

WRITING COMEDY

2005-02-21T20:15:00.000-08:00

WRITING COMEDY
by
Milton Trachtenburg
copyright 1998

I find that the most difficult task in writing is to try to be funny. Trying to be funny is a paradox. Funny means freedom from constraints so the more you try, the less successful you will be. The second most difficult task in writing is to try to tell other writers how to be funny. The most boring book I ever read was one written about the facets of humor.

Humor requires a perfect mix of sarcasm, word play, exaggeration, misdirection and paradox. However, the three most important issues in writing humor are: timing, timing and a dose of insanity. Perfect timing demands that you focus your story immediately -- if not sooner. Once you get your story moving, you need to figure out how to make each line a buildup to a laugh -- or a smile as a reasonable alternative.

Comedy involves more dramatic tension than drama. Comedy uses tension differently than drama. You build comic tension from a series of slightly off-kilter decisions or mismatched ideas and expand it towards the ridiculous, though it doesn't have to go over the line to become slapstick. In the example to follow, I take two situations with which everyone is familiar and build them into household disasters waiting to happen. An example of insanity is the ability to see common household objects as macabre, life-threatening objects and everyday situations as moments fraught with potential for immediate disaster.

Another critical element of comedy is your need to develop the rhythm that comedy must possess to grab the reader. The opening hook needs to be brief and funny because the first few words gives the reader the mind set for comedy. Like a magician’s patter to his audience, the opening line sets the reader up to follow the story she believes you are planning to tell. When you take the story in an unexpected direction, the reader is jolted and, if you planned properly, will find the story funny.

The best comic writer-journalists during the latter half of the twentieth century include: Dave Barry, and the much missed Erma Bombeck and Mike Royko. Each take (took) a facet of life and satirized it. They use(d) a pretend-serious overlay, a madness that made their conclusions seem real. Funny can be poignant as well as “ha-ha” funny, but you need to know what effect your words are going to have on your reader more in comedy than any other form of writing. There is almost zero margin for a flat line. Once the reader has lost the fun of the story, you may never recapture her.

Every phrase of a comedic story or article needs to be synchronized to lead to a conclusion that will lead to another problem – including the final issue raised. Ultimately, just when the reader is wrung out, you find some way to bring the piece to an end while the reader is shouting, "More!"

If your opening sentence hangs like an anvil, you will lose the reader before you have time for a warmup. How can an idea be presented so that the reader will find it funny?

Let’s try an example. Here’s the basic facts: The storyteller is a tradesman who works seasonally and is unemployed three months each year during which time he stays home and takes care of the house. So far, not very funny. There’s nothing funny about being taken out of your identity each year and dropped into a role for which you are ill prepared. Aha! There is the seed of possible comedy. No, not unemployment – ill prepared. When someone is ill prepared, (scatological expletive deleted) happens. What happens when this macho man is faced with chores? Can his take on them be funny? Will he expand his skewed view of household life enough to amuse you as a reader? A lighthearted comparison of seasonal unemployment to house husbandry (is there such a word? - I don't care, it fit in the take I used) allows the reader to see from the inception that this guy isn't serious, so, I (the reader) don't have to be either.

The horror of writing about humor is that no matter what you do to try to describe it, you can’t show much humor. So, instead, allow me to put my fools cap and bells on and pretend I’m a comedy writer. If the following vignette isn’t funny, I guess I can’t follow my own instructions.

Life Down the Drain
an imaginary excursion into household comedy

"Unemployed is an ugly word, so I call myself a seasonal employee. During my hiatus season (isn't that a PC way to say unemployed?) I become a house husband. Now, don't get me wrong, there's nothing improper about house husbandry -- except -- no matter what I try to do around the house, I make a complete mess of it. Did you ever see a rabid, front-load washing machine? Remind me to tell you about my theory that if one scoop gets the clothes clean, then THREE scoops will . . . you get the point.

“Cooking has always been a mystery to me. I thought all moms did was take a beautiful dish out of the oven and, with a flourish, place it on the exact spot on the table where nobody could reach it, at least not without the risk of plastering his shirtfront with the previous course. When I first heard the word preparation, I thought it meant, have a quick beer before you take the dish out of the oven.”

That’s enough story sample. Notice the abrupt halts, the changes of direction, the skewed thinking. This sample piece hinges upon your willingness to follow the narrator through his warmup in the first paragraph while he tells you the set-up and lays his first one-liner on you. Then, in the second paragraph, while he has your attention on the material in the previous paragraph, he asks you to suspend your disbelief. Is there anybody so stupid that they believe food comes to the kitchen sans preparation? Actually, yes there is, and that is what makes it possible for the reader to follow the story to its next level. The writer took a male stereotypical dysfunction and raised it by the power of ten.

Comedy, like all other forms of writing, requires attention to the small details that create funny reading. Comedy is more like magic than writing. It is misdirection. While you take the reader in a logical direction, she follows a developing point and in the middle, you knowingly move in a different direction. Or, you replace a known word that the reader thinks is coming with a slightly different one. "Like the ad for the chair company stated: Does a bear sit in the forest?" It brings a smile to anyone who recalls the original and more scatological version.

Look at your story through a more jaded eye. If you are trying to write comedy, but aren’t having fun doing it, you need to rethink the piece. The best comic writing is funny to the writer because he is telling himself jokes he never heard before. The greatest clown of all time, Red Skelton, had more fun than anyone in his audience. His childish joy and exuberance overcame the bad material he might, on occasion, have to deliver. Sometimes his humor broke him up so completely that he couldn't tell the punch line, but the audience found him hysterical anyway.

For humor to be effective, the basic idea of the story must be funny whether the story is a one-liner or a shaggy dog tale that takes 750 words to get the reader to its awful conclusion. When you translate daily routine into a havoc-filled vignette, you have a funny situational piece with the kind of potential that Erma Bombeck used to bring both laughter and tears to her readers. Is there anything funny about Scotch Tape? In the hands of Dave Barry, the results could be hilarious. Give me a roll of Scotch Tape and I will become the world’s largest lint picker.

Here is an unusual piece of comedy. The joke is as old as dirt, making it more appealing because generations grew up since I heard it. The story demonstrates better than any I can think of how suspending disbelief can produce a story that is humorous and at the same time, jolting. The author is unknown.

“Did you hear the story about the meticulous bricklayer who built a perfect wall? He started the day with 43 bricks and found at the end of his labors, he had used only forty two.

“Which reminds me of another story. Did you hear the one about the guy who got off a bus in Chicago and got hit in the head with a brick?”

There is no right way to end a comedy. At this moment, I can’t think of a single funny comment. Perhaps I’m trying too hard. So, allow me to sign off with the same words Red Skelton used to end his show, “Good night and God Bless.”

WORDPAINTING

2005-02-21T15:58:00.000-08:00

WORDPAINTING: A NEW WAY TO LOOK AT THE CREATIVE SIDE OF WRITING
by Milton Trachtenburg
copyright 1998

You sit down to write a story. The screen or paper in front of you is blank. You begin thinking of words you can use to kick-start your story. Nothing worthwhile comes to mind, or, what you write is dull, stiff . . . BORING! If I keep writing like this, you think, I can get a job editing telephone directories.

"Help!" you shout, and no one answers. You fear you are suffering from writer's block; your creativity is going into deep freeze.

After dozens of false starts, you find the words to begin telling your story. You create a wonderful protagonist and villain; the plot is as rich as grandmother's navy bean and beef soup. You think, my story is wonderful! Some of your friends, even those who don't owe you money, tell you, "Great story, I loved every word of it."

Encouraged by the praise you received, and driven by your hard work, you slip the manuscript into an indestructible “Tyvek” envelope and send it to an editor, remembering to send a SASE along with it. You are proud of your editing. You caught every spelling and grammatical mistake and corrected it.

You follow the guidelines you had requested from the publisher and make certain that the manuscript has proper margins and type face. You address it “care of” a particular editor so it won't end up as the last entry in a three-foot-deep slush pile.

You keep vigil beside the ubiquitous blue mail box until the postal worker in the jeep with the right-side drive comes along and sweeps your missive into her bag. You are tempted to follow her back to the post office, but good sense prevails over paranoia, and you turn slowly, making certain first that she is driving toward the destination of your package.

The next six weeks are interminable. Finally your SASE arrives. With shaking hands and an elevated heartbeat, you manage to tear open the envelope without turning its contents into confetti. You stare at the sheet of paper. It looks familiar. It is. It's your letter to the editor. Scribbled across the top is a brief, almost indecipherable note:

Good story/turgid writing/polish & resubmit, if you care to . . . , followed by a signature that resembles a pigeon dropping.

You want to throw up. Your light lunch feels like an anvil in your stomach. You want to curse the editor for her poor judgment. Instead, you rein in your frustration and accept that maybe there are still things you need to learn about writing. You join a writing group -- one where people knowledgeable in the ways of writing may help you understand why your "great story" is "turgid," and not ready for publication.

In your first session with the writing group, the members are throwing around a term that you hear, but don't fully understand: "Show, don't tell." It sounds so silly, you think. Do you "show" a story by drawing pictures in the margins? Your answer is closer than you think to what writers do to power-up their writing. Learning how to engage all of the reader's senses instead of just her intellect is a technique that raises writing from turgid to dramatic. You have been told that you are a natural writer and your work has merit. Now that you have finally had the courage to look up turgid in your dictionary, you begin to understand, though not agree with, the editors point.

You tell your story in words that describe wonderful characters, situations, places and conflict. "The reader understands what you are saying, but she can't feel the impact of your ideas," says a member of your writing group.

There are words and concepts in our vocabularies that cause readers to "paint pictures" of your story as well as to enjoy the verbal content. Writers have been using "show, don't tell" for centuries, particularly since the advent of cameras, motion pictures and television. I call the creation of powerful images in the mind of the reader, WORDPAINTING. The label helps writers communicate about it and incorporate it into their own way of thinking about writing. Think of WORDPAINTING in the same framework as shopping in a grocery store where the cans have one word labels. Without descriptions or pictures on the cans, you could end up with hot dogs and green beans. The same principle applies to developing writing techniques. If you can't label and describe what you do, you have a tool that can't be used effectively. Even the writer might have a difficult time describing what was in her mind looking back on the story a few years later. She might find that without appropriate labels to describe what she has accomplished, she would not be able to repeat the technique the next time she writes.

Powerful writing appeals to all the reader's senses. It has the impact of a great painting or sculpture. When I look at works by Michelangelo, Degas, Picasso, Chagall, Pizzaro, Wyeth or Van Gogh, to name a few of my favorites; their compositions talk to me -- they come alive. When you visit a work by Paul Gauguin, you can almost smell the lush tropics in his painting and the native girls seem to radiate a heat that is more than imagined. A painter speaks in a language without words. A writer can create images by painting words instead of pictures. I choose to call this ability, WORDPAINTING. Simple cartoons created by advertisers convey images far beyond what is portrayed in the picture. When you see "Mr. Kleen," on the label of that housecleaning liquid, you can smell ammonia and pine oil, and, unconsciously, you might even pull your head away from the noxious odor. You can choose written words that have similar, powerful effects upon your reader.

You need to make continuous choices as to how to present your story to a reader. If you use all the tools at your command, you question every word you choose. You ask: How will this word in this context affect my reader? A story is a magic carpet ride for the reader. To readers for whom life is a struggle, reading is a healthy escape from the mundane, the routine, the painful. A story carries your reader to a magic kingdom where there is a suspension of disbelief. Can you remember how the first stories you heard as a child affected you? "Once upon a time . . ." Four words trigger images of magical kingdoms, churlish villains, perfect heroes, flights to places that can be reached only through the imagination.

Many of your earliest memories may be pictures rather than words. You didn't think in words when you entered childhood and began to understand the language. Images were directly transferred from your eyes, ears, taste buds and nerve endings. Your writing can tap into the reader's memory bank and draw upon her stored experiences and use them to heighten your story. When you think of Sunday dinner at Grandmother's house, can you remember how her home, redolent with the aroma of fresh-baked breads and cakes and a melange of roasting meats and simmering vegetables brought a sense of excitement and expectation to you? If you can, so can your reader. To enhance the depth of your writing, you have the power to draw upon your experiences to enable the reader to draw upon hers. We all have common elements in our memory banks because we all have similar memories of early childhood. We all know fear, envy, pride, anger, sadness and a myriad of other feelings that we can recall when we focus upon our memories. We understand sensations -- the first time we are touched by a lover or the aroma of a freshly laundered towel. We can recall the silken feel of a rose petal or the rude jolt we get by touching a live wire.

Having the ability to lead our readers to experience her own senses through our writing -- I call WORDPAINTING. You may ask: How does the concept, WORDPAINTING, help me create stories that will overpower an editor and attract her interest? The answer is: WORDPAINTING
-- a tool that opens your mind to feeling, so you can use your memories to show the reader your story and allow her to experience it as well as hear the facts. Before you write, you WORDPAINT. You experience your own story with all your senses.

Powerful verbs, and for that matter, strong nouns, create images in the mind of your reader. WORDPAINTING opens the channels so you can experience words instead of thinking about them. When you think of WORDPAINTING, you are thinking in images rather than in vocabulary. After you experience your own images, you will attach the image to the most powerful descriptive words you can find to make the experience flow through your reader's senses.

Here is a simple example. You are going to write about a fast train coming toward you. Okay, I just said it and wrote it. I am going to overwrite this passage to enhance the point that it is possible to draw the reader into the experience. I’ll start by telling you a simple description of an action so that we can look at the difference between tell and show.

"A fast train is coming up the track toward me." What does that line do for you? If your answer is, "Nothing!" we are in agreement that telling is not a powerful writing tool. You picture the same scene. Think in images. What do you see, hear, feel, smell and/or taste? Picture your scene of a train approaching, passing you and disappearing into the distance. You may want to close your eyes to intensify your image. WORDPAINT your approaching train.

Here is my interpretation of the scene described in the previous paragraph: Not one word of the scene will be censored because this would constitute a first rough draft if I were writing it as part of a story. There would be many revisions before it is ready for an editor.

“You barely notice it at first. You feel a gentle foot massage. The throbbing beneath your feet grows more insistent as the power of several thousand tons of steel rumbles down the polished silver rails. You experience your own powerlessness throughout your body as the leviathan approaches. Some inner sense commands you to draw back from its awesome power, though you are yards from the tracks. As the train rushes past you, you feel the oxygen sucked from the air and experience yourself drawn inexorably into the vortex of the vacuum. It is as though the racing train commands the air to accompany it. You imagine yourself sucked under the train like a speck of dust in a swirling wind. The fixed tracks appear almost alive, rising and settling as the coaches rock upon them. The odor of ozone and heavy oil remain in the wake of the monster along with the faint aroma of broiled fish from the dining car.

“The faces in the windows of the day coaches become a single blur of menwomenchildren staring back at you, each for an instant. The lettering on the sides of the coaches becomes an indistinguishable vapor trail. Even as the dragon-like conveyance distances itself from you, you see the rear lights emitting a trail you can follow for miles. Just before it passes from sight, the train, longer than three football fields, appears smaller than a toy train set. You feel you are in a world detached from your earth-bound environment.”

After the passage has been written, the process of editing and revising begins. When you are WORDPAINTING, don't fall so in love with your words that you can't go back to prune and trim them of excess fat. One word too many and you have a bored reader. There's only one thing more fatal to a writer than a bored reader and that is a bored editor.

Turn on your inner-dolby; raise the sensitivity of each of your senses so you can experience motion, aromas, color. Sense approaching objects before you can see them. With your eyes closed, experience the tingle of the hairs on your arms when a person is standing six inches from you. Can you feel an appreciable change in air temperature? Can you feel a change in the surrounding air?

Imagine the sound of a blinking eye when you think the slightest sound you make will put you in danger? What is the smell of raw fear? How does each muscle in your legs feel after you have run up twelve flights of stairs to escape a predator? Write the experience.

What is the sound of hunger? What do you experience when you grind your teeth? What does a razor sound like when you shave? What do you feel in the pit of your stomach when the scalpel-sharp razor blade nicks your skin? Can you relate that feeling to someone who has been nicked by a knife-wielding perpetrator?

What does sweat taste like? Is it different under different circumstances?

When you use a frying pan, how do the splatters of hot oil feel when they hit your hands and face? Can you use that feeling to heighten the tension in the denouement scene from the movie, "House of Wax?"

How does a bathroom feel when a tub full of hot water fills it with steam? What does a soap bubble feel like when it bursts on your tongue? Can you use these wordpaintings the next time you write a love scene? I guarantee that it will be sexier than a tableaux of body parts and secretions.

What do your arms feel when you split a log? What do you feel in your back when you swing at a baseball and miss? What does your body experience when you lie down on fresh sheets? Can you use the essence of feelings and sensations to heighten your next story that involves work or sleep?

Without WORDPAINTING, you have experiences told by one person to another. I saw a train go by. I cut myself shaving. Boy, am I hungry! I took a hot bath. The reader understands what you are saying, but she is not partaking of the experience. Telling without showing is like going to a restaurant and being handed a menu, then, after half an hour, the waiter returns and hands you a check. "But . . ." you begin. The haughty waiter holds up his hand like a traffic cop and smiles a superior smile. "You have had every opportunity to experience our entire menu. What more could you want? Be reasonable, sir."

WORDPAINTING is a method you can use to make certain you serve hearty portions of reading fare with every "menu." As a writer, your "menu" is your outline detailing the dry bones of the story. WORDPAINTING puts the meat on the bones and the gravy on the meat. Fully employed, it also puts the maraschino cherry on top of the flambee you serve for dessert.

WORDPAINTING does not replace good writing, it can focus you on the tasks you need to perform to enhance it. You can employ WORDPAINTING to elevate your reader's experience to a five-star gustatory delight without charging a single penny more.

WORDPAINTING is a reminder to experience each scene, each character, each word of dialogue before you place it in a Tyvek envelope with an SASE. In your first rough draft, leave your censor in its cage. Let the words pour forth unexpurgated. You will have the opportunity to edit and arrange them before you submit your final draft. Speaking figuratively, WORDPAINT naked. If you choose to take this advice literally, be certain you draw the curtains before you draw the story.

Don't worry if the image your reader sees is not the one you think you have painted. Great reading is, after all, in the eyes, nose, ears, tongue and fingertips of the beholder. To paraphrase Charlie the Tuna, it isn't stories with good taste we are looking for, it is stories that taste good!

I appreciate reader feedback about your take on WORDPAINTING as a tool to empower your writing.

Copyright 1998 by Milton Trachtenburg
MTracht508@aol.com

Creating Multi-dimensional Fictional Characters

2005-02-03T07:00:00.000-08:00

CREATING MULTIDIMENSIONAL FICTIONAL CHARACTERS:
Finding Characters in Your World and in Yourself
by Milton Trachtenburg
copyright 1998

How many times have you heard the cliche: "Characters make the story?" As long as stories are being written, characters will be the center of a story and will remain the most important element of a well-crafted piece of fiction. Many new writers have difficulty when it comes to creating memorable and interesting characters and putting them at center stage. While the plot of the story may be wonderful and have the potential to be of great interest to the reader, you can help the reader distinguish among the characters by providing more than surface differences such as eye color, hair length or height. Your reader will forget these details almost before she has completed the paragraph.

Stories have three focuses: people, places and events. A story begins with a person conducting the business of her life in a place at a given time. The juxtaposition of person, place, time and action creates the energy that moves the story. Each element has an effect upon the others, creating tension, direction and finally, a conclusion. Writing a story is like composing a symphony. The elements of the composition that will be featured and those that will be subordinate or omitted will be determined by the way each one is used. We know much more about our characters than we write. But some of what we know about the character is communicated to the reader through how she reacts.

We need to ask ourselves: Is the story about how John overcomes his fear of meeting people? If so, the focus will be John. You will need to give him more depth than you would if the focus were not on one person. You will need to give more attention to his backstory so that the reader will be able to understand John's motivations, fears, drives, ambitions, as well as his past accomplishments and failures. Personal stories often focus upon the inner conflicts of the characters as well as the problems they must solve in their world.

On the other hand, if it is a story about how an exotic locale affects people who wander into it, you might write less about each individual and focus upon how the characters interact with each other and the setting. You might choose to provide some background information on each major character, but you would need to focus on the action, relationships and problems encountered by them.

Yet a third variation is a story about the effects of a catastrophe upon one or more participants The character is the key element in each story. The strength of the story is determined by the way in which you get the reader to identify with the character as she affects and is affected by the events of the story.

If we are looking at story writing as an artist looks at the act of painting, we will start with a blank canvas. There is no place, nothing is happening, and the characters are still and naked. All we know is that there is a tension within us. We need to write. Of course, this is an oversimplified description. Stories can have many characters, locales and subplots, but in looking at the craft of writing, it is better to begin with the simplest combination of a person, a place and an event.

Some writers are lucky. Their minds overflow with stories about gypsies and elves, windswept plains and teeming cities, love and war, deceit or duplicity and acts of extreme courage and sacrifice. Unfortunately, I am not one of the lucky writers in this respect. My stories come to me only through intensive and extensive interrogation of the many and varied characters stored in my brain. Though I don’t have a variety of plots stored in my mind, perhaps I am the lucky one. Truly good characters are difficult to find. Often, my characters come to me through my daytime job as a practicing psychotherapist. When I write fiction, I sometimes compare myself to a talent agent with thousands of listings. I am able to draw from their personas and create stories that use amalgams of characteristics from many people. I never use a real person as a character, however. I can borrow traits, speech patterns or body language, but the character is always a combination of several people. There are probably many more good stories than there are interesting characters who can stand on their own.

Many writers create their characters based upon the requirements of the story. Often the result of giving plot a more important role than characters, will result in two-dimensional characters who are easily forgotten. How many stories have you read in which characters stand out in such bold relief that you remember them long after you have forgotten the book? Think about it.

I believe I could list all the story characters that made an impression on me and not fill a single page. Two unique characters come to mind -- characters that often served as touchstones in my teens. Neither of them came from plots that were particularly special or for that matter, even original. But the characters shall remain with me forever. The first character is Holden Caulfield, from J.D. Salinger's "A Catcher in the Rye," whose dreams and frustrations gave definition to my own, and those of many others in my generation. Salinger captured the meaning of angst, insecurities, love, and the confusion in trying to deal with all the feelings and still find some meaning in our lives that we were unable to express. The nonexistent Holden Caulfield became a spokesperson for us. His life helped provide understanding of our own existence.

Another special character for me was the servant, Antonia, in Willa Cather's "My Antonia” who taught the young protagonist about love. She became my idealized female at an age and stage of life (13 and entering high school) when I was just learning the differences between males and females. For many a young man, Antonia became their unattainable love.

What made Holden Caulfield and Antonia different from the hundreds of thousands of other characters encountered on my early journeys through literature? To me, they weren't cardboard cutouts. They were drawn as full human beings whose personalities, like diamonds, had multiple facets, and with whom we could easily relate. I could not tell you what either looked like. Perhaps the writers gave descriptions. I remember only the important aspects of both characters, but if you had given me a physical description, it would not have changed their meaning in my as yet unformed world. I know what ‘my’ Antonia looks like and it doesn’t matter if yours would appear far different. Each is valid and serves a purpose to the readers.

Special characters have one common element; they seem to spring full blown from the pen of their creators. There is no need to give them exhaustive physical characteristics, or provide specific details about their emotions. For the brief course of their existence, the characters become the author and the author becomes the characters. They appear on the scene cut from whole cloth, and begin reacting to and acting upon the circumstances in which they find themselves. Through the nuances of their speech and the reactions of others to them, you can create their appearance, emotional states and intellect in the mind of the reader. A character
who is already three-dimensional does not have to be described by eye color or height. You may have a laundry list of external characteristics, but they may do more to interfere with a good read than to contribute to the flow of the story. Yes, you do have to describe some facets of a character, but you do not need to list every color or measurement to describe him or her to the reader. Here’s an example that tells the reader something about physical description, but also tells the reader about the personality of a character. “Arnie Grizwalt chose to go for his daily stroll late on sunny afternoons. He always walked west, so he could cast a long shadow.” We can assume that Arnie has feelings about his lack of height, or at least we have a foreshadowing that something drives him and it will keep us reading to find out. Creating puzzles for the reader keep the pages turning more effectively than giving her flat characters who live to serve the needs of the plot.

In my short story, "Journey to Hand Out City," I described the heroine, ". . . as lean and as tough as rawhide, yet as delicate and ephemeral as a cactus flower." Certainly, with that description, your imagination can tell you better than I what she looks like. Your version may not be identical to mine, but she is now your creation and if you come to like the way she experiences her brief moment in the world, she will be all the more memorable to you. The description I used also tells you of her probable origins without wasting a paragraph in talking about her birthplace.

Many stories need a memorable character to maintain reader interest. As a writer, you need to ask yourself: What am I trying to convey to the reader? Only then can you decide what characters will bring the story to life. Some stories center on the action or the setting. Characters make the events more memorable even when the events described are exciting. The Bible demonstrates the value of strong characters. Would the story of the flood have been as interesting if it hadn't been told through the eyes of Noah? When you think of the Battle of Jericho, you always think of the hero of the battle, Joshua. Events alone are like a tree falling in the forest with no one there to hear the sound. Characters humanize the story. They react to circumstances and cry out, "It isn't fair," when circumstances conspire to defeat them.

Often, in attempting to create a character needed to move a story, a writer is trapped in a mode of describing rippling muscles and heaving bosoms--a familiar ploy some readers will accept. There must be far more substance to the characters than how many muscles he can ripple and how often her bosom will heave, or they will take on a Ken and Barbie quality. Their words and actions will have no more content than their ripples and heaves. Instead, why not take a memorable character and place her in the situation you develop and see what happens when she starts moving?

How do you create a character that is more than the sum of her parts? You don't. Your characters already exist in your imagination or experiences. You need to allow a character to emerge, as it would in a dream. Allow the character to speak, first to you, and later, for you, as a rapport develops between you and the character. Use qualities of people you have seen or known. In the example I described above, the heroine was created, in part, from my impressions of a check-out person at a local grocery store. There was something about her, a je-ne-sais-quoi quality that both charmed and intrigued me. I never spoke to her, other than to say "Hi," and, "Have a good day." However, I left the market with more than groceries. I left with impressions of her that were based on her tone of voice, her facial expressions, the way she tossed her head back when she laughed, the way she hummed a melody only she could hear. Many of the qualities subsequently given to the character were of my own invention but the young woman at the checkout counter was able to trip the creative mechanism that I cannot define but that begins the story writing process for me.

Become a camera. Capture details from what you see, hear, smell, taste, touch and experience. In my contact with the cashier, I absorbed some of what I experienced in that brief, impersonal encounter. I own the experience even though I may never see the woman again. I made a mental photograph of the way she glanced around her, the way she used her hands, the movements of her face while she scanned my groceries, her voice, her huge, sad eyes, her freckles, which I chose to exaggerate in the story. When I was using my impressions, I was not writing the story of the woman in the store. In creating the character, I borrowed characteristics from the woman in the store, then combined them with other images and qualities that already existed in my memory. We don't need to remember all the details of every person we use to help us build characters; we need only to use the characteristics that, in the mind of the reader, change our character from a shell to a three-dimensional "person."

In forming my character, I attempt to combine personal experiences and knowledge of human personality and history of fears and beliefs into a new character who will have a unique view of the world that will not be my own. After a first encounter with a character in my imagination, I spend the next several days talking to my creation. In the particular short story mentioned, the character grew into a warm soul who had been hurt from growing up in a bed of poverty, abandonment and neglect. Her hope was a blend of her inborn optimism and the difficult circumstances in which she found herself. I saw clues in her dress, attitudes and posture that led me to believe she was a story waiting to happen. Is this creation the checkout clerk? Definitely not. I captured her traits and gestures, and the character I created became special, and as I wrote the story, I added qualities from my imagination. She lived and died in places in which I have never been. As a young girl, she had a relationship with a boy who possessed some of my own qualities and experiences, but was not me. Her strength led to an uplifting conclusion in which their child was able to overcome the problems created by her parents. The child of the protagonist, whose existence began late in my planned plot, was gifted with the special strengths of her parents that emerged as the story progressed.

To write about special characters, begin by studying people. Begin with yourself. External descriptions can contribute to the forward progress of a story if you use them in a way that changes the manner in which the world will relate to them. A character is composed of appearance as well as actions and beliefs. Characters take on a life of their own and interact with other characters as well as with the environment. External characteristics affect the way the character perceives herself and how others perceive her, but they can be introduced in context. For example, instead of telling the reader that the hero has penetrating, blue eyes, show the reader how the opponent is affected by the hero's penetrating, blue eyes. See the difference? The eyes are introduced only when they are having an effect upon the story.

Using description of characteristics in the context of the action can make a major difference in the effect upon the reader. You need to look at a story as an interactive experience. There is interaction between characters, between characters and the environment and between the characters and the reader. If you can enhance your self-awareness so that you know what motivates you to act, think and feel, as well as what prevents you from moving in a given situation, you will be able to invest the same qualities in your characters.

Life isn't random. Every action, every nuance of behavior, every tonal change in speech affects everything that will follow.

Look at a fictional character as you would a biography of a real person except you are developing the biography of someone who might have existed, or might someday exist. The best biographies capture the essence of the subject as well as her unique words and deeds. So, too, must fiction create and capture those same qualities that make a biography riveting.

When you meet a new character, sit down with her. Listen to the way she speaks and watch how she moves. What flatters her? Does she have idiosyncrasies that make her more real? What happened in her life that affects her views of the world? How old is she compared to her chronological age? Has her life experience affected the way she aged? Like trees, that gain rings annually, and whose rings can tell you what kind of a year they enjoyed or endured, people and characters acquire their rings from their experiences as well as genetically.

Look at your character as a human landscape and discover every detail of her being and existence. Does she move her mouth differently because of her regional accent? You don't need to share all of the details with the reader, but through details you choose to share, the reader will come to know this character almost as well as you do. The real fun about creating a character comes long before you write about her.. By the time you develop your plot and begin writing, your character should control some of the directions she will take. In another of my short stories, a man at a buffet table asks a woman he had never seen, "Where do you put all that food?" Her
answer, which I never planned, or had even heard before the moment it appeared on the computer screen was, "I have a hollow soul." The comment obviously derived from the line, “I have a hollow leg,” however, this character was not a cliche, she was a unique though scarred individual. Her answer was at the same time, funny and poignant. It is what she would have said, not what I would have said. She was so real at that moment, that she took over and said what she felt. That single line of dialogue altered the course of the story and dictated what the character was able to do and not do. The ending I had planned had to be discarded. The new ending was preordained by those five words of unplanned dialogue.

To sum up, how do you create live characters to replace the cardboard cutouts which fill too many stories?

1. Study yourself. Question your motivation for everything. When you understand what forces interfere with people all following the same course of action, you will understand motivation.

2. Become a human camera with sound and in color. Record the nuances of action and
expression in others. Listen to the sounds of their speech. Try to deduce who they could be. Is that harried man across from you planning to murder his wife tonight? Why isn't he meeting your eyes? Do not just see a street person. Instead, as he shuffles past you, smell the ripe aroma of his un-bathed body. Feel your own emotional shifts as he approaches you aggressively.

3. Each day, reality provides us with the potential for a multitude of characters, however, your experiences and imagination must take them over the edge. They become yours when you allow their stories to emerge so that you know them before you start writing. Hang out with them for a while. Let them tell you about themselves.

4. Allow the characters to guide their own destinies according to their capabilities. In comic books, Casper Milquetoast can become Captain Marvel. In real life, ordinary people must become ordinary heroes.

5. A great character is reusable. Change the locale and you may have a series. Publishers love series. If you aren't writing to share your characters and stories with the world, you are writing a personal journal -- no matter what you call it.

Create characters that you find interesting. Love them or hate them, argue with them,
or seduce them, but you will not be able to dismiss them until their story is told. If you feel attached to them in some significant way, so might your reader. A cardboard cutout with external descriptions can't carry a story. A character with quirks, flaws, and inner conflicts can take a story to a higher level for the reader, who is, after all the person for whom we write.

Writing Triggered by Photography

2005-01-29T13:59:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking . . . is it possible that the pictures people take define important qualities in them? I wonder if, for instance, people who photograph only things -- whether animal, vegetable or mineral -- are people-phobic? Or, conversely, do people who photograph only people have some need to connect and can do so only through the lens of a camera?

In my long career as a psychotherapist, I have tried to avoid stereotyping people. Sometimes, the kid drawing with the black crayon is doing so because it was the only color left in the box or perhaps he is colorblind. However, sometimes it is also true that the representations we take from the world are driven by some deeper force within us and our choices are shawowed by our inner needs.

For me, photography, like writing, is a window into my creative process. I take pictures of people, places and things that interest me. The interest is momentary and forgotten when I move on to the next shutter-blink. Later, when I download the pictures, some of them trigger a deeper process and this is where it cross-fertilizies my writing. It may be the look in the eye of the stranger whose picture I took. It may be the juxtaposition of incongruent elements that I didn't notice when I took the shot. Also, for me, enlarging an image and fixing it in space allows me to see elements that my poor vision doesn't allow. On top of the other insults of aging, I am becoming quite nearsighted -- not enough so that I can't drive or spot an obstacle in my path, albeit, the smaller obstacles are shifting into a blurry haze. Once an idea emerges from the photograph, I am usually able to write something thast I otherwise wouldn't have written.

Last year, I took up photography as something to do with my time. I was forced into retirement by a collapsed knee, and after a long career working on the cusp of danger I found myself adrift. My photographing began with pictures of my son's and granddaughter's band. For a while, that seemed to satisfy my need but I was a redundancy at their shows and I knew it. I began photographing whatever crossed my range of vision and suddenly, the pictures began triggering observations beyond their content. I began writing from a creative flow that has been dormant in me for over a decade.

A photograph is often a moment seen and captured with intent. If I lived in NYC, I would want to find a way to focus a camera on a fixed point on a busy street and take a picture every forty-five seconds. In jest, I could assert that most of the people in the world would sooner or later be photographed passing that point. That cocept os a takeoff on an egocentric New York saying, "If you stand at the intersection of Broadway and Forty-Second Street long enough, you will meet everyone in the world."

When I communicate with friends, I often plant the seeds of my writing in a letter or e-mail. That is how I discovered the takeoff point for today's essay. I was commenting on the process of taking pictures and the idea struck me that people can be defined in part by the pictures they take. When I wrote for publication, my best work often began as snippets in letters or e-mails to friends and then was expanded into stories, essays . . . whatever might flow after the initial jolt.

Now, I live in the realm of self-discovery. Perhaps it is because I have nothing else to do. Perhaps it is because if I don't write at least a few words each day I will suffer the kind of 'petitte morte' that disempowers me.

This stream of abstract thinking began when I decided I needed change in my life. It focused when I decided that I had to leave my present environs and move to someplace new and captivating. What I am doing metaphorically is saving my life. When I existed in the working world, a home was simply a convenient place from which to go to work and earlier, to send the kids to school. Now it can be either my prison or my launchpad. Most of the people who were most important in my life are now but memories and old pictures. My son is out in the world -- a touring musician. My wife is enmeshed in the latter stages of her career. I am adrift. I found a place where I can come alive with the rhythms of a music I have, thus far in my life, heard only in my soul.

I don't know where my wanderings will take me. Last year I decided that I would see the world and spent a nice piece of time in Rio/Copacabana. My adventures there might be worthy of a few good stories. I have yet to write them. In the spring, I am going to Paris. That is returnming to an old dream in a new format. I love Paris for its charm and history and beauty. At the same time I hate it for its bigotry and xenophobia. But I am drawn back as if by a magnet. I am 200 years too late to see the tumbrills rolling from the Bastille to the Guillotine but I fancy myself in the role of D'Artanian . . . or perhaps Robespierre!

In the end, what do we really have but dreams and wishes. Reality is repetitive actions meant to put food on the table. Once you no longer have to work to do so, life is open space that might be filled with dreams and wishes and give some satisfaction before they turn out the lights.

I live to write. I write to communicate. Words, words, words . . .

Just Another Bridge to Cross

2005-01-28T13:44:00.000-08:00

Writer Writing about Writing

Forenote:

I love a good story. I've both attempted to write them as well as teaching others some of the tricks and traps of writing fiction. One of the beliefs I have about fiction is that there is more truth in fiction than in nonfiction. Nonfiction is more factual but fiction can present unvarnished truthes because you are not standing behind them. The characters are not "real" in the sense that you can take them to court for their words or actions. Thus, the writer may be willing to speak his real mind through a non-real entity called a character.

A claim that I make for my fiction is: Every word you read here will be true; nothing that you read will have happened. Fiction shifts the setting and the names of the characters living and dead from one time to another -- from one place to another. Something the character feels in New York in 1966 may be something the writer felt in Columbus, Ohio in 2002. A professed love for Bob by Jane may be a recall of something that happened to the writer many years earlier -- or just yesterday.

Allow me to share one of my favorites with you. The specific setting never existed. I've never met any of the major characters in the story. But hidden within the context of the story are truthes I have known. Hopefully they are well enough concealed that the reader will not waste time with conjecture and just enjoy the tale.

************************************************************************************

JUST ANOTHER BRIDGE TO CROSS
by Milton Trachtenburg
copyright 1997,1998
Published in EWG Magazine, 1998

The morning smog permeating the Los Angeles Basin seemed to Erin to fill her dorm room as she reluctantly opened her eyes. Her first view of the world on this particular morning was already clouded by the decision she had made the previous evening. She badly needed to talk to her mother - her mother from whom Erin was increasingly distancing herself - a situation she needed to remedy.
Erin lay still, her nightshirt sticking to her body, an uncomfortable testimony to her roommate's distaste for air conditioning. The soft snores and pungent alcohol smell emanating from the bed across the room advertised Jennifer's presence. Jennifer always slept nude and uncovered. Erin knew it shouldn't bother her - she'd seen naked female bodies before - but somehow her sense of propriety was offended by Jennifer's complete lack of modesty.

"What if someone comes in the room?" Erin would ask her.

"What if they do? It's just a body, not an invitation to dance."
Just a body, thought Erin, returning to the present. She contemplated her conception of her own body. From the time of her earliest memories, she was aware that her body was something that attracted boys - and repelled her.

"Oh, mom!" she said, "What am I going to do?" Erin visualized her mother, and heard her soft voice singing or telling another of her fabulous tales that made Erin's childhood such a delight - at least until . . . Erin blocked the thought from her mind. Returning to a more recent image of her mother, a startlingly handsome woman, with broad, regular features, and a hint of sadness in her eyes - a sadness that never seemed to leave her.

"Why did I push you out of my life?" Erin asked herself aloud.

"Hmm?" said Jennifer, drifting slowly out of her alcohol-induced fog. "Why'd you what? Somebody here?" she added, making no attempt to cover herself.

"I'm just having a discussion with my mother," answered Erin. Rolling over on her bed, she turned her back to Jennifer so she wouldn't have to look at Jennifer's perfect body, and so Jennifer wouldn't be able to see the expression on her face.

"I thought you and your mom weren't on speaking terms?"

"I'm the one who's not on speaking terms. She's always been there for me." Erin shuddered.

"Ow, that hurts!" Jennifer said as she struggled to stand up. She swayed unsteadily. "Guess I had too many last night."

"Men or drinks?"

"Ooh! Ain't we the catty one this morning? Maybe your problem is just the opposite, huh? Ow! It hurts just to talk."

"Well, I'll save you the trouble. Your next line is: `I'm gonna take a hot shower and steam it out of me.' Then I think, but never say: `What? The men or the booze?' There, I've said it."

Jennifer picked up her pillow, and, held it in front of her like a shield. She faced Erin, shivering. "That wasn't fair. If something's eating you, don't take it out on me."

"Maybe you're what's eating me. Maybe I can't stand seeing you stumbling in here at four in the morning smelling like a cross between a brewery and a . . ."

"May as well say the rest. You don't seem to be holding anything back this morning." Tears welled in Jennifer's eyes.

"Whorehouse," muttered Erin.

"Who the hell are you to judge me? Who gave you the right?"

"I'm not . . ."

"You're not? Well, what would you call it?"

Erin burst into tears. "You wouldn't understand."

"What I understand is that the roomie I thought I knew just called me a drunken whore and I'm so damn hung over, I can't even argue back, that's what I understand." Jennifer rotated her head, her face a mask of pain. "I gotta take a hot shower. We can argue about this later."

"I don't want to argue with you, Jen."

"Well, you sure had me fooled there!" Jennifer turned, threw the pillow over her shoulder onto the bed, and stumbled toward the bathroom.
Erin heard the water drumming against the shower curtain and muffled sounds that may have been Jennifer sobbing. She sat on her bed, rocking for a few moments, her sweaty hair matted against her face, then quickly removed her nightshirt and put on jeans and a pullover.

"You going somewhere?" Jennifer stood in the bathroom doorway, dripping water onto the bare floor.

"What do you mean?" said Erin.

"You're already dressed and didn't even take time to wash up." Jennifer, hands clenched angrily, looked at Erin, who seemed engrossed with something on the floor. "What's the matter, am I so ugly you can't even look at me?"

"You're not ugly, you're beauti . . ." Erin swallowed the end of the word.

"Yeah, sure. Look, maybe we both got up on the wrong side of the tracks this morning. Let's start over, okay?"

Erin mumbled something that sounded like assent.

"Morning, roomie! How're you today?"

Erin laughed despite herself.

Jennifer dressed quickly in a man's tee-shirt, loose-fitting overalls, and a pair of worn docksiders. For the first time, Erin observed the image Jennifer's clothes created. "It's as if she doesn't want to be noticed," thought Erin.

"I have to get to class," said Jennifer. "You going?"

"No, I'm leaving early. I want to go home for the weekend and it's a long ride."

"You okay?"

"Yes, no, I don't . . ."

"Hey, if you need to talk - even if I am just some stupid, drunken slut, you know."

"I don't think . . ."

"Yeah, sometimes that is your problem, sweetface."

"I'm sorry I . . ."

"Yeah, well, maybe right now, I can't hear that. You go. Have a safe trip, hear?"
Jennifer gathered her books, opened the door, looked back for a moment, but said nothing. After she left, Erin could smell the mixture of soap, deodorant, something she couldn't identify - but pleasant, and stale booze. She had always believed that Jennifer was easy to read - like the trashy romance novels she left half-finished on every chair and nightstand in the room.

Erin, without thought, threw her clothes into her worn duffel bag. She scratched her head with her index finger, a long-standing habit when she was troubled. As a child, she used to twirl a lock of her hair until it was so tangled that she couldn't extricate her finger and screamed in pain when her mother did it for her. She zipped the duffel, tossed it over her shoulder, and left the room, remembering as always to lock the door - even though there was nothing anyone would want to steal.

The trip from Los Angeles to Tiburon would take the better part of the day, so she wanted to make certain that she caught the early bus to San Francisco. She thought about calling her mother so she could be met at the bus station, but when she considered their previous meetings, she decided to simply show up on the doorstep, like a poor lost soul. Maybe I'll get the sympathy vote that way. Erin smiled, despite her mood.

Just what I needed! Erin thought, contemplating the quarter of a seat left her after gravity gave impetus to the expansion of the overweight woman who insinuated herself into the seat next to her.

"You a student?"

"Shit, now she's going to want to talk, too!" thought Erin.
"Yes, I am," she said, hoping she could politely reject the woman.

"UCLA?"

"Yes, UCLA."

"My daughter goes there, too. She's the first in the family ever went to college. We're so proud of her."

Erin turned to look out the window as the bus negotiated the ramp and merged into the northbound traffic on the freeway. Erin watched the drivers jockeying for position on a road which was so jammed that it looked like a six-lane parking lot. It's like my life, she thought. No matter which lane I take, it's going nowhere. Erin squirmed, trying to negotiate an extra inch of seat room.

"What year are you in, dear?"

"I'm a freshman."

"My daughter's a junior. I guess you wouldn't know her." The woman mentioned her daughter's name which Erin quickly forgot.

"No, I'm afraid I wouldn't. It's a big school and I barely know the people in my dorm unit."

"Sometimes, I worry about her. She seems so different from when she lived at home. Maybe it's the pressure of living alone."

Erin looked at the woman for the first time. She had a pained expression and kind eyes. Erin smiled at her.

"I hope I'm not bothering you. I thought - maybe - since you're a student, too, maybe you could help me understand her better."

"I'm not sure I'd be much help to anybody. I'm having a hard time just trying to figure out who I am and what I want."

"It's different for a girl nowadays, I guess. When I finished high school, I was supposed to get a job 'til I found somebody and then get married. At least it was supposed to be that simple. . . .

"Sometimes, I think I'd be happier if somebody else would make all my decisions for me. I feel like there's no rules at all anymore.

"My daughter's pregnant," continued the woman, her voice betraying no emotion, but tears welling in her eyes. "What am I to do?"

Erin felt her anger rising. She recalled her mother using almost the same words to her. She answered the woman, "It's going to be all right."

"Thank you. I needed to hear that." The woman wiped her eyes and nose with a tissue and began picking at the tissue, rolling the remnants into little balls.

"If you need to talk about it, I don't mind."

"I don't know where we went wrong. We raised her to have good morals. We taught her right from wrong. She's so beautiful. Maybe that's the problem. The boys were always chasing her. I'd tell her to be careful, and not listen to them, but. . ." She wiped her eyes with the remnants of the tissue. Erin saw the fragments of tissue clinging to the woman's face. "And her father was no help at all. He'd just tease her and tell her how sexy she was. He gave me the same line when we were going together, except I wasn't his daughter!"

Erin thought about her own life. It was always just her mother and herself. Every once in a while, her mother would go out on a date, or even bring a man home for a night, but in the end, it was just the two of them. The woman was now silent, and Erin stared out the window.

What's wrong with me? thought Erin. What's wrong with everybody? she continued, thinking about Jennifer's strange behavior and of the daughter of the woman sitting next to her.

Erin, lost in her thoughts, barely noticed when the woman got off the bus at Oxnard. She was left alone for several stops.

"This seat taken?"

Erin looked up. The voice belonged to a typical male, California beach type - tanned, blond, vapid eyes. "No," Erin said, tension escalating her already high-pitched voice. Nervously, she combed her hair with her fingers while he eased himself into the seat. She could feel every point of contact between them on the narrow seat.

"Brad."

"What?"

"The name's Brad, what's yours?"

"Erin."

"You a student somewhere?"

Erin laughed.

"Did I say something wrong?" asked Brad.

"No, it's just that I had this same conversation a hundred miles ago."

"You mean, I'm the second Brad sitting in this seat today?"

"No." Erin couldn't stop laughing. "It's just that I seem to be attracting strangers today, that's all."

"Maybe it's because you have an interesting face."

"Yeah, interesting." said Erin. She squirmed, trying to move away from Brad.

"Hey! I didn't mean anything bad by it. You're really nice looking. I just meant . . ."

"It doesn't matter, anyway. You're just a stranger on a bus."

Brad sat in silence. When Erin looked at him, he appeared hurt. I can't figure anybody out today, she thought.

The rest of the trip passed without further event. Brad got off the bus without a word to her, and she was alone for the remainder of the trip. It was late afternoon when the bus arrived at it's terminus in San Francisco. Erin felt the warmth of the late afternoon breeze and stared at all the familiar sights as if seeing them for the first time. It had been only two months since she left home to begin college, yet she felt she was a stranger.

The bus ride to Tiburon was a jolting, smelly experience as the bus inched across the traffic-jammed bridge. Erin preferred the view of the mist-covered Golden Gate Bridge from the shore. Viewed from the center, in crawling traffic, it was just another bridge to cross.

The 2-block, uphill walk from the bus to their little cottage on a tree-lined street seemed the longest five minutes in Erin's life. She wanted to turn and run, but realized there was no place left to run. Her mother told her when she was a child that Tiburon was a magic kingdom which appeared one morning out of the fog and was made up of the dreams of all the people who lived in San Francisco. Even after she stopped believing in Santa Claus and the Easter bunny, Erin believed there was a magic quality to Tiburon. Even the sweaty workers, in their now-disheveled, wrinkled suits, trudging home, tired from the day's work, could not dispel the magic.

The first thing that always struck her when she entered her house was its coolness. She almost called out, "Mom, I'm home," the way she did when she was growing up. Entering the kitchen, she almost expected to see a glass of cold milk and smell a fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie waiting on the kitchen table.
Her mother wasn't there, and Erin felt a sense of disappointment even though her mother didn't know she was coming. Mom should have known, thought Erin, smiling at her own irrationality.

"Mom?" she called, tentatively, hearing only the echo of her own voice in return.

Erin walked to the rear of the house into her bedroom. Her room appeared to be just as she'd left it, except it didn't feel like her special place any longer. The softness, the treasures, the muted colors stood in stark contrast to the spartan dorm room she shared with a drunken stranger. A few words of a poem from her childhood came to mind, The little toy soldier was covered with rust - or was it dust? She let herself fall across her bed; she bounced several times before she came to rest, her legs hanging over the side, and she thought of the thousands of times she had come into this room and fallen across the bed. She sank her face into the softness of the down quilt cover, for a moment allowing herself to drift into a peaceful reverie. She pictured herself as a small child, on the day her mother made her close her eyes before she went into her room. "A new bed! A real bed!" she squealed with delight. It was so huge she could barely climb up onto it and was afraid if she fell off, she would die from the fall. She recalled many the time that her mother would sit or lie with her in this bed captivating her with fantastic stories of fairies, princes, rogues and wizards. She could hear her mother's lilting voice which she rode like a surfer on a big wave.

The metallic sound of the opening front door interrupted Erin's thoughts. "Mom, is that you?"

"Erin?"

"Anybody else call you mom?" Erin felt tense. Why'd I have to be a wiseass? she thought.

Shauna Moran stood quietly in the doorway of her daughter's room. "Do I need my suit of armor, or are we going to have a quiet time tonight?"

Erin turned over and stared up at her mother. There was no hint of anger in her face or voice. She seemed rather at peace. For the first time, Erin became aware of how youthful her mother seemed. Before she left for school, she had always looked like `mother.' Now, she appeared to be a woman in her late twenties - and a very attractive one at that.

"Something's wrong."

"What gives you that idea?" Erin snapped, defensively. "I already know the answer - because you're my mother." Erin thought, I seem to be talking for everybody today.

Shauna meticulously picked traces of clay from her fingers. "I know there's something wrong because you're here."

Erin rolled over and lay face down. She began twirling a lock of her hair with her finger. She could feel it tightening around her finger but kept twirling. "Damn! Shit!"

"Want to talk about it?"

"I can't get my finger untwisted from my hair!" Erin whined.

"Here, let me." Shauna gently manipulated Erin's soft, dark hair and continued holding her hand after she had disentangled her finger. Erin lay still, unresisting. She recalled how her mother's hands were always both gentle and strong, befitting a potter, and remembered how much she had come to rely on both qualities.

"Mom?"

Shauna sat silently.

"Why can't we talk anymore?"

"Why can't we talk anymore?" echoed Shauna. "Perhaps, there's nothing for us to say."

"Why am I so angry all the time?"

Shauna rubbed Erin's back gently, the way she did when Erin was a child.

At first, Erin stiffened as Shauna rubbed her back, but soon relaxed, feeling like a small child, safe with her mother, ready to hear another wondrous tale.

"Y'know, darlin'," Shauna began, assuming a melodious highland lilt in her voice, this reminds me of the story of a beautiful, young princess. It all happened a long time ago in a far-off land. The princess was bright, considered fair of face and graceful of limb, and was prized by some of the noblest knights in the land. But, our princess had only a warped mirror with which to see her own self and didn't believe the compliments bestowed upon her. She heard only her own voice and in the end, she gave herself to the lowest knave in the kingdom."

"You're talking about me, aren't you?"

"Now just be patient, and hear the rest of the story before you go off half-cocked, drawing your own conclusions. There's more."

"I'm sorry." Erin could feel a sense of wonderment building within her. It was as if she was a small child, sitting silent, in awe, her disbelief suspended. Erin rolled over and looked at her mother.

"Now where was I? Yes. The princess knew from the first that she had made a bad choice. The knave prized nought about her, but she remained with him, for she prized nought about herself. As fickle nature would have it, soon she found herself with child. Her father, the king, was, in most respects, a good and wise man, but when it came to his daughter, the princess, he was stubborn and intolerant. `Out of my house,' he said. `There'll be no bringing somebody's bastard child to my door. Let him who bedded the cow take care of the calf.'

"The princess was alone and afraid. When she needed help, she was spurned by her father, the only person in her life who could help her. Her mother had died many years before, so long before, that she was only a wisp of a memory to the princess."

"I don't understand where this is. . ."

"Shhh, let me finish."

"So, she had her child. Alone she was, and alone she stayed, raising her child the best she knew how and making something of her life. After some time, she came to learn that she was more than she allowed herself to see. She raised her daughter to be strong and independent, not needing anybody, not even her mother. Perhaps she should have kept her daughter closer to her, but in the end, the daughter was able to go off and make her own life." Shauna paused.

"You're talking about . . .," began Erin.

"Now don't be impatient. I'm nearin' the end of the story." Shauna took Erin's hands in hers and held them tightly. Erin remained still, hardly breathing. "As I was saying, the princess feared for her daughter, so she raised her to be both cautious and independent. She taught her self-reliance. Perhaps she should have praised her more and nurtured her more, but she gave what she had to give and didn't know different. And, the daughter grew up to be bright and beautiful, but the princess had to accept that she would never be close to her mother. And, that's the end of the story."

"Maybe not," said Erin.

"Oh, so now you're going to be writing the stories for me?"

"Mom? Why can't we just talk? Why do you have to turn everything into a story?"

"You don't like my stories anymore?" asked Shauna.

"Mom, talk to me, before it's too late."

Erin and Shauna stared at each other and for the first time in too long, made eye contact. Shauna started to get up. "Don't run away from me, please. I need you."

Shauna sat down again, appearing discomfited. She stared at her hands and began picking off tiny spots of clay. "I don't know how to say it to you."

"Say what, mom?"

"That I love you more than heaven and earth."

"You just said it. Maybe I need to hear it as much as you need to say it." Each struggled to hold back tears.

Erin thought about the reasons she first became alienated from her mother. She remembered that she was fifteen -- fifteen and curious about life. . . and love. She'd invited Timmy Lake over after school -- Timmy who had been flirting with her all year -- and he'd told her how much he loved her. Erin needed desperately to hear that. One thing led to the inevitable and just as they melted together like butter on hot toast, Shauna came storming into the room. Erin never stopped hearing the recriminations which often replayed themselves in her memory. After that day, the stories stopped, the conversations between Erin and Shauna were reduced to the absolute necessities, and they treated each other warily, as if one wrong word would destroy the tenuous fabric of their relationship.

"You have dinner yet?" asked Shauna.

"No, and you didn't leave me a snack, either."

"Well, there might just be a cookie or two in the pantry. Let's go see, shall we?"

Erin followed Shauna into the cozy kitchen - a room full of mostly pleasant memories. The counters were filled with Shauna's creations - clay pots and vases - all in glorious earth tones. Erin knew that this weekend would be a new memory to add to her collection. Perhaps she would begin to understand all her confused feelings. In any case, her problems seemed less important and more remote than they had only hours earlier. She knew two things. One, she would talk to her mother about them, and, two, her mother really wouldn't have any answers for her.

Hwever, right at that moment, what she needed more than anything else was to do some serious cookie munching. She'd cross the other bridges when she came to them.

2005-01-27T19:30:00.000-08:00

Buddies

Forenotes:

The following short story is about people I never met and in the kind of life I have led, I would be unlikely to become intimate with people like these -- not because I am some kind of effete snob but simply because I don't get to meet too many real people except as a therapist. The details of their lives appeared to me as I wrote and they seemed to fit the characters. Any resemblance to people living or dead is certainly intentional but if you see yourself in the characters, don't try to sue me because I have taken deniability to a high art form.

For those of you readers with delicate sensibilities, the people in this story use language that you may find offensive. Don't say I didn't warn you. My own son read it years ago as a teenager and enjoyed meeting people unlike himself. It didn't wreak havoc upon his morality. Then again, perhaps it did . . . kid not only grew up to become a touring rock star but he brought his daughter into the business too. You should hear what she is exposed to in the clubs. It hasn't hurt her either.

The story comes from a one-act play that consists mostly of complex monologues but the story condenses all the action to a single speech that takes the protagonist through emotional hurdles and to a denouement that is both unexpected and taps into a reality that is from an earlier time which is now being relived as part of the political reality of the current US presidential election. It was the Kerry/Bush diatribe over Vietnam than made me think about this dusty portrait that I haven't looked at in a number of years.

Buddies
a short story by
Milton Trachtenburg
rewritten as an excerpt from the one-act play, "Attachments"
Published in EWG Magazine
as "Buddies"
Works by Milton Trachtenburg
Copyright 1988, 1998

Hey, you think it's ok t' talk to somebody even if they're not there? Well, Mike's my best buddy in the whole fuckin' world, an' even though he ain't around, I still like to talk to him sometimes. Makes the time go by, y'know? Yeah, an even if I do sit around an' talk to my old pal, it ain't like I'm the President of the United States, or somebody who people would worry if he was talkin' to himself. I'm just me, Lenny. An' it's ok for me. Sometimes, I just gotta talk to Mike, cause who the hell else is gonna listen to a nobody like me?

Yo, Mike! Sometimes, I think it's all one big fuckin' joke, y'know? Y' spend your whole life schemin' and dreamin', an' then, just when y' think that y' got it made in the shade, along comes the fuckin' joker and turns it right around in your face, y' know?

I didn't ask for much, did I? A lousy job, a place t' live, enough dough t' have just a few of the good things, y' know? What the fuck did I ever ask for? A color tv, a little patch of grass, to go out to a restaurant on Saturday night? Worked like a fuckin' dog - I really did.

Oh, man, I'm not sayin' I was always right. I made plenty of mistakes. Maybe I should'a stayed in school some more. Maybe I shouldn'ta got married so young. But, what's done is done, right? Maybe it's all just one big fuckin' crock-a-shit an' it don't matter what you do, you're just gonna fall in and drown.

I remember when we was kids, Mikey. Hey wasn't that some good times we had, huh, man? You had your old man's Pon-ti-ac Le-Mans. Man, that was some fast, low-slung, motherfucker, wasn't it? We'd go out and fuck around. Always thinkin' we'd pick up some hot chicks. Remember? Most of the time, all we'd pick up is callouses on our asses sittin' in the fuckin' car all night. But we'd talk about all the great damn things we was gonna do. Yeah, Lennie an' Mike was gonna beat the whole fuckin' world!

Hey, Michael, my man, you done ok for yourself, didn't you? Y' got a nice wife, nice car. House in the fuckin' burbs. Yeah old buddy, at least one of us made it to the top.

What's funny, is that I was the one everybody said was gonna make it big 'cause I was the one with the mouth. Yeah, remember, when we'd go out to pick up girls, I'd always have to be the one to ask? Sure, sure, I got turned down most of the time, but d' ya remember that one time down on Post Street, that gorgeous little blond -- ok, bleach blond, but blond on top anyway. After just a little of the famous Lenny persuasion she gets in the car and settles down right between us, remember? An' you're sittin' there with a shit-eatin' grin on your face, and me, I'm doin' my best Cary Grant imitation.

"Hi, there, baby," I say, "Now how can the two best lookin', smartest dressed, an' laid back dudes in town be of service to you?" She looks from me to you, and from you to me. Then she starts to giggle an' then she starts to laugh an' then you start to laugh an' then I start to laugh.

Yeah, some laugh, wasn't it? Twenny years and three kids later, we don't laugh so much any more, do we? She gets fat an' I get bald. Well, Mike, I guess it beats the other way round, huh?

Y' know, it's a damn shame we didn't stick close. We really was asshole buddies when we was kids. We didn't have no secrets from each other then. I remember the time you got your first piece-of-ass and you told me how you'd blown your wad all over yourself, you was so scared. An' I told you how the first time I was with a girl nothin' happened at all. Fuckin' nothin'! Damn, there wasn't anything we couldn't talk about. I miss those times, Mike, I really miss them.

Where'd all the dreams go, Mike? Where'd they go? That night, maybe if we'd turned up Post Street instead of down, everything would've been different. Maybe I'd'a never met Frannie. Maybe I'd'a gone to 'Nam instead of you. My luck, I would'da got my fuckin' ass blowed off. Damn, I fell for Frannie like a ton o' bricks, didn't I? I remember just what you said; "Watch out for a girl who's gigglin' all the time. Nothin' in this world is that fuckin' funny!" Man, did I listen to you? No way, Mike. Didn't I think I knew every fuckin' thing then? Yeah, I had all the answers, didn't I?

"No!" I say. "You got it all wrong. She's laughin' so much because she's asshole over elbows in love with me." So in love with me? Man, that died awful quick. After she said "I do," she didn't do much of nothin'.

I guess you wonder why I stuck with her all this time. Hell, what else did I have? I never thought that I was no prize package, but I'd never admit that to her. Hell, except for you, I'd never admit that to fuckin' nobody, and before now, I'd never even admit it to you. It's too late for you to use it against me, huh? I'm just kiddin' you Mike. I know you'd never do that. We been fuckin' closer than blood brothers.

Mike, there's somethin' else I never told you. I was always jealous of you. You always had that quiet way about you. Me, I always had to be shootin' off my mouth, always provin' somethin' to somebody. You'd just stand there, quiet, with that look on your face. You know the one. Like, I know somethin' you don't know, and I'm gonna' get you with it!

Life's funny. Both of us figure to just bum around after we graduated. I wanted to go to California. You wanted to go work on a ship. Kinda funny how things worked out. I ain't never been west of Pittsburgh in my life and three months after we fuckin' graduate, you're in Nam, and I'm married to Frannie, with her already havin' Lennie, Jr. in the oven.

We was never quite the same, none of us. You came back from Nam, I was different, you was different. I was workin' in the factory already, same as now, except now, I'm a big fuckin' deal foreman, right? You was really different, Mike. I hardly knew you. You looked older and even more laid back, know what I mean? I guess the war changed you in a lotta ways. Maybe it changed me, too. Maybe because you went and I didn't, that made the difference. What do you think?

That was some grand entrance you made when you came home from Nam, remember? Me 'n' Frannie and the kids sittin' down, havin' supper. The place a real fuckin' mess, and in walks the big hero with his fuckin' medals and his marine dress blues. God damn, what a sight! Y' know? I never cried my whole fuckin' life before, but I felt like cryin' then. I really did. I was so fuckin' happy to see you, man.

So, what did I do? I was real cool, wasn't I? I say, "Somethin' I can do for you, soldier?'" An you just looked at me for the longest time. I wanted to just jump up and hug you, but men didn't do that kinda stuff back then.

An' then Frannie starts with her chatterin'. "Oh, Michael, you look so handsome in your uniform. Welcome home. Can I fix you somethin' to eat? Oh, that's silly, I already fixed supper. I made meatloaf. It's my mom's recipe. Here, I'll make a place for you." Man, I thought she'd talk all night and not say fuckin' nothin'.

Then, you looked at me an' I look at you, an' for just one little minute, everything was the same as before. Then you start laughin', an' I start laughin', an' Frannie starts laughin' an' for the first time in three years, I'm feelin' good, really good! After supper, I asked you if you wanted to go hang out, and you said, "It don't make sense anymore." I say, "Just for old times sake?" An' you said, "Len, things are different, I'm different, the world's different." "No," I say, "things are the same as before. You need time to get used to bein' home."

It really was never the same after that. You'd come over the house sometimes. We really didn't have as much to say. I'd ask you about the war an' you'd just look away or change the subject. Sometimes, I'd get this feelin' that you had somethin' you wanted to say, but there was no words invented which would say it, y' know what I mean?

You said you was gonna use your G.I. Bill money an' go to college. Holy shit, man, college! You know, I never expected that from you. You never really seemed to give a damn about school. You always seemed to be the kinda guy who could make a buck and didn't want to fill your head with all that college bullshit. Maybe there are some things nobody can really tell about people.

Frannie, she got all excited when you said you was goin'. I got real pissed off and said, "If you want a fuckin' college boy that fuckin' bad, maybe you oughtta go hang out on Post Street an' get yourself one!" She got that lost puppy look. I can't talk to her when she looks like that. Man, sometimes I can't talk to nobody.

I'm sorry, Mike. I don't mean to make it sound so bad. I guess you got to count your blessings, huh? I got the kids, an' they're ok. Shit, most of the time, Frannie is ok, too. It's just she can be such a pain in the ass. Hey, who'm I kiddin'? I ain't no prize package, either . . . .

Soon after, you go off to school in New York, an' promise you would visit an' told us to visit you, but, it never happens. You call once in a while, but we don't have much to say. I don't understand all that college shit, and you are really turned off by the old town.

Hey, buddy, I kept up with all the good things you done. I heard about you goin' to law school - LAW SCHOOL, Jeesus!

My fuckin' life goes by, but I guess we did ok. Then I read about you in the papers, workin' with all them big shots. An' I tell everybody, "I knew him when. I knew him fuckin' when!"

Then that Sunday, I see it in the paper - what you done. I don't understand, Mike. Why? Wasn't it enough? You had it all. At least everything we always said we wanted. God, Mike, why? Why? I say to Frannie, "You hear about Mike, you hear what he went and done to himself?" She just looks at me with that little lost puppy look she gets and says nothin', just like you done that time I ask you about the war. What is it? What the fuck did I miss? Help me, Mike! Help me.

Valerie Mallory

2005-01-26T13:52:00.000-08:00

Valerie Mallory
by
Milton Trachtenburg
copyright 1997

Valerie tossed fitfully, unable to sleep. Again. Her body felt alien. She missed Jaime, no, more than that, it was as if a part of herself was missing. She felt him close to her, part of her, and stroked her body, recalling her heightened feelings when he touched her.

"No," she cried, shocked at hearing herself speak aloud. The thought of her mother sleeping in the next room, only a thin wall away, silenced her. After thirty years of living with mother -- the word mother a silent curse -- she still felt ashamed of her body, her actions, even her thoughts.

A couple of cold ones would take away the feelings, she thought, and could almost taste an icy brew. She wanted to touch herself and feel the pleasure of her fantasies, but the thought of her mother, her all-seeing mother, sleeping in the next room dampened her passions.

"Worthless, rotten, no-good," echoed in her mind. How often had her mother, raging against her own shortcomings, pilloried Valerie with her vicious, condemning words? "I'm not, I'm not whu-whu-worthless," she would try to respond, with no success. She raged. I'm . . . Oh, God! I don't know what I am anymore. She stared dully at the ceiling.

Valerie pushed the covers back and sat on the edge of her bed. She felt goosebumps forming on her arms and a chill along her back, despite the debilitating heat and humidity of a New York summer morning. She ran her hands through her hair, brushing it back from her face. No one ever runs his hands through my hair, she thought.
She rubbed her arms to banish her night chills and thought of Jaime with his dark, sultry good looks. Mother, of course, had said, "He looks just like a 1950's greaser to me."

What could she know? Valerie thought, her body trembling with anger. Mother hasn't had a man in so long, she wouldn't know what to do with one. Anyway, she continued, the way she was always screaming at daddy when he was alive, why would he ever want her?

"Jaime," she murmured aloud, "I need you. Why didn't you come last night?" Tears streamed down her cheeks and her nose began to run. She wiped her face on the sleeve of her flannel nightgown and stood up. She was momentarily shocked by the cold hardwood floor on her bare feet as she poked around under the bed with her toes, searching for her slippers. Her foot touched something soft and fuzzy and it moved, reluctantly. "Sebastian, you lazy cat. I guess you're the man in my life now. Damn, why did I have you neutered?" Valerie laughed, and for a moment, felt somewhat better.

The blue numbers on the digital clock read 5:55 A.M. I'd be getting up in another five minutes anyway, she thought. She found her slippers and stepped into them, only to find they were on the wrong feet. Wrong feet? Everything about me is wrong! she thought.

Valerie pulled off her nightgown and stood in the middle of her bedroom. The early dawn light filtering in the window from behind her etched her body in a surreal blue light. Like a Picasso painting: Ugly Naked Lady in Blue, she thought. She would never understand how Jaime could think of her as beautiful. That's a man for you -- he'll tell you anything to get in your pants! No, she answered herself, angrily, that's mother talking.

She looked at her image in the mirror. Everything is wrong with me! she thought. My nose is too big, my tits are too small, and my ass is getting bigger every day. The silent image before her was slender, with the body of a dancer and an expressive face with small imperfections that added to her attractiveness. Valerie stretched, her well-muscled calves and thighs expanding, substantiating her years of dance training.

Overwhelmed by modesty, Valerie abruptly put on her robe and pulled it closed.
She felt compelled to dress properly whenever she stepped out of her room, although only she and her mother were in the house. Mother would have something nasty to say in any case. She even complained that Valerie didn't wear underwear under her flannel, floor-length nightgown which an X-ray machine couldn't see through! If I move quietly, maybe I won't wake mother, and I can get out of here without my morning criticism" There's about as much chance of that happening as there was of her meeting Mr. Right on the subway ride to work. She thought, all you ever see on the train are scumbags who use the crowd as a chance to get a cheap feel. She shuddered involuntarily as she thought about how she had to choose the direction she would face so carefully. She could either minimize the contact, or at least give the opportunity for a cheap feel to the best looking person in the constricted space around her. Valerie felt the stomach-knotting pangs of guilt as she thought about the possibility that she could enjoy even thinking about being touched by a stranger.

Valerie stepped into the ancient bathtub thinking about the modern saunas and
jaccuzzis she saw in the cream and dream magazines, which is what she called the
upscale publications that advertised all the things she would never have. "Well, I can read and dream, anyway," she said to the shower curtain, while trying unsuccessfully to adjust the temperature of the water. No matter which way she manipulated the two encrusted handles, the water was either scalding or freezing. She had a brief daydream of standing in the modern, sparkling stall shower in Jaime's Manhattan digs. Her rising passion caused her to shudder as she recalled the showers they took together. Even thinking about his hands on her slippery, wet body made Valerie radiate enough heat to melt ice.

Valerie climbed out of the bathtub and realized that she had not thoroughly rinsed all the soap off herself. She dried with the ancient towel which absorbed little of the moisture and managed to spread the slippery soap over a wider area of her body.
She thought back to when she was a little girl and Daddy used to dry her after her baths. She loved his rough touch and even tolerated the permanent smell of beer and cigars which seemed both the literal and figurative essence of his existence. She recalled how he would hold her high over his head, she, wrapped in an enormous, fluffy bath towel. It's the same bath towel, she thought, with irony. She remembered how she used to be so afraid he might drop her, and how she would squeal and holler.

Mother would come storming into the bathroom and reprimand both of them. "Harold," she would say, in a voice that reminded Valerie of the insistent brakes of the subway train, "What are you doing? That child is naked, and here you are . . . And as for you, Valerie, have you no modesty at all? You're a big girl now. Three year olds don't go around exhibiting their private parts to every man on the block! No daughter of mine is going to grow up to be a common hussy." Daddy would just stand there silently. Sometimes, she thought he was going to get angry, but he never did.

How long has it been since . . . Valerie couldn't say the word died in reference to her father, even in her thoughts. She would never forget that morning. She was awakened by her mother's screams. She ran into her mother's bedroom . Her mother was sitting in bed, stiff as a ramrod screaming and screaming and . . . Daddy was lying there, pale, unmoving, but a beatific smile on his face. She remembered one of her uncles commenting at the wake, "It was the first moment of peace the poor man had since he married that harridan!" At the time, she was too young to understand what he meant but she was certain even then in her eight-year-old mind that he was referring to her mother, and not complimenting her.

Valerie quietly opened the bathroom door. Before she could slip out, her mother called from her room. "Is that you? You're making enough noise to wake the dead. I swear, with all those dance lessons, you still move like a herd of elephants."

"I'm trying to be as quiet as I can, Momma."

"Well," said her mother, "as long as I'm up anyway, make me a soft boiled egg, and remember, two minutes, no more and no less."

Valerie gritted her teeth. It had been the same every morning since Daddy . . . Twenty-two years. Her mother asked for the same thing every morning for twenty-two years. And then, she knew what she was going to hear. "It's too soft. It's too hard."
"Dammit, damn it!"

Valerie's hands shook as she placed an egg in the boiling
water. She poured a bowl of Corn Flakes and began chewing on them absent mindedly while keeping an eye on the second hand of the clock. She thought about her first breakfast with Jaime -- spaghetti fried in butter and garlic. With Jaime's hands all over her while she was trying to keep the spaghetti from burning and finally not caring one way or the other.

"Breakfast," she yelled, as she broke her mother's egg over a piece of white bread. The appearance of the gelatinous mess turned her stomach.

"You don't have to yell. I can hear perfectly well," her mother said for the eight thousand and thirty-fifth day in a row.

Sure, Valery thought. If I don't call her, she screams at me for not calling her. If I call in a normal voice, she screams at me for making her break her neck to hear me and if I yell . . . Sometimes, Valerie could swear that a black cloud followed her mother into a room.

She replayed the brief relationship in her mind, trying to find some additional clue as to what happened. What went wrong? she asked herself. For five idyllic weeks, she had been transported into a fantasy world beyond her wildest dreams by a man who she never would have believed would be interested in her. He was so handsome and
sexy. He was so attentive to her every need and desire. He listened to her. He talked to her. And the girls at work. Talk about jealous. They looked at her so differently.

Work. Valerie thought about her nowhere, dead-end job in a typing pool as she
cleaned up the breakfast mess. "Isn't that right? Well, isn't it?" Her mother's mouth was moving, but she hadn't heard a word.

"Yes, mother, if you say so."

"You haven't been listening to a word I said. Cheap trash. You can't keep acting like cheap trash. They're all alike. Rub their little sticks between your legs and you're supposed to fall over in a dead faint. Well, they have a thing or two to learn."

Valerie felt as if her meager breakfast was going to come back up. "I have to get dressed for work, Mother. We'll talk about this some other time, okay?" She quickly ran from the kitchen and up the stairs. Thoughts of throttling her mother to silence her condemning voice filled her mind, but her instilled guilt quickly stifled them. Her silent, indignant scream was her only protest.

Valerie removed a pair of cotton briefs and a shapeless bra from her lingerie' drawer. Lingerie, sure. she thought. If Mother ever found anything in there that wasn't white cotton, she'd have certain proof I'm a whore. She examined the underwear carefully. The panties were somewhat frayed in the crotch. She discarded them. "Always wear clean, neat underwear," Mother would admonish her. "You never know."

"Yeah, you never know." Valerie, in a near-whisper, mimicked her mother's strident voice. She dressed quickly, picking clothes that were shapeless and nondescript to avoid yet another comment from Mother.

"See you at supper, mother," Valerie said, and quickly left the house. By the time she reached work, she was already sweaty and feeling dirty. Her body ached in ways she never had experienced. She experienced, more than saw, changes in her body.

How many pages? Valerie stared at her word processor. Seemed like a million. Twelve fucking years, and still not making enough to get her own place. She caught herself, realizing that plenty of women far younger found ways to live away from their mothers. She never stopped to consider what her motives might have been. Some things were better left under their rocks, she thought.

The day passed uneventfully until mid-afternoon. When the supervisor called her to the phone, Valerie's stomach knotted.

"Yes, this is she." The color drained from her face as she listened to the voice at the other end of the phone. "You're certain? No possibility you could be . . ."Yes, I see."

Jaime! No! Not one co-worker noticed her reaction. Nor, could they hear Valerie's silent scream.

Valerie walked back to her desk in a daze. She passed several people who nodded to her. She began typing, and didn't look up from her desk until her in-box was empty. Done! she thought. She left the office quietly, not cognizant that she was the last person to leave the building.

Valerie was oblivious to the long line at the cashier's booth and didn't notice or care that most of the people were surly from the heat and a long day at work. Unlike the others standing impatiently, Valerie was smiling and appeared to be in some distant and more comfortable place.

At the subway platform, Valerie changed her usual routine. She stood on the far side of the platform where the express trains that didn't stop at her station roared by every few minutes. She looked down the tunnel. She surreptitiously rubbed her hand over her stomach. When she heard the train approach, she was careful not to step out prematurely. She wanted to make certain that her last step would be her most perfect one. One that Mother would feel, see and hear in her nightmares for the rest of her life.

The Girl With the Razzle-Dazzle Eyes

2005-01-25T16:18:00.000-08:00

THE GIRL WITH THE RAZZLE-DAZZLE EYES
by Milton Trachtenburg
Copyright, 1989

Nostalgia just isn't what it used to be. Nowadays, there's nothing much worth remembering, let alone missing. Everything is the same - generic hamburgers in plastic restaurants, talking heads on television - they could get actors to play the roles - dead bodies (supposedly) in black, plastic body bags, three cops standing around, neighbors wringing their unwashed hands - who cares any more.

Anyway, I was talking about nostalgia, wasn't I? You get old, you start to ramble. Maybe it's just you know nobody connects with you anymore. You talk about things that no longer exist - restaurants, actors, newspapers, and you can see the looks - you know the ones - "Why don't you be here no more, too!"

Maybe my memory is like a lot of the good things in this town - faded away with time - it's hard to say - it's so long ago, but I'll tell it to you just as I remember it. You can decide for yourself, okay?

Every neighborhood in Philly had its legends in the fifties and early sixties. In some neighborhoods, it was macho legends about some ox who could beat up a squadron of cops who try to take him out of his favorite bar. The cops were called supposedly because he put three guys in the hospital. One of them asked him what time it was, the story goes, and he had a thing about time. In another neighborhood, it is the woman of less than sparkling repute who has performed deliciously erotic acts with everyone. Everyone except the person telling the story, of course. It's funny, no one I ever knew actually met any of the legends, but that didn't stop the stories from becoming part of the fabric of neighborhood life. Yeah, that's another thing that isn't there anymore - neighborhoods - or fabrics, for that matter - everything is plastic. Maybe that's why there's no more legends - or much of anything else worthwhile.

My neighborhood had a legend, too. It was the legend of the blond in the cherry-red '57 Corvette convertible. You may have read about it in the Evening Bulletin - which no longer exists.

Every guy in the neighborhood knew about the blond. Some say she was a rich kid who came down from the Main Line to slum with the city kids. Others say she was a high-class call girl who liked to tease the boys when she wasn't working. The stories all had common elements: someone would see her driving by when he was getting into his car. Or, her car would be at the drive-in restaurant on Broad Street - The Hotte Shoppe it was called - that place isn't there any more either. I used to hang out there. It was just like the place in Happy Days. There were stalls with menus and microphones. Waitresses would bring out your order on trays which hooked on to the window of your car. There was also a legend about one guy who would take the tray and drive off without paying. I never saw it happen, nor did anyone else I know.
From the time I was old enough to hang out at the Hotte Shoppe I had fantasies of meeting the blond in the cherry-red 57 Corvette. I'd picture her pulling into the spot right next to me and she'd smile - her blue eyes lighting up my car - and my life. Her blond hair would reach all the way to the bottom of her as-tonishingly beautiful back. Her voice would be like honey...

Every Friday it was the same thing. All the lonely guys who didn't have girlfriends - hanging out - talking about - what else? - girls. The stories about Corvette sightings were frequent and intense. It was always somebody else who saw it. One time, we did see a blond in a 57 cherry-red Corvette fly by and we followed her for miles. When she got out of the car, she turned out to be somebody's mother - not mine. No, it had to be the wrong Corvette. My blond was still on the east side of twenty - not the west side of forty.

Years passed. The crowd thinned out. Some of the guys gave up on waiting for the blond and married the brunette from the neighborhood - you know the one - terminally cute but you look at her you know by the time she is 23 - 24, her vocabulary will lead with `buy me' and end with `headache'.

Maybe I'm kidding myself when I tell myself I waited for something better. I had ideals. Maybe it was simply that I had a pedestrian body and a face that at best was called interesting - by my cousin. Maybe even the terminally cute "buy me/headache girls" weren't interested in me.

It was New Year's Eve, 1962, and as usual, I had no plans. I figured if I took a drive, it would be better than sitting around the house. The streets were deserted. The party-ers were all at their parties. It was quiet, and so cold that even the sound of the tires froze before it could rise to ear level. Occasionally, there was the mournful sound of one of those little party horns that people blow on New Year's eve. I never did.

Without planning it, I found myself approaching the Hotte Shoppe. The lights were on but there were few cars in the parking lot. As I pulled in, I saw it. No doubt about it - a cherry-red, 1957, mint-condition Corvette - with the top down, no less - with the temperature outside about 15 degrees. I parked next to it. I fantasized about letting all the air out of the tires so I could be a knight in shining armor and rescue her, but I lost my nerve as quickly as the idea took shape.

I walked into the restaurant carefully, as if the floor was mined. There was a grizzled couple of indeterminate sexes huddled in a back booth who appeared to be sharing a cup of coffee, and there was a pair of young lovers groping each other in the most conspicuous booth in the place. I guessed that was what they called attesting to their undying love. She was terminally cute . . .

"She's not here." Everybody turned to stare at me. All of a sudden, I felt very conspicuous - and very lonely. "Christ, even the grizzes have each other," I thought. It hit me - "maybe she's in the bathroom. Right!" I waited almost five minutes - nothing.

I walked out to the parking lot and it was gone - just like that. The space next to my 10-year-old Buick slushmobile looked like the grand canyon. "No!" I screamed to the unsympathetic night.

That was enough for one night. It was almost midnight. At least if it had been a normal Friday night instead of New Year's Eve, I would've had somebody to tell. For the first time in my life, I made an official sighting of a legend - and the blond in the cherry-red '57 Corvette, at that. I felt better and worse at the same time.
It seems whenever I get good news there's no one to tell.

I breathed the cold air - allowing it to burn my nostrils and lungs. Any sensation was better than the dead feeling inside me at that moment. Then I saw it - tooling up Broad Street - high beams on, the radio blasting The Geator with the Heater - he's gone somewhere else, too - top down, and the driver's long, blond hair streaming out behind her like a signal flag on a speed boat.

I exploded into my car, praying the old engine would start and that I'd have enough speed to catch her. I saw that the traffic signal a couple of blocks up the street had turned red. "Thank you, God!" I almost screamed. The old Buick reacted like a champion - it started in one quick burst - it'd never done that before - at least not in the five years since my family adopted it from a used car lot. Old faithful accelerated like it knew. It took me about three lights to catch up to her, but finally, I reached her just after the light turned red. I knew I had about 25 seconds to change my life.

She nudged the accelerator and the powerful engine thrummed. "When that light turns, she's out of here and gone forever," I thought.

I rolled down the passenger-side window. "Gorgeous car you got there," I said. She looked over at me. ("Thank heaven for power windows," I thought).

Her eyes - not blue at all - more like a kaleidoscope - green and gold and gray - almost seemed to flicker. She smiled, and her teeth were like polished ivory. She brushed the hair back from her face; it was like a curtain being lifted from a new work of art. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold, but it didn't seem to be bothering her.

"You have an interesting face," she said.

"You're beautiful," I said.

She said, I said, she said, I....

We were sitting in my car in a deserted lover's lane. The heater worked - Probably for the first time since John Kennedy became president, I thought. She was holding my hand - tracing the lines on my palm.

"Long, long life line," she said. "That's good."

I took her hand in mine. "How about yours?"

"Mine is like a cul-de-sac - short, sweet, and curves back into itself."

"You believe in that stuff?"

"Don't you?

"I never thought about it."

"You're lucky." She took my hand and brushed the back of it softly against her cheek. I jolted from the shock. It was like touching silk - warm, soft and electric. "Something the matter?"

"No. It's just your skin - it's so soft and delicate." I turned my hand over so that I could touch her face with my fingers. She took my hand and kissed my fingers - one at a time. She turned so that more of her was touching me.

"It's okay," she said.

We kissed, we touched, we discovered.

Afterward, she lay with her head in my lap, holding my hand to her breast, joyfully spent.

"I'll remember tonight forever," she said. You're my....

"First?" I finished the thought for her. "Me too, if that means anything to you."

"It means everything to me. You're my first love and my last love."

"You mean...?"

"Shhhh, just be with me. Tonight is so perfect I want to etch it in my brain and remember it for all eternity."

"For all eternity...."

I felt the soft touch of her delicate hands on my face, tracing the pattern of my `interesting' visage. I bit her finger gently as she traced the pattern of my lips. I guess I fell asleep. The sounds of horns blaring woke me with a jolt. "Happy New... echoed in the distance. It kept up for a good two minutes. I reached out for the reassuring touch of my love and - there was no one there!

She was gone - the cherry-red, '57 Corvette was gone. No name, no number - just gone.

Time heals some wounds. I never told anyone about that night. They'd have thought I was crazy. Anyway, I never was the kiss and tell kind of guy - even later when the liberated sixties was in full swing - and even if the girl did a disappearing act on me.

It was five years later. I decided to become a `regular' person after attempting to lose myself in a series of communes and meaningless liaisons with terminally cute women. At least I came to believe I did have an interesting face and other attributes that women like, I thought. I had decided to be a writer because it was something I did well and could make a living at without having to get up early or shave regularly. I was doing research for an article on the Eisenhower years for a freelance piece for "New Yorker" when I saw it in the bottom right-hand corner of the front page of the dog-eared copy of a January 1, 1958 bound copy of The Evening Bulletin:

EXECUTIVE'S DAUGHTER KILLED
IN FREAK COLLISION

"Ellen Warren, 16, daughter of William and Frances Warren of Bryn Mawr, Pa., was killed in a one-car accident on Broad St. at approximately midnight last night.
Police on the scene stated that Ms. Warren had apparently attempted to turn into the Hotte Shoppe parking lot when her car skidded on a patch of ice. She was thrown from the car and died instantly, according to the report.

"Mr. Warren stated that he had given his daughter the car as a Christmas present. He further stated that she was a cautious driver and could not have contributed to the accident. He said that he had bought her the car so that she wouldn't spend so much of her time in the house."

I read the article over and over. I began crying and couldn't stop. "That's why she never came back," I snuffled. It was not until a few minutes passed that the full impact of what I had been reading penetrated the waves of pain sweeping over me. I read the dateline again. "January 1, 1958." Ellen Warren died five years before I met her.

I don't go back to the old neighborhood anymore. Nothing there is the same anyway. There's been no reports of sightings of the beautiful blond in the cherry-red '57 Corvette since New Year's Eve, 1962. I can engage in self-flattery by trying to convince myself she is spending eternity remembering that one special night with me.

Old legends die hard. Maybe there is some truth to some of them. I guess I'll never know for certain what happened that night - and I sure can't tell anyone else, can I?

Miss Jane Dunphy

2005-01-25T16:12:00.000-08:00

MISS JANE DUNPHY
by
Milton Trachtenburg
copyright, 1988, 1998
Published in EWG Magazine, 1998

Not much happens of note in Breckinridge. Maybe that's why people take so much notice of really unimportant things.

Miss Jane Dunphy had a reputation as long as I've known her. The little boys in school lined up outside her house as far back as first grade because, on some hot afternoons, she'd no sooner get home than she'd take off all her clothes right there in plain sight. So, it was no surprise at all to the mighty Reverend Jim Canton of the First Baptist Church of Breckinridge, when she showed up in church one Sunday in a real show-stopper of a dress. You didn't have to be looking at her to know what she wasn't wearing under it. The look in some of the men's eyes told it all. Lord, I thought, Reverend Jim ain't thinkin' no holy thoughts right about now!

I've been Jane Dunphy's best friend, make that her only friend, for the better part of forty-five years now, and low cut dresses and see-through blouses are no way what she's all about, I can tell you that.

Maybe it's time somebody cleared the air once and for all when it comes to what Miss Jane is all about. I don't have to tell you, in a small town like Breckinridge, once you got yourself a reputation, you may as well have them carve it on your tombstone early if it'll get you a discount. Because, in Breckinridge, what was, is; and, what is, will be, forever.

I mean, see that old bald man sitting by the courthouse over there? He'll be Curly 'til the day he dies, maybe longer than that. Curly he was as a kid and Curly he'll stay.

I can't remember when they took to calling Jane 'Miss Jane'. Around these parts if you're female and not married before the sun rises on your 18th birthday, you're either an old maid or perhaps worse. Jane wasn't married by 18, nor 48, for that matter. It wasn't that there was anything wrong with her, either. Jane Dunphy had a mind of her own and always did what was right for her, even if it wasn't quite what the next person would've done.

If she'd grown up in New York City, or one of those places where being single is sophisticated, then Miss Jane would've been a sophisticated lady instead of "that pixillated old maid on Grand Street."

I met Jane when we were both in the first grade. I was kind of the outcast of the class because I was born with one leg shorter'n the other. Now, if I'd been born in New York City it wouldn't've been a problem. I'd've just walked with one leg on the sidewalk and one in the street. But, where we grew up, there was nothing but dusty roads, and when I walked I would clump along. Kids being what they are would tease me some. I got used to it after a while, but on the first day of school, the kids pushed me into a ditch by the roadside and threw my lunch all over the road. I was sitting there crying when along came this little fairie child. She looked down at me, my new dress all covered with dirt and she smiled. I'm waiting for her to make some kind of crack and surely I'd beat her good.

All she said was, "Gimme your hand, dear." I didn't expect that from the mouth of a six year old. I thought I was listening to my mamma. Except my mamma would've cuffed me good for getting my dress all dirty.

She pulled me out of the ditch and stood with her hands on her hips inspecting her find. I squirmed uncomfortably. I was used to getting stares from strangers what with my short leg and special shoes.

"You okay?" asked Jane.

I looked at her. She had a face that made you smile without her doing anything. She tilted her head to one side when she looked at you and her eyes got sort of squinty. I didn't know then that it was because she needed glasses and her family was too poor to get them for her.

She looked me over real serious-like and took a handkerchief out of her pocket and began wiping my face. Then, she brushed off my dress like a little mother taking care of her young.

"There," she said, standing back to review her handiwork. "That's much better. Let's go to school." That morning began a friendship, that, except for the year I was away in college, has continued on a daily basis until this very moment.

After school, Jane and I would hang out. Sometimes, we'd walk in the woods or let our feet dangle in the icy water of the stream. When I'd get to feeling sorry for myself because of my leg, Jane would look at me like I'd just come from Mars. You know, I don't believe Jane ever took notice of people's defects, only of their goodness.

Maybe it also explains why Jane took no notice about the effect she had on others. Jane did what came easy and natural. When she'd take off her clothes after school, it was because she was hot and dirty. She came from a huge family who took no notice of her no matter what she did anyway. There was about a dozen Dunphy kids and Jane was one of the youngest. Her mamma was pretty worn out by the time Jane came along. The kids grew up with just enough, if you know what I mean. No Dunphy ever starved to death. No Dunphy ever was known to owe anybody anything. They lived on a little patch of land and grew enough to eat and traded the rest for what else they needed. The Dunphys were proud people.

Jane was always different from the rest of the kids in town. I'm not one of those fancy city psychologist-types, so, maybe I won't explain it so good, but Jane always seemed to know what she wanted. For the rest of us, life seemed to just happen.

In school, Jane was a puzzlement to the teachers. She was likely the brightest in the class, though she'd tell you it was me, not her who should've gotten the scholarship to the state college. Jane always sat by the window and seemed to be looking over the horizon, like if she looked hard enough, maybe she'd get there somehow.

When the teacher would ask her a question, her answer would always be the same, "Huh?" It got so that when the teacher would ask Jane a question, the whole class would go, "Huh?". The teacher would get angry at Jane, but Jane'd just look at her with those razzle-dazzle eyes, smile, and say nothing.

When it came test time, Jane would show them all where her head was. She must've gotten more perfect papers than anybody in the history of the school. She'd always poo-poo it and say, "Just luck."

When we got to be teens, Jane blossomed into the prettiest girl in the county. Every boy wanted to make time with Jane. She'd tell me, "I guess I went through all of them, but none of them've been through me."

As you might expect in Breckinridge, the first boy who went out with Jane had a story about how he got into her blouse. Next one, not to be topped, told as how he got into her pants. After that, the boys just naturally told each other that Jane was doing things we never even read about in those girlie magazines Jane would pilfer from her brothers.

"You ever think of doin' some of those things?" I asked her one day when we were sitting out back on my porch swing.

Jane kicked her legs out to get the swing going higher and mused for a minute. She rubbed her forefinger up-side her nose and smiled. "Not likely with this sorry bunch."

"Think you'll get married someday?" I asked with the earnestness only a fourteen year-old can know.

"Why, whatever for?"

"Well . . ." You know, what she said made me think about that. I was going to say, "`Cause you're s'posed to." Instead I sat quietly and looked at Jane.

Most people can't rightly say when they cross over from being a child to being an adult. Some would say it's when they have sex for the first time. For others, it's when they have a baby. Some, especially amongst the folks we grew up with, will never cross the line and become adults.

For me, it was that moment on the unpainted swing with its rusted chains. At the moment it was happening, I couldn't put what I was feeling into words; I just knew I would never look at the world the same again. I remember reaching out and taking Jane's hand in mine. She taught me so much that sweltering day that I forgot all about the heat.

"Then," I said, "we'll just be single together."

"Nope, you're gonna get married and have kids because that's what right for you."

"Yeah, sure, and I'll just wish this leg away, now won't I?"

"Lynnie," she said, her eyes for once not laughing, "you're gonna get married because it's what's right for you. The right guy'll never notice a little thing like that. He'll see you the same's I do -- a beautiful, special person. I mean, it's not like you have two heads or anything."

Jane had a way of putting things that made it so . . .

Right. As always. When we graduated high school, Jane was granted the school's state scholarship. "Ain't nothin' I need to know school can teach me," she said. I was second in line and it was offered to me.

"Damn, woman, you're takin' it!" she said.

"It isn't fair. It's yours."

"I'm not hearin' any of that. What do I want with their college? Just more windows to stare out of. You're gonna get an education and meet your special man."

As it turned out Jane was half right. I met Brian and he didn't care about my leg. He was in medical school, but he wasn't your typical fancy pants who wanted to make millions with an exclusive practice. "I just want to help people, that's all. Maybe I'll come back to your home town and open a practice there," he'd say. For a doctor, he was pretty dumb about some things, though. After we were going together a short time, I got pregnant. I really didn't know much about sex, except that with Brian, I sort of enjoyed it. You'd think a doctor . . .

"So, what are you going to do?" he said.

All of a sudden, he goes from, "We're going to have such a beautiful life." to, "So, what are you going to do?"

"I'll tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm going home to raise my baby."

"Don't I have any say in this? I mean, I feel responsible in a way."

"And, in what way's that?"

"Well, the least I can do is help you pay for . . . you know."

"I think not."

"I'm not ready to face the responsibility of a baby. I have to finish school."

"And I don't?" I think I saw the real Brian for the first time. Sometimes, it takes a crisis to bring out the worst in people.

I did learn something important in college. I learned who my real friends were. I went back to Breckinridge after the baby was born. Mamma said, "Why don't you make up some kind of a story like, `Your husband died?' "

I told her, "Mamma, there's no use to deceiving ourselves. Everybody knows." I believe mamma saw me for the first time as a person, not just her poor, crippled daughter.

"So what're you gonna do?"

"Why, what everybody with children does, of course. I'm gonna raise my son."

I'd hardly had a chance to unpack, when I heard that smoky, sarcastic voice that was almost part of my very being.

"So what're you up to girl?"

"Not much. I brought back a little company. Wanna see him?"

Jane picked up Timmy and for the first time ever I saw, she was crying.

"Beautiful, ain't he?" I said.

"As special as his mamma."

It was almost natural it should happen. Jane and me saved our money for a few years and told our families we were getting a place of our own.

"What'll people think?" asked daddy.

"People'll talk," said mamma.

"Hell, people been thinkin' an' talkin' about us for a long time now. So, are we supposed to do what's right for us, or what's right for them?" said Jane.

That finished it. We bought the old Dresher place on the hill. It had everything we needed. There was a big oak tree in the yard with branches strong enough for a swing for Timmy. The kitchen would accommodate two chefs. There was plenty of room for togetherness and separateness. Yes, sometimes in the hot weather, Jane would wander around in her birthday suit, but only because it was so damn hot in the house that the rest of us who didn't do it were the fools.

Timmy grew up free and happy, with two people who loved him very much. As for Jane, she seemed to find what was important for her. She didn't stare out the window at someplace beyond the horizon any longer.

Timmy went off to college when his time came. Jane told him that he was going to be the first in either of our families to graduate.

"If you don't get that degree, I'm gonna haunt you for the rest of your days, Timothy Warren," said Jane. When he came home with his degree four years later, Jane was the first to hug and kiss him.

After mamma and daddy passed on, I took our old porch swing down before we sold the house, and Jane and me spent a day putting secure bolts into our porch ceiling beam so we could hang it. I wanted something special to remember from my childhood.

Since Tim's grown and gone, life's been kind of quiet for Jane and me. Sometimes, we like to sit on the porch swing and take in the morning sun or the evening breeze. Some Sunday mornings, we even go down to the First Baptist Church to hear Reverend Jim spouting hellfire and damnation, most likely aimed at us in particular. I can't figure out how that church stays so clean and white with all that sulphur and brimstone Reverend Jim spouts.

Not much happens of note in Breckinridge, but Jane and me find plenty to occupy our time. And, as for the gossip, most of the gossipers from our childhood died, grew old or moved on. The new folks don't seem as interested in what's going on around them. In a way, it's too bad. As small minded as the old crowd could appear to be, at least those folks cared, really cared.

Writing: fiction and fact

2005-01-21T15:44:00.000-08:00

Writing is something that came naturally to me. I never studied its intricacies until after I had been published many times. After-the-fact, I decided to make a study of writing and its components and discovered that I had done almost everything "wrong." However, what little I got right the first time did grab the attention of a number of publishers. Maybe they didn't learn writing in school either.

I chose to begin a blog in which I might seek a dialogue with other writers who might both teach and learn with me. Sometimes, I believe that the basic writing skills are inborn but I never gave short shrift to the acquision of knowledge as a base for all growth as a writer. I do often take umbrage with the method used in writing programs in college which use the same method to train writers as to train scientists -- the reliance on precedent. If someone tells me I write like (enter any name of writer other than one's own) and they may get the short end of a goodbye from me.

I plan to present some of my short stories here for review and/or enjoyment -- even if I am the only one who may see them. I will also present some of my writing biases as well. I would appreciate any and all feedback as long as it is written with the objective to present a point of view and not just to see your name splashed on someone else's work. The unfortunate aspect of using a public blog is that there are those who take it seriously and those who don't.

I thank you in advance for the work you may choose to do to participate in an interchange with me. I invite contact by e-mail as well (when I figure out how to post my bio). Writing, for me, is a public task. I can think for myself, I don't have to go to all the trouble of running my fingers over a keyboard, spell and grammar checking and then having the internet go on vacation just as I push the publish button and send my work into the ether.