E.E. Montgomery's Blog, page 3
December 13, 2013
The Art of Conversation
How do people talk to each other, and do nothing else?
I've always thought of myself as a multi-tasker, but perhaps I'm just not that into people. Don't get me wrong: I love spending time with my friends and talking about the myriad things that pop into our heads. It's just that after an hour or so, even if we're having a meal, I start to look for something to do with my hands.
Socialising with friends isn't the time I can take out my laptop and start writing. That would mean I'd ignore them completely. Sometimes I take my knitting with me and do that, but it's a bit big, with long, pointy needles, so carrying it around is a bit problematic. I could draw. That activity doesn't require a lot of resources and I can still be part of the conversation.
The only problem was, I didn't have anything to draw on or with, except a ball-point pen.
Friday night was the night I went to dinner with others in one of my writing critique groups. We do it every Christmas--something special we wouldn't normally do. This year we went to The Brasserie at the Stamford and enjoyed their seafood buffet. We also exchange gifts. Imagine my pleasure when I opened my package to find a small desk-top easel and a pack of charcoal pencils.
Naturally, I had to test them out. I have no idea how to choose a subject to draw, so I just draw what's in front of me. I gave the original to the subject, but at least had the presence of mind to take a photo.
My friends were surprised I could draw. I'm not very good at it but I probably could be if I practised. It's fun. It keeps my hands busy so I can continue to be part of the conversation without wanting to go and do something else. And, it adds another topic of conversation to the mix.
I've always thought of myself as a multi-tasker, but perhaps I'm just not that into people. Don't get me wrong: I love spending time with my friends and talking about the myriad things that pop into our heads. It's just that after an hour or so, even if we're having a meal, I start to look for something to do with my hands.
Socialising with friends isn't the time I can take out my laptop and start writing. That would mean I'd ignore them completely. Sometimes I take my knitting with me and do that, but it's a bit big, with long, pointy needles, so carrying it around is a bit problematic. I could draw. That activity doesn't require a lot of resources and I can still be part of the conversation.
The only problem was, I didn't have anything to draw on or with, except a ball-point pen.
Friday night was the night I went to dinner with others in one of my writing critique groups. We do it every Christmas--something special we wouldn't normally do. This year we went to The Brasserie at the Stamford and enjoyed their seafood buffet. We also exchange gifts. Imagine my pleasure when I opened my package to find a small desk-top easel and a pack of charcoal pencils.
Naturally, I had to test them out. I have no idea how to choose a subject to draw, so I just draw what's in front of me. I gave the original to the subject, but at least had the presence of mind to take a photo.
My friends were surprised I could draw. I'm not very good at it but I probably could be if I practised. It's fun. It keeps my hands busy so I can continue to be part of the conversation without wanting to go and do something else. And, it adds another topic of conversation to the mix.
December 6, 2013
Right Brain, Left Brain
I've been enjoying doing quizzes all week. The brain test was the one I enjoyed the most. I love learning about how the body works and find the brain absolutely fascinating. If I had a better memory, I'd probably become a scientist, but with the way my memory works, I'm much better off just making stuff up.
According to the left-brain, right-brain dominance theory, each side of the brain has specific functions. For example, the right side of the brain
recognises facesexpresses emotionsenjoys and creates musicreads emotionsrecognises colour and imagesintuits, andcreates.
The left side of the brain is supposed to be more analytical and logical, and controls:languagelogiccritical thinkingnumbers, andreasoning.(source: http://psychology.about.com/od/cognitivepsychology/a/left-brain-right-brain.htm)
I must be missing uni - I had to try really hard not to put in the correct APA6 reference for that!
Apparently, fiction writing is one of the few jobs that uses the right and left hemisphere equally. That would be one reason my results for this test came out at 50/50. My day job also requires significant cross-over, so that would help as well.
Here's the link for the test: http://en.sommer-sommer.com/braintest/
And just because I love the colours, and like Mercedes Benz, here's an image that illustrates things beautifully.
From: http://www.jeanniejeannie.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/22035_640.jpg
According to the left-brain, right-brain dominance theory, each side of the brain has specific functions. For example, the right side of the brain
recognises facesexpresses emotionsenjoys and creates musicreads emotionsrecognises colour and imagesintuits, andcreates.
The left side of the brain is supposed to be more analytical and logical, and controls:languagelogiccritical thinkingnumbers, andreasoning.(source: http://psychology.about.com/od/cognitivepsychology/a/left-brain-right-brain.htm)
I must be missing uni - I had to try really hard not to put in the correct APA6 reference for that!
Apparently, fiction writing is one of the few jobs that uses the right and left hemisphere equally. That would be one reason my results for this test came out at 50/50. My day job also requires significant cross-over, so that would help as well.
Here's the link for the test: http://en.sommer-sommer.com/braintest/
And just because I love the colours, and like Mercedes Benz, here's an image that illustrates things beautifully.
From: http://www.jeanniejeannie.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/22035_640.jpgNovember 29, 2013
My aura is green
My growing up years were quite a long time ago, even though they don't seem so to me. It's like I see it all through an extendable telescope of time. Things in the middle are perfectly clear, but other things are blurred around the edges or not remembered at all. I remember being taught about God and told to believe. I remember being taught about witches and spells and told to believe. I remember being told about the afterlife and connecting with the dead and told to believe.
I remember asking questions as a child and no one being able to answer any of them to my satisfaction. I can't just believe when there's nothing to prove that it's so. If others choose to believe in God or a witch's connection to the earth and the universe or being able to talk to loved ones no longer here, then I hope it brings them some peace and contentment. I need more than that.
That doesn't mean I'm not interested in finding out about all those things. I'm curious. I ask questions. I feel absolutely no obligation, though, to believe what I'm told just because the person telling me believes it implicitly.
Last week someone posted a link to a site that will tell you what your aura is. I'd always understood auras to be visual things that can only be seen by those in tune with them. My level of believe in auras is slim. None of the science supports the existence of auras as anything other than a slight electro-magnetic field generated by the body. None of the science supports believers' abilities to see auras either. Still, it seems fun and harmless, so I thought I'd try this site: http://www.quotev.com/quiz/1366538/What-is-Your-True-Color-Aura/
According to this quiz, my aura is green. That's supposed to mean that I'm not materialistic and I like to be comfortable. (In my head, there's a conflict straight away.) Apparently I'm supposed to try to make other people feel comfortable and shy away from anger and aggression. (I don't like aggression but have absolutely no idea how to make others feel comfortable or why it should be my job - surely they can control their own comfort levels.) I'm innovative and smart and want everyone to get along together. (To a degree, and surely we achieve more if we get on together.) I embrace change and growth. (Not for change's sake.)
At this point, I began to feel like I was reading a generic astrology description. I can apply all of those things to my life, as I'm sure a lot of other people can. There are reasons that make me the way I am, and none of those reasons include a green cloud floating around me. Again, I'm looking for the proof.
Still it was fun. The website was pretty and colourful and the questions easy to answer. The whole thing took less than five minutes. The results were instant, which is always a good thing.
I found it very interesting that the questions were at once random and very similar to a watered-down version of the Myers-Briggs personality test. Personally, I prefer that sort of test. It might take a long time to complete and analyse, but it's thorough and looking at quantifiably and qualitatively provable data.
I remember asking questions as a child and no one being able to answer any of them to my satisfaction. I can't just believe when there's nothing to prove that it's so. If others choose to believe in God or a witch's connection to the earth and the universe or being able to talk to loved ones no longer here, then I hope it brings them some peace and contentment. I need more than that.
That doesn't mean I'm not interested in finding out about all those things. I'm curious. I ask questions. I feel absolutely no obligation, though, to believe what I'm told just because the person telling me believes it implicitly.
Last week someone posted a link to a site that will tell you what your aura is. I'd always understood auras to be visual things that can only be seen by those in tune with them. My level of believe in auras is slim. None of the science supports the existence of auras as anything other than a slight electro-magnetic field generated by the body. None of the science supports believers' abilities to see auras either. Still, it seems fun and harmless, so I thought I'd try this site: http://www.quotev.com/quiz/1366538/What-is-Your-True-Color-Aura/
According to this quiz, my aura is green. That's supposed to mean that I'm not materialistic and I like to be comfortable. (In my head, there's a conflict straight away.) Apparently I'm supposed to try to make other people feel comfortable and shy away from anger and aggression. (I don't like aggression but have absolutely no idea how to make others feel comfortable or why it should be my job - surely they can control their own comfort levels.) I'm innovative and smart and want everyone to get along together. (To a degree, and surely we achieve more if we get on together.) I embrace change and growth. (Not for change's sake.)
At this point, I began to feel like I was reading a generic astrology description. I can apply all of those things to my life, as I'm sure a lot of other people can. There are reasons that make me the way I am, and none of those reasons include a green cloud floating around me. Again, I'm looking for the proof.
Still it was fun. The website was pretty and colourful and the questions easy to answer. The whole thing took less than five minutes. The results were instant, which is always a good thing.
I found it very interesting that the questions were at once random and very similar to a watered-down version of the Myers-Briggs personality test. Personally, I prefer that sort of test. It might take a long time to complete and analyse, but it's thorough and looking at quantifiably and qualitatively provable data.
November 22, 2013
A different kind of story
I've been working with adolescents during NaNo so I started a different kind of story - different writing buddies, different mind-set. I'm not sure exactly where it's going yet but I'm enjoying the tension and mystery so far.
THE BROKEN DOLLI hate moving. There’s always something that gets lost or broken. This time it was a doll that used to be my grandmother’s. I think it was even her mother’s or something. It didn’t matter anymore because it was broken. The face was smashed in like someone had punched her. Tears burned my eyes. It wasn’t because she was broken, but because I knew how she felt. I gathered the pieces, careful not to let the china slice into me, and wrapped them in a pillowcase. Then I put the pillowcase and the rest of the doll into the matching pillowcase and set it on top of the dresser. I’d find a doll hospital later and see if I could get her fixed. As I placed the bundle down, I saw my face in the mirror. Flawless skin and perfect cheekbones were reflected back to me. I grabbed up the bundled doll and emptied it out onto the bed then I rummaged through another box to find the Superglue. Twenty minutes later the face was together again. There were smudged fingerprints and yellowed glue lines and her cheeks dipped and rippled because some of the pieces were so small I couldn’t fit them in exactly right. A triangular piece was missing under one eye like a black tear showing the emptiness inside her. I leant her against my pillow and she listed to the side. Battered. Bruised. I envied her. At least her face looked the way it felt.“Lara! Get your arse down here and help.”I closed my eyes and counted my breaths in and out.“Lara!”“I guess that’s the end of my private time,” I said to the doll. I closed the door on my way out even though I knew it was pointless. It would be open by the time I came back upstairs and if I kept closing it, it would be taken off and stored in the garage. Some small sliver of hope kept me trying. She was okay today. I mean, she wasn’t nice or anything—that would be asking too much—but she didn’t scream at me or throw anything at me. She didn’t hit me. I hate days like today. These are the kinds of days that make me think I could have a half-way normal life; be just like other kids. I could have gone to school today and said ‘we moved house’ and everyone would have known exactly what that meant. When I finished and went back up to my room, my door was closed. I stood in the hallway for a long time, staring at the closed door, too terrified to open it and see what was behind it. My heart pounded as I imagined all the things I could see. My clothes could be shredded. My books torn apart and the pieces scattered over the floor. My mattress could be slashed with a knife, the stuffing poking through the cuts like puss from a wound. Don’t laugh. It’s happened before. I lifted trembling fingers, turned the doorknob and pushed the door open.
The carpet just inside the door was still the mottled blue-grey it had been before. I stepped closer so I could see more of the room. The two boxes I’d left stacked under the window still sat there, unopened. I took another step and froze as I saw it. My ‘surprise’ for today.I’d wondered where she’d disappeared to. Now I didn’t need to wonder any longer. She sat on the edge of my bed. Smiling at me. I whimpered. I tried not to, really tried to stay silent and wait, but there was the smile.“Do you like your new room, Lara?”My breath caught in my throat. I swallowed, the gulp audible in the silent room. I nodded.“What’s that, dear?” She cupped her hand around her ear in a parody of eager listening.“Yes, mother.” She continued to wait. “I do like my new room, thank you.”She stood and I jumped. I stumbled a step back from her before I controlled it and stood still, chin up, eyes focused on a spot on the wall behind her head. Her soft hand stroked my cheek and I flinched, my breath now a bellows flooding my head and making me dizzy. Her hand rested on my cheek for a second before sliding down to cup the side of my neck. Her thumb slipped across my throat and dug in under my jaw.“If you want to keep it, you’ll stop hiding things from me. Whatever you have hidden in those boxes had better be laid out for me to inspect before you go to bed.” She lifted her hand and patted my cheek sharply enough to sting. I remained still. “I don’t think you want to find out what will happen to your precious new room and all your lovely things if that door gets closed again.”I stood trembling for a long time after she left. If I turned and she was there, silently waiting, there’d be trouble. After about five minutes, I stumbled to my bed and sat on the corner. It was after ten o’clock and I was tired after spending all day cleaning and unpacking the rest of the house, but I knew I’d finish my room before I even thought about going to bed. The click of a door closing down the hallway, spurred me into action. She’d be showering now so I had less than ten minutes to unpack everything and put it away. If I wasn’t finished by the time she was ready to go to bed and inspected it, I wouldn’t be able to sleep in my bed.
THE BROKEN DOLLI hate moving. There’s always something that gets lost or broken. This time it was a doll that used to be my grandmother’s. I think it was even her mother’s or something. It didn’t matter anymore because it was broken. The face was smashed in like someone had punched her. Tears burned my eyes. It wasn’t because she was broken, but because I knew how she felt. I gathered the pieces, careful not to let the china slice into me, and wrapped them in a pillowcase. Then I put the pillowcase and the rest of the doll into the matching pillowcase and set it on top of the dresser. I’d find a doll hospital later and see if I could get her fixed. As I placed the bundle down, I saw my face in the mirror. Flawless skin and perfect cheekbones were reflected back to me. I grabbed up the bundled doll and emptied it out onto the bed then I rummaged through another box to find the Superglue. Twenty minutes later the face was together again. There were smudged fingerprints and yellowed glue lines and her cheeks dipped and rippled because some of the pieces were so small I couldn’t fit them in exactly right. A triangular piece was missing under one eye like a black tear showing the emptiness inside her. I leant her against my pillow and she listed to the side. Battered. Bruised. I envied her. At least her face looked the way it felt.“Lara! Get your arse down here and help.”I closed my eyes and counted my breaths in and out.“Lara!”“I guess that’s the end of my private time,” I said to the doll. I closed the door on my way out even though I knew it was pointless. It would be open by the time I came back upstairs and if I kept closing it, it would be taken off and stored in the garage. Some small sliver of hope kept me trying. She was okay today. I mean, she wasn’t nice or anything—that would be asking too much—but she didn’t scream at me or throw anything at me. She didn’t hit me. I hate days like today. These are the kinds of days that make me think I could have a half-way normal life; be just like other kids. I could have gone to school today and said ‘we moved house’ and everyone would have known exactly what that meant. When I finished and went back up to my room, my door was closed. I stood in the hallway for a long time, staring at the closed door, too terrified to open it and see what was behind it. My heart pounded as I imagined all the things I could see. My clothes could be shredded. My books torn apart and the pieces scattered over the floor. My mattress could be slashed with a knife, the stuffing poking through the cuts like puss from a wound. Don’t laugh. It’s happened before. I lifted trembling fingers, turned the doorknob and pushed the door open.
The carpet just inside the door was still the mottled blue-grey it had been before. I stepped closer so I could see more of the room. The two boxes I’d left stacked under the window still sat there, unopened. I took another step and froze as I saw it. My ‘surprise’ for today.I’d wondered where she’d disappeared to. Now I didn’t need to wonder any longer. She sat on the edge of my bed. Smiling at me. I whimpered. I tried not to, really tried to stay silent and wait, but there was the smile.“Do you like your new room, Lara?”My breath caught in my throat. I swallowed, the gulp audible in the silent room. I nodded.“What’s that, dear?” She cupped her hand around her ear in a parody of eager listening.“Yes, mother.” She continued to wait. “I do like my new room, thank you.”She stood and I jumped. I stumbled a step back from her before I controlled it and stood still, chin up, eyes focused on a spot on the wall behind her head. Her soft hand stroked my cheek and I flinched, my breath now a bellows flooding my head and making me dizzy. Her hand rested on my cheek for a second before sliding down to cup the side of my neck. Her thumb slipped across my throat and dug in under my jaw.“If you want to keep it, you’ll stop hiding things from me. Whatever you have hidden in those boxes had better be laid out for me to inspect before you go to bed.” She lifted her hand and patted my cheek sharply enough to sting. I remained still. “I don’t think you want to find out what will happen to your precious new room and all your lovely things if that door gets closed again.”I stood trembling for a long time after she left. If I turned and she was there, silently waiting, there’d be trouble. After about five minutes, I stumbled to my bed and sat on the corner. It was after ten o’clock and I was tired after spending all day cleaning and unpacking the rest of the house, but I knew I’d finish my room before I even thought about going to bed. The click of a door closing down the hallway, spurred me into action. She’d be showering now so I had less than ten minutes to unpack everything and put it away. If I wasn’t finished by the time she was ready to go to bed and inspected it, I wouldn’t be able to sleep in my bed.
November 15, 2013
NaNoWriMo Excerpt 2
Here's the second (unedited) chapter of Just the Way You Are.
CHAPTER TWOChrist. Someone has sure done a number on him. You wouldn’t think it to look at him. Who would have the balls to fuck with a guy built like that? Although he’s skinny as. Ben should let his boney shoulders go, he knew that, but he couldn’t. If there was anyone in this world crying out for some gentle care, it was this guy. Ben didn’t know why, but he knew he was the only guy who could do it. Conceited much? Yeah, sure, how else would he have been able to work in the mines in western Queensland and still design clothes? It took balls to do that.Ben drew Jonathan closer and wrapped his arms around him, all the while murmuring in his ear. “It’s okay, mate. You’re gonna be fine. Just relax. I won’t let anything happen to you.” He kept his voice low and calm. It always worked on the animals on his cousin Brent’s place, even the stupid sheep. Jonathan began to struggle. Ben should have known he wasn’t a sheep. Luckily he had enough sense to let Jonathan go before he put Ben on his ass, especially since Col was striding toward them with a scowl on his face. Ben stepped back and raised his hands in surrender.“Sure, sure, it’s okay. I’m back here. I’m not going to hurt you.”Jonathan’s breathing was still harsh but he seemed calmer now, even starting to get angry. That was good. Angry was better than scared shitless like he looked a few minutes ago. Ben glanced over his shoulder. Shit. Col was still bearing down on them and somehow he’d managed to pick up a stick. As Ben watched he raised it over his head. Christ. He rushed forward, jostled past Jonathan, and grabbed for Col instead.“Those bloody ferals will kill you in your sleep, but I’ll get ‘im first,” Col yelled as he fought against Ben. Spittle sprayed from his mouth, globs of it landed on Ben’s chin and neck. Christ, he was strong. Col’s wife Lorraine had warned Ben about Col’s reactions to some things but he didn’t think the older man would lose it like this while on a job. “Stop it, Col, or I’ll ring Lorraine and tell her to come and collect you.”The fight bled out of him like a severed artery, spurting fitfully for a few seconds before he was limp in Ben’s arms. What a fucked up job this was turning out to be. Ben hefted Col back onto his feet and dragged him over to the truck. After checking he had the keys with him, Ben put Col in the passenger seat.“Stay there and listen to the music until I finish here. Do you understand me, Col? Do not move from this spot.”Col didn’t respond but Ben couldn’t spend any more time with him. He had a client to placate and a truck full of furniture and effects to somehow get up three flights of stairs on his own. Fuck my life today. Jonathan was leaning back against the hood of his car. Ben took that as a good sign. If he was still freaked he’d be sitting in his car in a trembling, sweaty heap like he’d been before. He stopped a few paces away—figured Jonathan wouldn’t want him too close.“I’m so sorry. He’s usually good as gold as long as I keep him on task.”His only response was a desultorily raised eyebrow.“Yeah, I know. If I’d just let you be, he probably would have stayed on task, but you’ve got the keys, mate. Can’t do much without them.”If his skin was paler, Ben was sure he’d have blushed at that. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a key-ring with three keys on it. One was a car key. “I’ll go up and unlock.” He glanced at the truck. “Will he be alright? I can’t offer to help.” He gestured to the blood on his shirt. At least the mark hadn’t grown much since he got out of the car. Ben still wondered what he’d done to himself but after the fiasco that was his attempt to help, he didn’t dare ask.Thank Christ he was letting Col’s ‘feral’ comment and attack go. He could quite easily have them charged, and Ben wouldn’t blame him at all. “Oh, sure. Col will be fine once he gets back on the job. Like I told you, the doc said he’s still able to work just fine.” Christ, I hope I’m not talking through my hat.Jonathan nodded, then eased himself around Ben, staying out of reach the whole time. Ben’s stomach flipped. This time, it wasn’t what some other bastard had done to him to make him act like a scared chicken; it was what he’ddone. “Look.” Jonathan jumped when Ben spoke and Ben raised his hands again. “Sorry. I’m just… sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel…” Attacked? Threatened? Like you’re incapable of living your own life? Christ on a stick.Jonathan ducked his head and hurried up the few steps to the door. “I’ll open the doors for you and wait there to show you where to put everything.”Ben heaved a sigh then trudged over to the truck and opened the door.“Come on, Col. Time to move some furniture.” He sighed again when Col looked up at him with blank eyes. He’d opened the glove box and taken some papers out. His lap, the seat and the floor around his feet were littered with finely shredded pieces of paper. One piece clung to his whiskers near the corner of his mouth.Col held out a fragment. “Do you want some?”“Yeah, thanks Col.” Ben took the paper from him then grasped his elbow and helped him down from the truck. “Come around the back and help me with this furniture.” He hoped to Christ Col would remember how to do that by the time they started lifting. Luckily, as soon as Col saw the neatly packed truck, he clicked over into ‘removalist’ mode and things went smoothly. Ben noted that Jonathan stayed as far away from them as he could, although that could just as easily have been so he didn’t get in their way. Ben was pretty sure the slim man was avoiding being anywhere near Ben. He’d made someone afraid of him. Usually he’d chat with people while he was working, but words hung heavy on his tongue, thick like an autumn fog. By the time the fog had burned off, his stomach churned with anxiety. Ben remained silent, watchful. They were nearly done before Jonathan showed signs of relaxing. Perhaps that was because they were nearly finished, but he liked to think it was because he’d worked out Ben wasn’t a threat to him.Ben and Col folded the last felt blanket and stowed it then Col went to sit in the passenger seat as Ben took the tablet to Jonathan to sign. Ben stood close to him at the bottom of the stairs to the apartment building. It wasn’t much closer than he would normally stand, but it was closer. He pretended it was because Jonathan looked exhausted, a gray cast to his skin making him look like he was barely remaining on his feet. Ben spent the time Jonathan took to peruse the document on the tablet and sign it to consider and dismiss a dozen ways of talking to him.“Where are you from?”Jonathan looked up, his brow furrowed. “Hamilton,” he said, naming the suburb they’d just come from.“No, I mean, what country. You’re not aboriginal.”“I’m Australian.”Heat flooded Ben’s face. He was probably being racist. Sometimes it was hard to tell what was considered innocent curiosity or a desire to get to know someone or what was considered insulting. “I’m sorry,” he said as Jonathan finished signing his name. Ben plowed on, even though he was probably making the situation worse. “I didn’t mean to insult you or frighten you earlier. It was the blood,” he gestured to Jonathan’s stained shirt, “you know, it’s not something you see every day, and I thought you were injured, well you obviously are, but I thought you might need help, and then I thought if I got you talking about yourself you’d relax…” Ben stopped before the rambling took him over completely and he required some sort of verbal exorcism.A half-smile twitched at the corner of Jonathan’s mouth and he shook his head. “I’m fine. It’s nothing.” Ben had seen the way Jonathan moved so he was sure it wasn’t ‘nothing’.“Do you have a dressing? I could put it on for you if you like.”Damn. That was the wrong thing to say. If he’d thought before he opened his mouth he’d never have said it. Now the fear was back on Jonathan’s face, tightening the skin around his eyes and pulling those luscious lips into a tight line.“Look, I didn’t mean….” Ben sighed at how difficult this was. Talking to people and putting them at ease was usually much easier than this. He looked around as if the small apartment would give him inspiration, even though he knew he should just say ‘good-bye’ and leave. “My parents were from Somalia,” Jonathan said as he handed the tablet and stylus back to Ben.“Oh,” Ben fumbled for words. “Refugees?”Jonathan nodded. “From the civil war. They were lucky.”Being a refugee and talking about how difficult it was for his family to settle in a new country probably wasn’t something Jonathan, or anyone else, wanted to talk about with their removalist so Ben accepted defeat in the conversation stakes and looked at his truck.“You’re not going to unpack all this by yourself, are you?” Christ on a stick. Could I shove my foot any deeper into my mouth? The bristling offense zapped in the air between them. “Sorry, sorry.” Fuck. Ben backed up. “I didn’t mean anything by that. Just….” He took a deep breath and started again. “We offer an unpacking service too, so if you decide you want some help, call the office and we’ll come out and get you sorted in no time.”Jonathan didn’t respond but looked less alarmed than before so Ben risked a small smile before he went back to the truck. Col was nowhere to be seen.“Christ. Lorraine is going to have to do something this time.” Ben wasn’t being completely fair. He had left Col alone for quite a while and he knew the older man had a tendency to wander off. He ran to the footpath to see Col ambling down the street, peering into each letterbox. He jogged down to him. “Col,” Ben said as soon as he reached the older man. “Where are you off to?”Col looked at Ben blankly. Ben had only known him a few months but it was unsettling every time Col forgot who he was. “Come on, Col, let’s get you home.”Col stepped back from him. Christ on a stick. He seemed to be spending his entire day frightening people. “Lorraine called and asked when you’d be home.”“Lorraine?” His eyes brightened and he looked around. Ben didn’t know if he was looking for his wife or suddenly realizing he didn’t know where he was. He gently took Col by the arm and led him back to the truck. “Yeah, she said she was cooking your favorite for dinner tonight.” What the hell that was, Ben didn’t have a clue, but Col obviously knew because he smiled and increased his pace.
Jonathan sat on the couch, stared up at the ceiling and tried to ignore Liam’s strident tones jabbing down the hall and into the rest of the apartment as he and Mark put Jonathan’s bed together. It didn’t help. He could still hear Liam ranting in the bedroom. “Look after yourself, I said. I know I told him that. And what did he go and do? He drove across town when he knew he wasn’t supposed to. Anything could have happened to him. Did you see his chest? He’s mangled those stitches again. As it is he’s going to have a scar. If he keeps doing it, God alone knows what sort of damage he’ll do. He could end up in surgery again.”“He’s alright, Liam. You can see that. He’s out there resting, just like you told him to. He’ll be fine.” At least Mark’s voice held reason. Liam was off his rocker. Jonathan was surprised that Liam was letting loose like this. Not many people got to see his cousin vent. Jonathan had only met Mark a few times but he could already see how important he was becoming to his cousin. A smile tugged at his lips. Now maybe Liam will have someone else to focus all his protective instincts on and Jonathan will have some space to heal and work out how he wanted to live his life.“He hasn’t been looking after himself. You saw—”Mark chuckled. “You know what I find really funny here?”“Funny? How can you find this—”“This is the first time we’ve made a bed together, hell, almost the first time we’ve been near a bed together, and it isn’t even ours. When you come over to my place we never make it any further than the couch.”Silence. Blissful silence. Jonathan sucked in as deep a breath as he could and let it out slowly. Perhaps Mark will be good for Liam. Even if he is Anthony’s ex.Shit. He shouldn’t have thought about Anthony. Now his heart was pounding and tears burned his eyes. Jonathan hated him, despised Anthony for what he’d done to him through the years. He hated himself for allowing it, for giving into Anthony's bullying, for staying with him for so long, even though he knew Anthony would end up killing him. He sat forward, groaning against the twinge of pain in his wound and the cramp in his back muscles.Today was the beginning of his new life. He had to learn to look forward to things again but he’d spent so long simply surviving day by day he didn’t know how to do that anymore. Images from the day flitted through his distracted mind and it was long moments before Jonathan realized every single image was of the removalist, Ben. His bright hazel eyes, begging Jonathan to find acceptance and compassion for Col and his strange ways, the way he looked after Col and made sure he ate when he needed to, the way his muscles moved as he lifted boxes and moved furniture. Jonathan breathed deeply, imagining he could still smell Ben’s warm sweat as he maneuvered the bulky furniture through the doorway. A strident knocking at the front door reverberated through the quiet room. Jonathan jumped and stared at the opening to the short entrance hall, his breathing suddenly labored. Anthony is still in hospital. There’s no lift in the building. He can’t get up here. It didn’t matter what Jonathan told himself, nothing stopped the nervous sweat beading on his face or the tremble of his fingers.Liam’s footsteps thudded along the floorboards from the bedroom. He glanced inquiringly at Jonathan on his way through the living room. Jonathan managed a slight shake of his head. He wasn’t expecting anyone. He watched Liam open the door but couldn’t see who was there.“Oh, yeah, um, hi. I’m Ben, the removalist? Is, um, Jonathan there?”“Was there something wrong with the delivery? Did you miss a box or something?” Jonathan leaned to the left so he could see Liam’s around wide shoulders blocking the doorway. “Who is it?” Mark asked quietly from beside him. Jonathan was so focused on Ben and Liam at the door he didn’t even start at the unexpected question. “It’s one of the removalists,” he whispered.“Did they forget a box or something?”“I don’t think so.” Jonathan felt silly still whispering but he wasn’t sure if he wanted Ben to know he was there. As soon as the thought floated through his head, he scoffed. Ben had spent most of the day moving him in here. Of course he knew where he was. Jonathan reached out and grabbed Mark’s hand. “Do you think he’s a stalker?” Mark looked down at him, a mix of surprise, amusement and pity in his face. Jonathan dropped his hand and struggled to his feet. Hadn’t he been telling himself for the last week—hell, months—that he wasn’t going to let fear rule his life anymore? He walked steadily across the room and up behind Liam as he listened to Ben’s response.“No. No, we didn’t forget a box. It’s just that, well, he looked like he could use some help unpacking.”Jonathan placed a hand on Liam’s shoulder. “Thanks Liam, I’ve got this.”Liam turned to scowl at him. “Jonathan—”“Why don’t you and Mark finish up in the bedroom while I talk to Ben?”
The scowl deepened but Liam backed off and thumped back into the apartment.
CHAPTER TWOChrist. Someone has sure done a number on him. You wouldn’t think it to look at him. Who would have the balls to fuck with a guy built like that? Although he’s skinny as. Ben should let his boney shoulders go, he knew that, but he couldn’t. If there was anyone in this world crying out for some gentle care, it was this guy. Ben didn’t know why, but he knew he was the only guy who could do it. Conceited much? Yeah, sure, how else would he have been able to work in the mines in western Queensland and still design clothes? It took balls to do that.Ben drew Jonathan closer and wrapped his arms around him, all the while murmuring in his ear. “It’s okay, mate. You’re gonna be fine. Just relax. I won’t let anything happen to you.” He kept his voice low and calm. It always worked on the animals on his cousin Brent’s place, even the stupid sheep. Jonathan began to struggle. Ben should have known he wasn’t a sheep. Luckily he had enough sense to let Jonathan go before he put Ben on his ass, especially since Col was striding toward them with a scowl on his face. Ben stepped back and raised his hands in surrender.“Sure, sure, it’s okay. I’m back here. I’m not going to hurt you.”Jonathan’s breathing was still harsh but he seemed calmer now, even starting to get angry. That was good. Angry was better than scared shitless like he looked a few minutes ago. Ben glanced over his shoulder. Shit. Col was still bearing down on them and somehow he’d managed to pick up a stick. As Ben watched he raised it over his head. Christ. He rushed forward, jostled past Jonathan, and grabbed for Col instead.“Those bloody ferals will kill you in your sleep, but I’ll get ‘im first,” Col yelled as he fought against Ben. Spittle sprayed from his mouth, globs of it landed on Ben’s chin and neck. Christ, he was strong. Col’s wife Lorraine had warned Ben about Col’s reactions to some things but he didn’t think the older man would lose it like this while on a job. “Stop it, Col, or I’ll ring Lorraine and tell her to come and collect you.”The fight bled out of him like a severed artery, spurting fitfully for a few seconds before he was limp in Ben’s arms. What a fucked up job this was turning out to be. Ben hefted Col back onto his feet and dragged him over to the truck. After checking he had the keys with him, Ben put Col in the passenger seat.“Stay there and listen to the music until I finish here. Do you understand me, Col? Do not move from this spot.”Col didn’t respond but Ben couldn’t spend any more time with him. He had a client to placate and a truck full of furniture and effects to somehow get up three flights of stairs on his own. Fuck my life today. Jonathan was leaning back against the hood of his car. Ben took that as a good sign. If he was still freaked he’d be sitting in his car in a trembling, sweaty heap like he’d been before. He stopped a few paces away—figured Jonathan wouldn’t want him too close.“I’m so sorry. He’s usually good as gold as long as I keep him on task.”His only response was a desultorily raised eyebrow.“Yeah, I know. If I’d just let you be, he probably would have stayed on task, but you’ve got the keys, mate. Can’t do much without them.”If his skin was paler, Ben was sure he’d have blushed at that. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a key-ring with three keys on it. One was a car key. “I’ll go up and unlock.” He glanced at the truck. “Will he be alright? I can’t offer to help.” He gestured to the blood on his shirt. At least the mark hadn’t grown much since he got out of the car. Ben still wondered what he’d done to himself but after the fiasco that was his attempt to help, he didn’t dare ask.Thank Christ he was letting Col’s ‘feral’ comment and attack go. He could quite easily have them charged, and Ben wouldn’t blame him at all. “Oh, sure. Col will be fine once he gets back on the job. Like I told you, the doc said he’s still able to work just fine.” Christ, I hope I’m not talking through my hat.Jonathan nodded, then eased himself around Ben, staying out of reach the whole time. Ben’s stomach flipped. This time, it wasn’t what some other bastard had done to him to make him act like a scared chicken; it was what he’ddone. “Look.” Jonathan jumped when Ben spoke and Ben raised his hands again. “Sorry. I’m just… sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel…” Attacked? Threatened? Like you’re incapable of living your own life? Christ on a stick.Jonathan ducked his head and hurried up the few steps to the door. “I’ll open the doors for you and wait there to show you where to put everything.”Ben heaved a sigh then trudged over to the truck and opened the door.“Come on, Col. Time to move some furniture.” He sighed again when Col looked up at him with blank eyes. He’d opened the glove box and taken some papers out. His lap, the seat and the floor around his feet were littered with finely shredded pieces of paper. One piece clung to his whiskers near the corner of his mouth.Col held out a fragment. “Do you want some?”“Yeah, thanks Col.” Ben took the paper from him then grasped his elbow and helped him down from the truck. “Come around the back and help me with this furniture.” He hoped to Christ Col would remember how to do that by the time they started lifting. Luckily, as soon as Col saw the neatly packed truck, he clicked over into ‘removalist’ mode and things went smoothly. Ben noted that Jonathan stayed as far away from them as he could, although that could just as easily have been so he didn’t get in their way. Ben was pretty sure the slim man was avoiding being anywhere near Ben. He’d made someone afraid of him. Usually he’d chat with people while he was working, but words hung heavy on his tongue, thick like an autumn fog. By the time the fog had burned off, his stomach churned with anxiety. Ben remained silent, watchful. They were nearly done before Jonathan showed signs of relaxing. Perhaps that was because they were nearly finished, but he liked to think it was because he’d worked out Ben wasn’t a threat to him.Ben and Col folded the last felt blanket and stowed it then Col went to sit in the passenger seat as Ben took the tablet to Jonathan to sign. Ben stood close to him at the bottom of the stairs to the apartment building. It wasn’t much closer than he would normally stand, but it was closer. He pretended it was because Jonathan looked exhausted, a gray cast to his skin making him look like he was barely remaining on his feet. Ben spent the time Jonathan took to peruse the document on the tablet and sign it to consider and dismiss a dozen ways of talking to him.“Where are you from?”Jonathan looked up, his brow furrowed. “Hamilton,” he said, naming the suburb they’d just come from.“No, I mean, what country. You’re not aboriginal.”“I’m Australian.”Heat flooded Ben’s face. He was probably being racist. Sometimes it was hard to tell what was considered innocent curiosity or a desire to get to know someone or what was considered insulting. “I’m sorry,” he said as Jonathan finished signing his name. Ben plowed on, even though he was probably making the situation worse. “I didn’t mean to insult you or frighten you earlier. It was the blood,” he gestured to Jonathan’s stained shirt, “you know, it’s not something you see every day, and I thought you were injured, well you obviously are, but I thought you might need help, and then I thought if I got you talking about yourself you’d relax…” Ben stopped before the rambling took him over completely and he required some sort of verbal exorcism.A half-smile twitched at the corner of Jonathan’s mouth and he shook his head. “I’m fine. It’s nothing.” Ben had seen the way Jonathan moved so he was sure it wasn’t ‘nothing’.“Do you have a dressing? I could put it on for you if you like.”Damn. That was the wrong thing to say. If he’d thought before he opened his mouth he’d never have said it. Now the fear was back on Jonathan’s face, tightening the skin around his eyes and pulling those luscious lips into a tight line.“Look, I didn’t mean….” Ben sighed at how difficult this was. Talking to people and putting them at ease was usually much easier than this. He looked around as if the small apartment would give him inspiration, even though he knew he should just say ‘good-bye’ and leave. “My parents were from Somalia,” Jonathan said as he handed the tablet and stylus back to Ben.“Oh,” Ben fumbled for words. “Refugees?”Jonathan nodded. “From the civil war. They were lucky.”Being a refugee and talking about how difficult it was for his family to settle in a new country probably wasn’t something Jonathan, or anyone else, wanted to talk about with their removalist so Ben accepted defeat in the conversation stakes and looked at his truck.“You’re not going to unpack all this by yourself, are you?” Christ on a stick. Could I shove my foot any deeper into my mouth? The bristling offense zapped in the air between them. “Sorry, sorry.” Fuck. Ben backed up. “I didn’t mean anything by that. Just….” He took a deep breath and started again. “We offer an unpacking service too, so if you decide you want some help, call the office and we’ll come out and get you sorted in no time.”Jonathan didn’t respond but looked less alarmed than before so Ben risked a small smile before he went back to the truck. Col was nowhere to be seen.“Christ. Lorraine is going to have to do something this time.” Ben wasn’t being completely fair. He had left Col alone for quite a while and he knew the older man had a tendency to wander off. He ran to the footpath to see Col ambling down the street, peering into each letterbox. He jogged down to him. “Col,” Ben said as soon as he reached the older man. “Where are you off to?”Col looked at Ben blankly. Ben had only known him a few months but it was unsettling every time Col forgot who he was. “Come on, Col, let’s get you home.”Col stepped back from him. Christ on a stick. He seemed to be spending his entire day frightening people. “Lorraine called and asked when you’d be home.”“Lorraine?” His eyes brightened and he looked around. Ben didn’t know if he was looking for his wife or suddenly realizing he didn’t know where he was. He gently took Col by the arm and led him back to the truck. “Yeah, she said she was cooking your favorite for dinner tonight.” What the hell that was, Ben didn’t have a clue, but Col obviously knew because he smiled and increased his pace.
Jonathan sat on the couch, stared up at the ceiling and tried to ignore Liam’s strident tones jabbing down the hall and into the rest of the apartment as he and Mark put Jonathan’s bed together. It didn’t help. He could still hear Liam ranting in the bedroom. “Look after yourself, I said. I know I told him that. And what did he go and do? He drove across town when he knew he wasn’t supposed to. Anything could have happened to him. Did you see his chest? He’s mangled those stitches again. As it is he’s going to have a scar. If he keeps doing it, God alone knows what sort of damage he’ll do. He could end up in surgery again.”“He’s alright, Liam. You can see that. He’s out there resting, just like you told him to. He’ll be fine.” At least Mark’s voice held reason. Liam was off his rocker. Jonathan was surprised that Liam was letting loose like this. Not many people got to see his cousin vent. Jonathan had only met Mark a few times but he could already see how important he was becoming to his cousin. A smile tugged at his lips. Now maybe Liam will have someone else to focus all his protective instincts on and Jonathan will have some space to heal and work out how he wanted to live his life.“He hasn’t been looking after himself. You saw—”Mark chuckled. “You know what I find really funny here?”“Funny? How can you find this—”“This is the first time we’ve made a bed together, hell, almost the first time we’ve been near a bed together, and it isn’t even ours. When you come over to my place we never make it any further than the couch.”Silence. Blissful silence. Jonathan sucked in as deep a breath as he could and let it out slowly. Perhaps Mark will be good for Liam. Even if he is Anthony’s ex.Shit. He shouldn’t have thought about Anthony. Now his heart was pounding and tears burned his eyes. Jonathan hated him, despised Anthony for what he’d done to him through the years. He hated himself for allowing it, for giving into Anthony's bullying, for staying with him for so long, even though he knew Anthony would end up killing him. He sat forward, groaning against the twinge of pain in his wound and the cramp in his back muscles.Today was the beginning of his new life. He had to learn to look forward to things again but he’d spent so long simply surviving day by day he didn’t know how to do that anymore. Images from the day flitted through his distracted mind and it was long moments before Jonathan realized every single image was of the removalist, Ben. His bright hazel eyes, begging Jonathan to find acceptance and compassion for Col and his strange ways, the way he looked after Col and made sure he ate when he needed to, the way his muscles moved as he lifted boxes and moved furniture. Jonathan breathed deeply, imagining he could still smell Ben’s warm sweat as he maneuvered the bulky furniture through the doorway. A strident knocking at the front door reverberated through the quiet room. Jonathan jumped and stared at the opening to the short entrance hall, his breathing suddenly labored. Anthony is still in hospital. There’s no lift in the building. He can’t get up here. It didn’t matter what Jonathan told himself, nothing stopped the nervous sweat beading on his face or the tremble of his fingers.Liam’s footsteps thudded along the floorboards from the bedroom. He glanced inquiringly at Jonathan on his way through the living room. Jonathan managed a slight shake of his head. He wasn’t expecting anyone. He watched Liam open the door but couldn’t see who was there.“Oh, yeah, um, hi. I’m Ben, the removalist? Is, um, Jonathan there?”“Was there something wrong with the delivery? Did you miss a box or something?” Jonathan leaned to the left so he could see Liam’s around wide shoulders blocking the doorway. “Who is it?” Mark asked quietly from beside him. Jonathan was so focused on Ben and Liam at the door he didn’t even start at the unexpected question. “It’s one of the removalists,” he whispered.“Did they forget a box or something?”“I don’t think so.” Jonathan felt silly still whispering but he wasn’t sure if he wanted Ben to know he was there. As soon as the thought floated through his head, he scoffed. Ben had spent most of the day moving him in here. Of course he knew where he was. Jonathan reached out and grabbed Mark’s hand. “Do you think he’s a stalker?” Mark looked down at him, a mix of surprise, amusement and pity in his face. Jonathan dropped his hand and struggled to his feet. Hadn’t he been telling himself for the last week—hell, months—that he wasn’t going to let fear rule his life anymore? He walked steadily across the room and up behind Liam as he listened to Ben’s response.“No. No, we didn’t forget a box. It’s just that, well, he looked like he could use some help unpacking.”Jonathan placed a hand on Liam’s shoulder. “Thanks Liam, I’ve got this.”Liam turned to scowl at him. “Jonathan—”“Why don’t you and Mark finish up in the bedroom while I talk to Ben?”
The scowl deepened but Liam backed off and thumped back into the apartment.
November 8, 2013
NaNoWriMo Excerpt 1
I'm doing NaNoWriMo so my brain is focused on the story. Here's an excerpt from what I'm working on - Just the Way You Are. Bear in mind it needs editing.
CHAPTER ONEJonathan hadn’t noticed the new section of fence when Liam brought him home the evening before. His cousin must have had the damage repaired while Jonathan was in hospital learning how to make his lung work again. There were still marks in the lawn where Jonathan had brought the Cruiser to a stop but the grass had already begun growing through them. Soon there would be nothing to remind anyone that he’d nearly died that night. That his life partner had tried to kill him. He shivered in the early morning air but not from the chill. Sleep last night had been impossible. Liam had had cleaners in before Jonathan came home, but nothing was going to completely remove the blood splattered on the white carpet. He wrapped his arms around himself and groaned as his scar tugged against the movement. He relaxed slowly as the pain eased.The low rumble of a truck turning into the street made Jonathan’s heart race. “You can do this,” he whispered, although he wasn’t quite sure which part of ‘this’ he was talking about. It could be dealing with strangers on his own or it could be leaving Anthony—finally. He pressed the heel of his hand over the dressing on his chest. Staying with Anthony was no longer an option.The truck came closer and Jonathan focused on the two men sitting in the cab. The driver looked young and blond, the passenger older and shriveled, his hair sticking out in unkempt tangles. “Two people. Not Anthony. You’re outside, everything’s marked. You don’t need to go inside with them at all if you don’t want to. You can do this.”The truck backed into the driveway; the high-pitched beeping made Jonathan jump. He remained where he was, his feet planted firmly on the lawn, and counted his breaths in and out. The beeping stopped, the engine cut out and the driver’s door opened.Long, well-formed legs slipped from the cab, by-passing the step completely as a stocky body slid to the ground. Khaki cargo pants bunched enticingly around a spectacular package before settling loosely around slim hips as the man’s boot-clad feet landed on the ground and he stood away from the truck. Jonathan moved his gaze up the body. The worn t-shirt did nothing to hide the trim stomach and well-formed pecs and the sleeves framed the rounded deltoids perfectly. Jonathan sighed as he lifted his focus higher to see the man’s wide smile.“You Jonathan Watson?” His voice was low and rich, a dribble of lava over rock. “I’m Ben Urquhart.” He gestured to the man still sitting in the truck. “That’s Col. You have everything you need to move ready?”While he spoke, the other man—Col—got out of the truck and strode toward them. He wore navy Stubbies, the short shorts barely covering what they needed to, and a navy singlet. Both were faded and limp from many washings. Salt and pepper hair peeked from the top of the singlet and under his arms. His cheeks and chin sported at least a week’s growth of the same mottled hair but the top of his head was shiny smooth, framed by an unkempt tonsure. His legs were spindly but loose skin hung on the thighs indicating a probably recent and significant weight loss. His upper arms told the same story. “You got dogs here?” It was more a demand than a question.“No.”“Good. I hate killing dogs.”Jonathan gasped.“Can you show us what you want moved? We’ll get started.” Ben grabbed Col’s arm. “Come on, Col. Time to move furniture.” “I’ll show you the pieces that need loading,” Jonathan said. He strode into the house and hurried to the living room. He took a deep breath as he moved into the open space before turning to watch the removalists enter.“You aren’t taking all of it?” The burly man, Col, strode into the room and came directly for Jonathan. Jonathan stepped back, raising his hands defensively before he realized what he had done and dropped them to his sides. His fingers twitched with the need to lift up and protect his stomach and groin, but he forced them to stay down. Not every man was a violent asshole.“Col, you’re doing it again.” Ben grabbed the elbow of the blue-singleted one and pulled him away.“What? I’m not doing anything, Benny. I’m a pussy-cat.” He jammed his broad fists on his hips and glared at the second removalist.“I know you are but you can’t come up so close like that to people. Why don’t you have a look in the kitchen and see what’s there to load.” Col took a step back and, even though Ben was smaller than he was and, in comparison, looked almost effeminate with gracefully arched eyebrows and neatly trimmed dark blonde hair, he grunted an acknowledgement and lowered his shoulders and eyebrows. Ben held his ground and glared at the older man until the last quivering eyebrow hair had settled. “Fine,” Col grumbled. “Stop this bullshitting around and let’s get the job done.” He turned his fierce stare onto Jonathan. “Are we taking all this?”Jonathan stepped around the two men as he gestured around the living room and toward the bedrooms up the stairs. “I’ve put orange sticky-notes on the pieces to be loaded. There are also several boxes in the kitchen.”Col strode into the kitchen, muttering. “Bloody orange sticky-notes. Bloody queen.”Jonathan gaped after the horrid man.“Ignore him. Col’s in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. He’s not really such a prick.” Ben raised a hand and Jonathan realized, too late, he had probably only meant to clap him on the shoulder. He raised himself from his crouch and lowered his arms but couldn’t meet the other man’s gaze. He didn’t want to see the disgust that would surely be there. Jonathan knew what he looked like. At six foot tall with broad shoulders and strong jaw, he knew he came across as the one who’d be the violent one of any couple. He was just the opposite. Even though he was much larger and stronger than Anthony, he’d never been able to take control in their relationship. In the early years, taking control had never even occurred to him. The silence stretched but the man stayed in front of Jonathan. Eventually Jonathan raised his head to see why he was still there. Hazel eyes regarded him steadily. He was too close, but Jonathan forced himself to stay still, to not step away. If he moved one muscle he’d probably end up running up the street, screaming hysterically. He’d spent a lot of time in the hospital deciding he was going to be in charge of his own life from now on. This was step one.The perfect eyebrows lowered until they were two straight lines over pale eyes. Sweat broke out on Jonathan’s scalp as the need for flight ratcheted higher. Then Ben took a step back and Jonathan could breathe again.“The doc said Col will still be able to work for a while. He’s good at his job but you can request another crew if you’d like.” Ben said as he held out a tablet and stylus. He jerked his head to the kitchen where they could still hear the muttering of the older man. Jonathan took the proffered equipment and looked at it. “That’s what we have on our list to pick up and deliver to the new place. All you have to do is tick off each item as we bring it out and then do the same when we get to the other end. Add anything extra you might have forgotten when you registered, at the bottom there, so we can keep track.” He looked at Jonathan for a long time but before the urge to step away overwhelmed him, Ben backed up toward the center of the room. “We’ll just get started then. Tick things off as we take them out.”Jonathan stared at Ben's back as he turned and walked into the kitchen to talk to Col, dimly taking in the worn t-shirt and cargo shorts over scuffed steel-capped boots. The shorts sat low on his hips but didn’t expose his underwear like so many other people’s clothes did. Jonathan appreciated that small show of modesty even as he remembered how the shorts bunched when Ben slid down from the truck. The fabric fitted so well over Ben’s hips and butt that Jonathan would have sworn they’d been tailor-made for him, but who would pay for custom-made work shorts. Jonathan flushed when he realized he’d watched Ben’s backside all the way into the kitchen but he couldn’t look away. When the man disappeared from view, Jonathan left the house and positioned himself outside the front door so he was out of the way. As he waited, he checked the list. He’d created the list while he was still in hospital and was sure there were things he’d missed that were now marked with a sticky note. He listened to the two removalists discuss the best way to approach the move, Ben’s deep baritone providing a soothing counterpoint to Col’s strident tenor. At least Col sounded more reasonable now he was focused on his work. Within minutes they fell silent, then they appeared at the door with a large bureau. Jonathan stepped back further to make sure he was out of the way before searching for the item on the list and ticking it off. Jonathan was amazed at how quickly they worked. Within an hour they had loaded everything Jonathan had marked, laid felt between and over the furniture and tied it all securely, ready for the trip to Jonathan’s new apartment. “How’d we go?” asked Ben. Col stood beside the truck scowling at Jonathan. Jonathan took a small step to the side, so that Ben’s body hid the other man from view. “Don’t worry about Col. He’s hungry but hasn’t realized it yet. I’ll stop on the way over to your new place and make sure he eats something. He won’t bother you anymore.” He reached out and took the tablet from Jonathan’s unresisting hands, quickly skimming the information. “Okay, looks like we got it all. You want to check inside just in case there’s something else you wanted?”Jonathan shook his head. “There’s nothing.” Everything he’d marked or packed last night was in the truck. He’d made sure to only take the items he’d chosen and paid for himself. “Do you know where you’re taking it all?”“Sure do. You heading out now?”Jonathan almost smiled at Ben’s habit of starting his questions part way through the sentence, but nodded instead. “I’ll be right behind you.”“We still need to close up the truck and stop for lunch. You’ll have plenty of time get there before us and open up. That way we can begin unloading straight away.” “Oh, um, sure.” Jonathan waited until Ben moved away before he ducked into the house to check they hadn’t left any mess. The sight of the few dark squares of undisturbed carpet in the living room and the empty shelf in the bookcase tightened Jonathan’s throat. He remembered purchasing every piece of furniture, the time and thought he’d put into choosing each item, so that it fitted perfectly in its place and complemented Anthony’s belongings. He sighed. “Maybe it wasn’t all for nothing,” he whispered to himself. “Maybe it will look just as good in my new place.”His new place. What a joke, Jonathan thought as he locked up and walked over to his car. Liam had found the apartment for him while he was still in hospital. Liam had paid the deposit and three months’ rent in advance, and Liam had gone shopping so there would be food in the new fridge he’d bought so Jonathan would have something to eat when he was finally moved in this evening. Jonathan hadn’t even been inside it yet. He didn’t think he’d ever even driven through the neighborhood. He opened his car door and lowered himself carefully into the driver’s seat. He’d been discharged from hospital the afternoon before and had spent the entire night packing boxes and putting sticky notes on furniture. He refused to spend even one more night in the house he’d shared with Anthony for ten years. He leaned his head back against the head rest, feeling every ache and every square inch of his skin, especially over his chest and back. The stab wound was still healing and his back ached because he’d been using those muscles to compensate for the others that hurt too much to use. As soon as this move was finished, he was going to take all the pain meds he was allowed, then fall into bed and stay there for at least a week.Taking as deep a breath as his newly-inflated lung would allow him—damn Anthony and his psycho-homocidal bullshit—Jonathan raised his head, inserted the key and started the car, thanking all that’s holy that his car was an automatic and he only needed one hand to drive. There was no way his wound would allow him to use his left hand enough to even steer a car.The drive across town was an exercise in pain endurance. It was a good thing Jonathan had plenty of practice functioning through severe pain, or he wouldn’t have made it. The three storey apartment building was an old one. It wore streaky grey render that was probably once white, three concrete steps with one iron railing led to the green front door. There was no security other than a deadlock on the front door and bars on all the windows. His apartment was on the top floor at the back of the building, near the emergency exit. According to Liam, the bathroom had a mould problem and the kitchen smelled of decades old oil and grease but the only thing Jonathan had worried about was if Anthony would have access. Liam had wanted to find something better for him, but Jonathan knew he’d be able to afford this one, even if it was some time before he found work.He followed the removal truck until it turned into a Macdonalds; after that he blindly followed the directions of his GPS. Weaving in and out of traffic was more strenuous than he’d thought it would be. As it was, he couldn’t remember whole sections of the drive over. Sweat poured off him as he pulled up to the curb, soaking his back and dribbling down his face to drip off the end of his nose and chin. His chest ached, the muscles around the wound strained beyond what they could comfortably handle this soon after being stabbed. He’d told Liam he’d get a cab and would pick up his car in a couple of days, but in the end he hadn’t been able to leave it there. He didn’t want anything of his at Anthony’s house. Not one thing. Never again.Now he sat at the curb and watched the truck reverse into the drive like it did at Anthony’s place that morning. He wondered how long he’d been sitting there, breathing through the pain, hoping he’d catch his breath soon. If he got out of the car right now, he’d probably collapse. He leaned his head back on the head-rest, closed his eyes and tried to breathe evenly. Deep breaths hurt like buggery so he didn’t even try. Worry gnawed at him. Liam was going to kill him if he did any further damage to his lung. A knock on the window beside him made him jump so much the seatbelt bit into his chest and he gasped. Frowning eyes loomed inches away and he jerked back, crying out when the seatbelt scraped across his stitches. “Are you okay?” Ben’s voice was muffled by the glass.Jonathan sucked in a calming breath and hit the button to lower the window. He scowled when it didn’t work with the ignition off. He removed the keys from the ignition, released his seatbelt then opened the door. “Sorry, just wool-gathering,” he said as he swung his legs around and pushed himself out of the car and onto his feet, hoping Ben would move back some more. “What the fuck happened?” Ben stepped forward, his hands reaching toward Jonathan. Jonathan stumbled back but had nowhere to go trapped between the open car door and his seat. His breathing, beginning to calm after the strenuous drive, ratcheted up again at Ben’s proximity. His vision grayed at the edges and he panted. A whimper escaped when Ben grabbed his shoulder and drew him forward.“Don’t. Please.”
CHAPTER ONEJonathan hadn’t noticed the new section of fence when Liam brought him home the evening before. His cousin must have had the damage repaired while Jonathan was in hospital learning how to make his lung work again. There were still marks in the lawn where Jonathan had brought the Cruiser to a stop but the grass had already begun growing through them. Soon there would be nothing to remind anyone that he’d nearly died that night. That his life partner had tried to kill him. He shivered in the early morning air but not from the chill. Sleep last night had been impossible. Liam had had cleaners in before Jonathan came home, but nothing was going to completely remove the blood splattered on the white carpet. He wrapped his arms around himself and groaned as his scar tugged against the movement. He relaxed slowly as the pain eased.The low rumble of a truck turning into the street made Jonathan’s heart race. “You can do this,” he whispered, although he wasn’t quite sure which part of ‘this’ he was talking about. It could be dealing with strangers on his own or it could be leaving Anthony—finally. He pressed the heel of his hand over the dressing on his chest. Staying with Anthony was no longer an option.The truck came closer and Jonathan focused on the two men sitting in the cab. The driver looked young and blond, the passenger older and shriveled, his hair sticking out in unkempt tangles. “Two people. Not Anthony. You’re outside, everything’s marked. You don’t need to go inside with them at all if you don’t want to. You can do this.”The truck backed into the driveway; the high-pitched beeping made Jonathan jump. He remained where he was, his feet planted firmly on the lawn, and counted his breaths in and out. The beeping stopped, the engine cut out and the driver’s door opened.Long, well-formed legs slipped from the cab, by-passing the step completely as a stocky body slid to the ground. Khaki cargo pants bunched enticingly around a spectacular package before settling loosely around slim hips as the man’s boot-clad feet landed on the ground and he stood away from the truck. Jonathan moved his gaze up the body. The worn t-shirt did nothing to hide the trim stomach and well-formed pecs and the sleeves framed the rounded deltoids perfectly. Jonathan sighed as he lifted his focus higher to see the man’s wide smile.“You Jonathan Watson?” His voice was low and rich, a dribble of lava over rock. “I’m Ben Urquhart.” He gestured to the man still sitting in the truck. “That’s Col. You have everything you need to move ready?”While he spoke, the other man—Col—got out of the truck and strode toward them. He wore navy Stubbies, the short shorts barely covering what they needed to, and a navy singlet. Both were faded and limp from many washings. Salt and pepper hair peeked from the top of the singlet and under his arms. His cheeks and chin sported at least a week’s growth of the same mottled hair but the top of his head was shiny smooth, framed by an unkempt tonsure. His legs were spindly but loose skin hung on the thighs indicating a probably recent and significant weight loss. His upper arms told the same story. “You got dogs here?” It was more a demand than a question.“No.”“Good. I hate killing dogs.”Jonathan gasped.“Can you show us what you want moved? We’ll get started.” Ben grabbed Col’s arm. “Come on, Col. Time to move furniture.” “I’ll show you the pieces that need loading,” Jonathan said. He strode into the house and hurried to the living room. He took a deep breath as he moved into the open space before turning to watch the removalists enter.“You aren’t taking all of it?” The burly man, Col, strode into the room and came directly for Jonathan. Jonathan stepped back, raising his hands defensively before he realized what he had done and dropped them to his sides. His fingers twitched with the need to lift up and protect his stomach and groin, but he forced them to stay down. Not every man was a violent asshole.“Col, you’re doing it again.” Ben grabbed the elbow of the blue-singleted one and pulled him away.“What? I’m not doing anything, Benny. I’m a pussy-cat.” He jammed his broad fists on his hips and glared at the second removalist.“I know you are but you can’t come up so close like that to people. Why don’t you have a look in the kitchen and see what’s there to load.” Col took a step back and, even though Ben was smaller than he was and, in comparison, looked almost effeminate with gracefully arched eyebrows and neatly trimmed dark blonde hair, he grunted an acknowledgement and lowered his shoulders and eyebrows. Ben held his ground and glared at the older man until the last quivering eyebrow hair had settled. “Fine,” Col grumbled. “Stop this bullshitting around and let’s get the job done.” He turned his fierce stare onto Jonathan. “Are we taking all this?”Jonathan stepped around the two men as he gestured around the living room and toward the bedrooms up the stairs. “I’ve put orange sticky-notes on the pieces to be loaded. There are also several boxes in the kitchen.”Col strode into the kitchen, muttering. “Bloody orange sticky-notes. Bloody queen.”Jonathan gaped after the horrid man.“Ignore him. Col’s in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. He’s not really such a prick.” Ben raised a hand and Jonathan realized, too late, he had probably only meant to clap him on the shoulder. He raised himself from his crouch and lowered his arms but couldn’t meet the other man’s gaze. He didn’t want to see the disgust that would surely be there. Jonathan knew what he looked like. At six foot tall with broad shoulders and strong jaw, he knew he came across as the one who’d be the violent one of any couple. He was just the opposite. Even though he was much larger and stronger than Anthony, he’d never been able to take control in their relationship. In the early years, taking control had never even occurred to him. The silence stretched but the man stayed in front of Jonathan. Eventually Jonathan raised his head to see why he was still there. Hazel eyes regarded him steadily. He was too close, but Jonathan forced himself to stay still, to not step away. If he moved one muscle he’d probably end up running up the street, screaming hysterically. He’d spent a lot of time in the hospital deciding he was going to be in charge of his own life from now on. This was step one.The perfect eyebrows lowered until they were two straight lines over pale eyes. Sweat broke out on Jonathan’s scalp as the need for flight ratcheted higher. Then Ben took a step back and Jonathan could breathe again.“The doc said Col will still be able to work for a while. He’s good at his job but you can request another crew if you’d like.” Ben said as he held out a tablet and stylus. He jerked his head to the kitchen where they could still hear the muttering of the older man. Jonathan took the proffered equipment and looked at it. “That’s what we have on our list to pick up and deliver to the new place. All you have to do is tick off each item as we bring it out and then do the same when we get to the other end. Add anything extra you might have forgotten when you registered, at the bottom there, so we can keep track.” He looked at Jonathan for a long time but before the urge to step away overwhelmed him, Ben backed up toward the center of the room. “We’ll just get started then. Tick things off as we take them out.”Jonathan stared at Ben's back as he turned and walked into the kitchen to talk to Col, dimly taking in the worn t-shirt and cargo shorts over scuffed steel-capped boots. The shorts sat low on his hips but didn’t expose his underwear like so many other people’s clothes did. Jonathan appreciated that small show of modesty even as he remembered how the shorts bunched when Ben slid down from the truck. The fabric fitted so well over Ben’s hips and butt that Jonathan would have sworn they’d been tailor-made for him, but who would pay for custom-made work shorts. Jonathan flushed when he realized he’d watched Ben’s backside all the way into the kitchen but he couldn’t look away. When the man disappeared from view, Jonathan left the house and positioned himself outside the front door so he was out of the way. As he waited, he checked the list. He’d created the list while he was still in hospital and was sure there were things he’d missed that were now marked with a sticky note. He listened to the two removalists discuss the best way to approach the move, Ben’s deep baritone providing a soothing counterpoint to Col’s strident tenor. At least Col sounded more reasonable now he was focused on his work. Within minutes they fell silent, then they appeared at the door with a large bureau. Jonathan stepped back further to make sure he was out of the way before searching for the item on the list and ticking it off. Jonathan was amazed at how quickly they worked. Within an hour they had loaded everything Jonathan had marked, laid felt between and over the furniture and tied it all securely, ready for the trip to Jonathan’s new apartment. “How’d we go?” asked Ben. Col stood beside the truck scowling at Jonathan. Jonathan took a small step to the side, so that Ben’s body hid the other man from view. “Don’t worry about Col. He’s hungry but hasn’t realized it yet. I’ll stop on the way over to your new place and make sure he eats something. He won’t bother you anymore.” He reached out and took the tablet from Jonathan’s unresisting hands, quickly skimming the information. “Okay, looks like we got it all. You want to check inside just in case there’s something else you wanted?”Jonathan shook his head. “There’s nothing.” Everything he’d marked or packed last night was in the truck. He’d made sure to only take the items he’d chosen and paid for himself. “Do you know where you’re taking it all?”“Sure do. You heading out now?”Jonathan almost smiled at Ben’s habit of starting his questions part way through the sentence, but nodded instead. “I’ll be right behind you.”“We still need to close up the truck and stop for lunch. You’ll have plenty of time get there before us and open up. That way we can begin unloading straight away.” “Oh, um, sure.” Jonathan waited until Ben moved away before he ducked into the house to check they hadn’t left any mess. The sight of the few dark squares of undisturbed carpet in the living room and the empty shelf in the bookcase tightened Jonathan’s throat. He remembered purchasing every piece of furniture, the time and thought he’d put into choosing each item, so that it fitted perfectly in its place and complemented Anthony’s belongings. He sighed. “Maybe it wasn’t all for nothing,” he whispered to himself. “Maybe it will look just as good in my new place.”His new place. What a joke, Jonathan thought as he locked up and walked over to his car. Liam had found the apartment for him while he was still in hospital. Liam had paid the deposit and three months’ rent in advance, and Liam had gone shopping so there would be food in the new fridge he’d bought so Jonathan would have something to eat when he was finally moved in this evening. Jonathan hadn’t even been inside it yet. He didn’t think he’d ever even driven through the neighborhood. He opened his car door and lowered himself carefully into the driver’s seat. He’d been discharged from hospital the afternoon before and had spent the entire night packing boxes and putting sticky notes on furniture. He refused to spend even one more night in the house he’d shared with Anthony for ten years. He leaned his head back against the head rest, feeling every ache and every square inch of his skin, especially over his chest and back. The stab wound was still healing and his back ached because he’d been using those muscles to compensate for the others that hurt too much to use. As soon as this move was finished, he was going to take all the pain meds he was allowed, then fall into bed and stay there for at least a week.Taking as deep a breath as his newly-inflated lung would allow him—damn Anthony and his psycho-homocidal bullshit—Jonathan raised his head, inserted the key and started the car, thanking all that’s holy that his car was an automatic and he only needed one hand to drive. There was no way his wound would allow him to use his left hand enough to even steer a car.The drive across town was an exercise in pain endurance. It was a good thing Jonathan had plenty of practice functioning through severe pain, or he wouldn’t have made it. The three storey apartment building was an old one. It wore streaky grey render that was probably once white, three concrete steps with one iron railing led to the green front door. There was no security other than a deadlock on the front door and bars on all the windows. His apartment was on the top floor at the back of the building, near the emergency exit. According to Liam, the bathroom had a mould problem and the kitchen smelled of decades old oil and grease but the only thing Jonathan had worried about was if Anthony would have access. Liam had wanted to find something better for him, but Jonathan knew he’d be able to afford this one, even if it was some time before he found work.He followed the removal truck until it turned into a Macdonalds; after that he blindly followed the directions of his GPS. Weaving in and out of traffic was more strenuous than he’d thought it would be. As it was, he couldn’t remember whole sections of the drive over. Sweat poured off him as he pulled up to the curb, soaking his back and dribbling down his face to drip off the end of his nose and chin. His chest ached, the muscles around the wound strained beyond what they could comfortably handle this soon after being stabbed. He’d told Liam he’d get a cab and would pick up his car in a couple of days, but in the end he hadn’t been able to leave it there. He didn’t want anything of his at Anthony’s house. Not one thing. Never again.Now he sat at the curb and watched the truck reverse into the drive like it did at Anthony’s place that morning. He wondered how long he’d been sitting there, breathing through the pain, hoping he’d catch his breath soon. If he got out of the car right now, he’d probably collapse. He leaned his head back on the head-rest, closed his eyes and tried to breathe evenly. Deep breaths hurt like buggery so he didn’t even try. Worry gnawed at him. Liam was going to kill him if he did any further damage to his lung. A knock on the window beside him made him jump so much the seatbelt bit into his chest and he gasped. Frowning eyes loomed inches away and he jerked back, crying out when the seatbelt scraped across his stitches. “Are you okay?” Ben’s voice was muffled by the glass.Jonathan sucked in a calming breath and hit the button to lower the window. He scowled when it didn’t work with the ignition off. He removed the keys from the ignition, released his seatbelt then opened the door. “Sorry, just wool-gathering,” he said as he swung his legs around and pushed himself out of the car and onto his feet, hoping Ben would move back some more. “What the fuck happened?” Ben stepped forward, his hands reaching toward Jonathan. Jonathan stumbled back but had nowhere to go trapped between the open car door and his seat. His breathing, beginning to calm after the strenuous drive, ratcheted up again at Ben’s proximity. His vision grayed at the edges and he panted. A whimper escaped when Ben grabbed his shoulder and drew him forward.“Don’t. Please.”
November 1, 2013
The eight elements of story - how far do you go?
Every now and then I stop what I'm writing and I browse through something others have written about writing. I figure it never hurts to revisit things you've known for a while or to learn something new and see if it works for me.
Most of the time, what I read doesn't get used in the way it's set out in the book because I'm too disorganised. I don't plot much - not at all really - so trying to plan where each element of conflict is resolved is useless for me. Still, I read the articles and books and I think about what parts of the advice I can take on board and make work for me.
That's the theory anyway. Usually by the time I become absorbed in the story, I've forgotten all about story arc or character arc or the Watts' Eight Point Arc, or any other kind of arc. I'm too interested in the people I'm learning about as I write and just need to see where they'll take me.
That doesn't mean I haven't taken something away from my reading. Take Watts' Eight Point Arc.
Watts maintains that every story will follow through eight points before it finishes. The eight points are:
Stasis - what life was like before, the comfort zoneTrigger - what happens to make it all changeThe quest - what do you have to accomplish to either return to the status quo or find another comfort zoneSurprise - obstacles and conflicts that prevent you from achieving your goalCritical Choice - the crucial decision that will either save the day or ruin everythingClimax - the highest peak of tension that comes about because of the critical choiceReversal - the consequence of the critical choiceResolution - the new stasisEvery story has these elements to varying degrees. If even one element is missed out, the reader notices it and is dissatisfied. Not all elements need equal time. For example, the stasis could be little more than a sentence at the beginning, a setting of the scene so the reader knows where we stand with things to start with.
This eight point arc isn't a new idea but that doesn't mean it has nothing to offer. It also doesn't mean it needs to be followed rigidly. Inflexible fidelity to any one system could lead to systemic writing. I have a horror of that sort of writing. My head fills with masses of pink - Barbara Cartland style - and I shudder at producing stories that no one can tell apart except for the names of the heroes.
That's one of the reasons I don't plot (the main reason is if I know how the story is going to end I lose interest). I figure I can plan out one element and then let the rest fall where they may... see what happens.
With NaNo up and running for another year, these thoughts are apt. I'm running behind schedule with my planning - ie I haven't done any - so I'm going to choose one of the elements and write some notes. Maybe that will drop a scene into my head and I can start writing it down.
Most of the time, what I read doesn't get used in the way it's set out in the book because I'm too disorganised. I don't plot much - not at all really - so trying to plan where each element of conflict is resolved is useless for me. Still, I read the articles and books and I think about what parts of the advice I can take on board and make work for me.
That's the theory anyway. Usually by the time I become absorbed in the story, I've forgotten all about story arc or character arc or the Watts' Eight Point Arc, or any other kind of arc. I'm too interested in the people I'm learning about as I write and just need to see where they'll take me.
That doesn't mean I haven't taken something away from my reading. Take Watts' Eight Point Arc.
Watts maintains that every story will follow through eight points before it finishes. The eight points are:
Stasis - what life was like before, the comfort zoneTrigger - what happens to make it all changeThe quest - what do you have to accomplish to either return to the status quo or find another comfort zoneSurprise - obstacles and conflicts that prevent you from achieving your goalCritical Choice - the crucial decision that will either save the day or ruin everythingClimax - the highest peak of tension that comes about because of the critical choiceReversal - the consequence of the critical choiceResolution - the new stasisEvery story has these elements to varying degrees. If even one element is missed out, the reader notices it and is dissatisfied. Not all elements need equal time. For example, the stasis could be little more than a sentence at the beginning, a setting of the scene so the reader knows where we stand with things to start with.
This eight point arc isn't a new idea but that doesn't mean it has nothing to offer. It also doesn't mean it needs to be followed rigidly. Inflexible fidelity to any one system could lead to systemic writing. I have a horror of that sort of writing. My head fills with masses of pink - Barbara Cartland style - and I shudder at producing stories that no one can tell apart except for the names of the heroes.
That's one of the reasons I don't plot (the main reason is if I know how the story is going to end I lose interest). I figure I can plan out one element and then let the rest fall where they may... see what happens.
With NaNo up and running for another year, these thoughts are apt. I'm running behind schedule with my planning - ie I haven't done any - so I'm going to choose one of the elements and write some notes. Maybe that will drop a scene into my head and I can start writing it down.
October 25, 2013
Critiquing others' work
I've been spending a lot of my time lately critiquing the writing of other people. I'm good at it. I can easily identify passive writing, telling vs showing, character and plot inconsistencies and contradictions in storyline. I hope I'm also good at telling the author what needs to be fixed without making them feel like they're useless.
It wasn't always this way.
I have a low threshold of tolerance for rubbish, and that includes rubbish writing. I've always been like that and not always been tactful about it. It's worse if the story is a good one and I can see the author can actually write - they've just got it very wrong with this story. I annoys me. It means they've been careless. (This doesn't mean I don't do this myself. I do, and I appreciate that others will call me on it. Well, I appreciate it after I come back from my three-day sulk.)
I've had really tough critiques done of my work and felt absolutely devastated by them. I remember one story where I wrote a date rape scene--an older woman coerced a young man into having sex with her by manipulating him emotionally. Neither character was the main character but the scene was necessary for the main character to gain certain understandings about the type of people he was friends with and what was important in his life. I had warned the group there was a 'rough' scene in it. If the scene was unnecessary for the plot or was badly written, that's fine. But those weren't the things criticized by one member of the group. He called into question my morals and values and whether or not I should be a member of the group because of that scene.
That's not how a good critique should be written.
Even knowing that, though, I've given harsh critiques myself. I try never to make my comments personal at all but sometimes they've been taken that way anyway. I once emailed an author regarding a story I read. It was part of an anthology that I'd bought because of one of the other authors in it. The first story I read was brilliant, then I read this author's work and was so disappointed by it, I had to respond. Being the over-achiever that I can be at times, I took some time to analyse the story and pick out the sections that worked and the ones that didn't. The thing that disappointed me most was that I could see that this author could write but, for whatever reason, had been particularly inconsistent with their writing of this story. I sent my response to the author privately and received a reply demanding to know if I was going to make my comments public. Truthfully, what would be the point in that? My purpose in giving the feedback was to point out to the author that they had talent but had, effectively, been very lazy in writing that particular story. They could do better.
It was only afterwards that I realized my comments could have been construed as an attack. Yeah, with some things, I'm a very slow learner. I still feel bad about any upset I might have caused but, honestly, that author now writes very strong stories. No way would I be able to pick the types of errors I had in that earlier story.
I've worked hard since then to make sure any critique I write contains language that can only be considered professional. I don't always succeed. The last time I failed spectacularly, though, was at a writing course when I made one writer cry. In my defense, the writing was weak, and she refuted everything everyone said about her 'baby'.
I've been a member of one of my crit groups for more than ten years now. We all know each other well and can be as harsh as we want to be with our crits without causing any angst other than frustration at not knowing how to fix it. In some ways we've become predictable. I have a few stories that need fresh eyes.
I joined Scribophile a couple of weeks ago. It's a group of writers from all over the place who present chapters of their works for critique by others. In order to post work to the site, you need to earn points by critiquing others' work. There are guidelines and avenues for complaint and many more avenues to thank critiquers. I'm really enjoying it even though it's time consuming and I've fallen behind with my own writing.
It's a little nerve-wracking, though, because I don't know these people. I don't know if something I say, that I think is quite reasonable and necessary to know in order to improve the story, is going to upset someone else. I try to create "Sandwich" crits: critiques that begin with praise, contain suggestions for improvement and end with praise. I also try not to mark up every single error I see unless there are only a few to begin with.
So far, everyone I've critiqued seems to have taken my comments with grace. Likewise, the crits I've received on my work have been thorough and insightful. I've been getting to read some terrific new work, most of which is very close to a publishable standard. It's like getting a whole heap of new books for free. Having to do crits on them isn't a problem: I annotate any novel I read anyway so it's really no different.
On that note, I think I'll go back to Scribophile and finish a crit I began this morning.
It wasn't always this way.
I have a low threshold of tolerance for rubbish, and that includes rubbish writing. I've always been like that and not always been tactful about it. It's worse if the story is a good one and I can see the author can actually write - they've just got it very wrong with this story. I annoys me. It means they've been careless. (This doesn't mean I don't do this myself. I do, and I appreciate that others will call me on it. Well, I appreciate it after I come back from my three-day sulk.)
I've had really tough critiques done of my work and felt absolutely devastated by them. I remember one story where I wrote a date rape scene--an older woman coerced a young man into having sex with her by manipulating him emotionally. Neither character was the main character but the scene was necessary for the main character to gain certain understandings about the type of people he was friends with and what was important in his life. I had warned the group there was a 'rough' scene in it. If the scene was unnecessary for the plot or was badly written, that's fine. But those weren't the things criticized by one member of the group. He called into question my morals and values and whether or not I should be a member of the group because of that scene.
That's not how a good critique should be written.
Even knowing that, though, I've given harsh critiques myself. I try never to make my comments personal at all but sometimes they've been taken that way anyway. I once emailed an author regarding a story I read. It was part of an anthology that I'd bought because of one of the other authors in it. The first story I read was brilliant, then I read this author's work and was so disappointed by it, I had to respond. Being the over-achiever that I can be at times, I took some time to analyse the story and pick out the sections that worked and the ones that didn't. The thing that disappointed me most was that I could see that this author could write but, for whatever reason, had been particularly inconsistent with their writing of this story. I sent my response to the author privately and received a reply demanding to know if I was going to make my comments public. Truthfully, what would be the point in that? My purpose in giving the feedback was to point out to the author that they had talent but had, effectively, been very lazy in writing that particular story. They could do better.
It was only afterwards that I realized my comments could have been construed as an attack. Yeah, with some things, I'm a very slow learner. I still feel bad about any upset I might have caused but, honestly, that author now writes very strong stories. No way would I be able to pick the types of errors I had in that earlier story.
I've worked hard since then to make sure any critique I write contains language that can only be considered professional. I don't always succeed. The last time I failed spectacularly, though, was at a writing course when I made one writer cry. In my defense, the writing was weak, and she refuted everything everyone said about her 'baby'.
I've been a member of one of my crit groups for more than ten years now. We all know each other well and can be as harsh as we want to be with our crits without causing any angst other than frustration at not knowing how to fix it. In some ways we've become predictable. I have a few stories that need fresh eyes.
I joined Scribophile a couple of weeks ago. It's a group of writers from all over the place who present chapters of their works for critique by others. In order to post work to the site, you need to earn points by critiquing others' work. There are guidelines and avenues for complaint and many more avenues to thank critiquers. I'm really enjoying it even though it's time consuming and I've fallen behind with my own writing.
It's a little nerve-wracking, though, because I don't know these people. I don't know if something I say, that I think is quite reasonable and necessary to know in order to improve the story, is going to upset someone else. I try to create "Sandwich" crits: critiques that begin with praise, contain suggestions for improvement and end with praise. I also try not to mark up every single error I see unless there are only a few to begin with.
So far, everyone I've critiqued seems to have taken my comments with grace. Likewise, the crits I've received on my work have been thorough and insightful. I've been getting to read some terrific new work, most of which is very close to a publishable standard. It's like getting a whole heap of new books for free. Having to do crits on them isn't a problem: I annotate any novel I read anyway so it's really no different.
On that note, I think I'll go back to Scribophile and finish a crit I began this morning.
October 18, 2013
Forgetting the world: Other impacts on story
According to Dr Karl Kruzelnicki, by 2100 50% of the world’s population will have some signs of Alzheimer’s Disease. That single statement, uttered as part of setting the background to respond to a question from the audience at a session at the Brisbane Writers’ Festival, completely captured my attention and imagination.
This time my questions take a completely different track. Instead of wondering what the world will be like with that sort of reality, I started to wonder what things we could do to prevent it happening, or at least minimise it.
So, what can we do to prevent the onset of something like Alzheimer’s disease?
Firstly, eat well. Eat food that looks like food, not cardboard and melted plastic. Eat fresh and mostly plants.
Secondly, use your brain. Make the brain work actively every day. Do crosswords and Sudoku puzzles, learn a different language or a musical instrument, meditate.
Thirdly, exercise your body: regular exercise that raises your heart-rate, even if it’s only for a few minutes.
It sounds easy doesn’t it? If it was so easy, though, everybody would be doing it already and the expected percentage wouldn’t be so high.
On a personal level: So far I've managed to do at least one Sudoku puzzle every day. I've increased my plant intake but need to reduce my processed sugar intake more. I've thought about exercising every day and have managed to do that more often than I usually do, but still not every day yet. I'm working on it. Basically I'm lazy and complacent and relying on writing fiction to help - it's one of the few activities that uses both hemispheres of the brain simultaneously.
For the story: How would that change society? We already have a society where healthy eating and regular exercise is promoted, but the advent of so many people suffering from a disease such as Alzheimer's would have a significant influence. Government structures would change focus dramatically, and if that focus changed, does that mean other things, such as budgeting controls and other transparencies in operations fade into the background. Would it be easier for leaders to be corrupt or more difficult? Would there be companies created that would help people in power hide the fact they have Alzheimer's. Who then would have control over those people, the figureheads.
This could be an apocalyptic story without a violent catalyst. The changes would be made insidiously, like the writing on the wall in Animal Farm.
This time my questions take a completely different track. Instead of wondering what the world will be like with that sort of reality, I started to wonder what things we could do to prevent it happening, or at least minimise it.
So, what can we do to prevent the onset of something like Alzheimer’s disease?
Firstly, eat well. Eat food that looks like food, not cardboard and melted plastic. Eat fresh and mostly plants.
Secondly, use your brain. Make the brain work actively every day. Do crosswords and Sudoku puzzles, learn a different language or a musical instrument, meditate.
Thirdly, exercise your body: regular exercise that raises your heart-rate, even if it’s only for a few minutes.
It sounds easy doesn’t it? If it was so easy, though, everybody would be doing it already and the expected percentage wouldn’t be so high.
On a personal level: So far I've managed to do at least one Sudoku puzzle every day. I've increased my plant intake but need to reduce my processed sugar intake more. I've thought about exercising every day and have managed to do that more often than I usually do, but still not every day yet. I'm working on it. Basically I'm lazy and complacent and relying on writing fiction to help - it's one of the few activities that uses both hemispheres of the brain simultaneously.
For the story: How would that change society? We already have a society where healthy eating and regular exercise is promoted, but the advent of so many people suffering from a disease such as Alzheimer's would have a significant influence. Government structures would change focus dramatically, and if that focus changed, does that mean other things, such as budgeting controls and other transparencies in operations fade into the background. Would it be easier for leaders to be corrupt or more difficult? Would there be companies created that would help people in power hide the fact they have Alzheimer's. Who then would have control over those people, the figureheads.
This could be an apocalyptic story without a violent catalyst. The changes would be made insidiously, like the writing on the wall in Animal Farm.
October 11, 2013
I Can Feel a Story Coming On
According to Dr Karl Kruzelnicki, by 2100 50% of the world’s population will have some signs of Alzheimer’s Disease. That single statement, uttered as part of setting the background to respond to a question from the audience at a session at the Brisbane Writers’ Festival, completely captured my attention and imagination.
Half the world’s population will have progressive brain degeneration. Apart from all the implications as far as housing, finance and medical care, what happens to all that knowledge? A lot of things are recorded; things that people consider important or noteworthy or eternally useful, but what about all the incidental things.
Things like what it was like to ride four children on a horse ten miles to a one-teacher school. Things like the fact that Uncle Barry had a lazy eye so that’s the side of the family that affliction has come from. Things like the secret ingredient or secret method for Great-great-grandma’s jam drops. Those sorts of things are usually only passed on verbally. Often they aren’t even spoken of until the family member has raised their children and retired and now has time to consider what has happened in their past.
By 2100, grandchildren will be asking questions, wanting to know, but Grandma has Alzheimer’s and doesn’t remember how to feed herself, let alone remember what it was like when she was young. It’s gone. The potential for losing significant parts of our culture is high.
Perhaps there’ll be a push in families and communities to record everyone’s personal history in an effort to preserve as much history as we can, but who do we decide to interview, or do we expect everyone to be responsible for recording their own personal history? Will we grow a culture where, for an hour every day, families sit around together and record what they’ve done that day and why they’ve done it and where they got the idea to do it? I wonder if that would grow a generation of super-responsible citizens, because they’ll have all grown up justifying every action they’ve taken.
What about the unreliability of memory? I grew up with three sisters. We sit and talk sometimes and there are instances in our lives where we were all there and saw exactly the same thing but we all remember it very differently. One might be traumatised by it, one might accept it as part of life, one might have been impacted so little by it that they don’t remember it at all. Memory is influenced by perspective and expectations, and is inherently flawed.
Are we heading for a world where, once again, the contributing population is less than 45 years old? In history, that meant people died young. Now it would mean an increasing aged population that requires twenty-four-hour care.
Will our society, unable to provide appropriate health care to the massive numbers of Alzheimer sufferers, become a community of walking zombie-like people, every one of them homeless because they can’t remember where they live? Buses would troll the streets each evening, collect the Wanderers, check the micro-chips embedded in their forearms and return them to their homes.
Nursing homes will become huge high-rise complexes patrolled by security and a skeleton staff of quasi-qualified carers. Those sufferers with health problems such as hypertension, high cholesterol, liver or heart disease will go essentially untreated—not because people don’t care about them but because no one has the time or resources to ensure everyone takes the correct medication at the correct time. The hospitals will be full of stroke victims left to language in huge dormitories because there are not enough facilities or adult people not suffering from Alzheimer’s to care for them.
The half of the Alzheimer’s-free population would include the children. How many adults would be left to raise them?
The pressures bearing on governments and charities to provide the needed resources would be huge. How would they cope? Would we find governments collapsing, countries essentially bankrupt, the standard of living plummeting? What impact would our technologies have? Would we revert to simpler societal structures in order to cope? What would we lose in the meantime? What would we gain?
The questions continue to crowd my mind. Every time I ask one question, it gives rise to another, yet there are no answers in my head. I'll either have to do some research or make it up. ;)
I can feel a story coming on...
Half the world’s population will have progressive brain degeneration. Apart from all the implications as far as housing, finance and medical care, what happens to all that knowledge? A lot of things are recorded; things that people consider important or noteworthy or eternally useful, but what about all the incidental things.
Things like what it was like to ride four children on a horse ten miles to a one-teacher school. Things like the fact that Uncle Barry had a lazy eye so that’s the side of the family that affliction has come from. Things like the secret ingredient or secret method for Great-great-grandma’s jam drops. Those sorts of things are usually only passed on verbally. Often they aren’t even spoken of until the family member has raised their children and retired and now has time to consider what has happened in their past.
By 2100, grandchildren will be asking questions, wanting to know, but Grandma has Alzheimer’s and doesn’t remember how to feed herself, let alone remember what it was like when she was young. It’s gone. The potential for losing significant parts of our culture is high.
Perhaps there’ll be a push in families and communities to record everyone’s personal history in an effort to preserve as much history as we can, but who do we decide to interview, or do we expect everyone to be responsible for recording their own personal history? Will we grow a culture where, for an hour every day, families sit around together and record what they’ve done that day and why they’ve done it and where they got the idea to do it? I wonder if that would grow a generation of super-responsible citizens, because they’ll have all grown up justifying every action they’ve taken.
What about the unreliability of memory? I grew up with three sisters. We sit and talk sometimes and there are instances in our lives where we were all there and saw exactly the same thing but we all remember it very differently. One might be traumatised by it, one might accept it as part of life, one might have been impacted so little by it that they don’t remember it at all. Memory is influenced by perspective and expectations, and is inherently flawed.
Are we heading for a world where, once again, the contributing population is less than 45 years old? In history, that meant people died young. Now it would mean an increasing aged population that requires twenty-four-hour care.
Will our society, unable to provide appropriate health care to the massive numbers of Alzheimer sufferers, become a community of walking zombie-like people, every one of them homeless because they can’t remember where they live? Buses would troll the streets each evening, collect the Wanderers, check the micro-chips embedded in their forearms and return them to their homes.
Nursing homes will become huge high-rise complexes patrolled by security and a skeleton staff of quasi-qualified carers. Those sufferers with health problems such as hypertension, high cholesterol, liver or heart disease will go essentially untreated—not because people don’t care about them but because no one has the time or resources to ensure everyone takes the correct medication at the correct time. The hospitals will be full of stroke victims left to language in huge dormitories because there are not enough facilities or adult people not suffering from Alzheimer’s to care for them.
The half of the Alzheimer’s-free population would include the children. How many adults would be left to raise them?
The pressures bearing on governments and charities to provide the needed resources would be huge. How would they cope? Would we find governments collapsing, countries essentially bankrupt, the standard of living plummeting? What impact would our technologies have? Would we revert to simpler societal structures in order to cope? What would we lose in the meantime? What would we gain?
The questions continue to crowd my mind. Every time I ask one question, it gives rise to another, yet there are no answers in my head. I'll either have to do some research or make it up. ;)
I can feel a story coming on...
