Instructor Response

Cathryn,

Excellent work. A few comments and a suggestion.

Dialogue is very good, well-paced, readable, and related to story and characterization.

I want to praise you for the rhythmic flow of the prose. I would suspect you’ve had musical training. Arrhythmic prose can be ubiquitous for beginners, but all great writers have a rhythmic sense that establishes style and moves the story. Keep doing what you’re doing, and just stay aware, especially in revision, of when something seems jerky and could be improved. Some examples. Depending on the story, you’ll probably want to practice different rhythmic syntax.

The dress for guests was beach casual but her mother would always be a tier above the others in a designer-original light-green cotton high-waisted plus-size party dress with pleats for sensuous motion in the wind.

Her mother had bought a green cotton dress, designed by a professional, plus-size, that had fabric that would quiver when the wind blew and she had carefully calculated to be a tier above the invited guests advised to wear beach-casual.

Her mother tried on a green cotton dress. The invited guests to her annual party were advised to wear beach casual, but, with her usual conceit, she’d outdo them again this year. Last year she wore a beige shift that I didn’t like and I didn’t like this green dress either.

There are different rhythms to the stressed beat. And there is a difference in rhythmic effect of the ideation, the first being the tightest in thematic consistency (mother’s hubris in dressing for her party). My preference for the content is the first, but there is nothing wrong with the others. Just note the effect of each on writing style. 

Assignment 10- Part 1

Professor Joseph Nordberg stood on the small stepstool and removed the framed print of “The Kissing Sailor”.

For nearly forty years, the iconic World War II print hung in his den. The Professor slipped the print into the bottom drawer of his desk and returned the stool to the kitchen.

Nina, his wife, was dicing carrots and onions for tuna salad. “What will you replace that picture with, Joseph?” she asked. “Maybe you should ask Marge.”

“So now that she’s in college, I have to receive our granddaughter’s approval before I hang a new picture, Nina?” Joseph Nordberg chuckled. “In my own den?”

The wall in his den without Alfred Eisenstadt’s iconic print looked bare. Surely, he had a suitable replacement packed away.

Professor Nordberg spent the next half-hour riffling through boxes crammed with framed photos, newspaper clippings, post cards, and old letters—-memorabilia from years he spent overseas.

“Wash up, Joseph. Lunch is ready.” Nina called and stuck her head in the door. “Have you found something suitable?”

“No, nothing yet, Nina.” Professor Nordberg shoved a small photograph in the pocket of his jacket.

This may be an opportunity to capture the reader in the scene. I’ll edit some and then I’ll write to demonstrate one way to increase the in-scene writing for this brief scene section. It’s not a correction; I just want to demonstrate distance from the action. You’ve distanced the reader in time by placing scene in a photograph. And then, in describing the scene in backstory, the description. I’ll give an example of shrinking the distance of reader from scene, although the distance in time would remain the same.  

The photograph was grisly; Professor Nordberg, finding the photo in the box, experienced the same horror and revulsion as when, in 1963, he stood behind the silent group of Buddhists blockading the Saigon intersection and he watched the old monk’s self-immolation.

Quang Duc sat on a tan cushion in the middle of the street fingering wooden beads. A fellow monk doused him with gasoline from a five-gallon container. Quang Duc lit the match. [This is effective, describing the photo, I think, keeping the reader distant rather than close. But I’ll use this to talk about distance below.]

 Professor Nordberg had occasional flash-backs: of the gasoline-fueled blaze engulfing the body of the Buddhist monk; of the blackened body toppling over backwards into the street. [Backstory.] Just to note. Your story is moving in the Professor’s home, and with shifting to present tense you shifted the scene. You could, with a little work, keep the reader in the den, so to speak. Here’s an example for the distance. [It’s not quite right to use as an example in your story, though.]  

Professor held the photograph, hand shaking, his memory searingly sharp.

I stood a few yards away from a monk sitting alone cross-legged on a cushion in the Saigon street before a crowd of Buddhists. Another monk with a red five-gallon can stepped forward from the crowd; the pernicious smell of gasoline wafted into the crowd as man doused the motionless monk. A tormented scream broke the silence of the mesmerized crowd when the monk lit a match and burst into flame. Within seconds the stench of burning flesh turned my stomach to vomit and I cried out in anguish. The upper part of the diminished blackened corpse descended backward onto the street.

This is awkward in placement and with the shift in POV, as is, but it is a way to bring the reader into the scene.

“I think I’ll replace Eisenstadt’s print with that award I received last year from the Kiwanis,” the Professor said and followed his wife into the dining room.

                      #

 The picture of Quang Duc’s self-immolation flashed on the screen in the college lecture hall.

“That is so disgusting.” The girl seated near Gerry Linton clamored over his feet and rushed up the aisle.

Gerry laughed. Another Poly Sci student bit the dust.

“Mr. Linton, is something the matter?” Professor Nordberg took off his eyeglasses and looked at his best student.

“Sorry, Professor Nordberg.”

“Someone, please check on that young lady. Viewing a picture of self-immolation can be extremely disturbing. Now, Mr. Linton, what did you write as your first reaction? To the picture?”

Gerry peered at his spiral notebook. “Jesus Christ!” he said.

A few titterers rippled in the lecture hall.

“Students, those exact words were spoken by President John F. Kennedy the next morning. When he saw that picture in the newspaper.”

“So, the monk was protesting the Vietnam War?” asked a girl in the third row.

“No,” Gerry said. “The Buddhist were championing religious equality.”

“Exactly, said Professor Nordberg. “The Buddhists had been banned by the pro-Catholic Diem regime from flying the Buddhist flag on the birthday of Gautama Buddha.”

Gerry looked around the lecture hall. “The Buddhist five-point manifesto was signed by the regime the next day,” he said.

A hand from the back row waved. “But didn’t his death also have a political impact, Professor?”

“Political as well as religious ramifications,” said Professor Nordberg.

“Kennedy said ‘America would no longer be associated with the Diem regime,’” Gerry said.

Professor Nordberg nodded. “Very good, Gerry. Now, Miss Carlyle, what was your initial response to the self-immolation of the monk?”

“Well. . .” Miss Carlyle bit her lip. “He was just sitting there. Engulfed in flames. Back straight. Head erect. As if he was, um, watching TV. No emotion registered on his face.”

“But he must have been in great pain,” Gerry said.

“Of course.” Professor Nordberg switched off the computer. The screen went blank. “Ladies, and gentlemen, time for our break. Remember, ten minutes only.” Good!

                    #

Gerry lit a cigarette and inhaled.

“Nice lighter,” said one of the students gathered in the commons area.

“Gold. My grandfather’s.” Garry flicked the lighter repeatedly. Little tongues of flame danced in the darkness.

“You were brilliant in there, Gerry.”

“I agree.” Gerry winked. “You expressed yourself well, Miss Carlyle. Excuse me, I don’t know your first name.”

“It’s Lillian. How do you think the monk endured such pain?”

“I think we are all capable of enduring intense physical suffering.” Gerry flicked the lighter again. “Well, time for class to reconvene.” Professor Nordberg frowned on stragglers.

Gary tossed his cigarette, put the lighter in his pocket, and walked into the building.

                   #

Professor Nordberg turned over the last typewritten sheet containing his lecture notes. “Your assignment for next week, class, is to read chapter 10 and prepare a two-page critical essay responding to the theme.”

The students gathered their belongings and filed out.

Gerry put the spiral notebook and pen in his briefcase. His foot tapped and waited.

Professor Nordberg spoke briefly with the girl who had bolted from the class before gathering his papers from the lectern.

“Good night, Professor,” Gerry said.

“Oh, are you still here? Well, turn the light off when you leave.”

Gerry walked to the deserted parking lot. He took a blanket and a red, plastic can of gasoline he always kept in the trunk of his car and hurried back to the commons.

Methodically, he folded the blanket into a square and laid it on the damp grass. Next to the blanket, he placed the can of gasoline. Gerry flicked the gold cigarette lighter and held his hand to the flame for a moment. He smiled.

 Crickets chirped. Stars twinkled overhead. Laugher filtered from the Student Union. A far-off owl hooted.

Gerry sat cross-legged in the lotus position. The lighter rested in his lap. He unscrewed the lid on the red can of gasoline.

How much pain can I endure? he wondered. Yes. Great.

______________________________________________________________

Assignment 10 Part 2

Accustomed to the waterfall’s constant murmurings and the tumultuous plashing of cascading waters, the silence woke Shawna.

Why is it so cold in here? Shawna shivered. She draped the worn bedspread over her shoulders and ran tippy-toed across the icy floor. No heat came from the vent in the middle of the floor. The fuel tank was empty.

Five days of below freezing temperatures would do it, she thought. Don neglected refilling the propane tank before he left to deliver a load of scrap metal to New Jersey. He never was one to plan ahead.

She flicked on the overhead light. “Damn, electricity’s out, too.”

Shawna pushed her swollen feet into fuzzy slippers and padded to the bedroom window dragging the bedspread behind her. Pulling back the curtain, she saw the snowy landscape and, in the distance, the frozen waterfall. thick slabs of ice glistening in the cold morning sun hung over the rocky rim of Banning Falls like long locks of hair cascading down a woman’s back.

The baby inside her kicked. Shawna let the curtain drop. Oh, no.” Her daughter wasn’t due for another six weeks. Shawna placed an icy hand on her extended belly and felt a series of little flutters. “Stay put, Honey”

 “Honey? You’re going to name your girl Honey?” At the baby shower, Shawna’s guests shook their heads and exchanged meaningful glances. There weren’t many secrets among Shawna’s friends.

Honey. Don’s pet name for Shawna. “Mmm, you taste just like clover-blossom honey, Shawna,” he moaned the first time they had love. His tongue licked her shoulders, tickled her neck, his fingers rubbed the space between her breast, his teeth nicked her thighs and buttocks.

A steady diet of sweetness cloyed–Don’s lovemaking became rougher, more demanding.

“You call getting beat on lovemaking?” Viewing the bruises, Shawna’s mother had shouted at her youngest daughter.”Your father never justified beating me for pleasure. Booze was his excuse. I lost a set of twin babies ‘cause of him hitting on me. Don’t put up with Don’s foolishness, you hear?

 The warning came too late. Shawna sat on the bed. She was six months pregnant, a high school drop-out lacking marketable skills, and a spitfire temper. Besides, she loved Don.

Shawna reached for the cellphone on the nightstand.  “Figure I’d better phone emergency services,” she said. Freezing to death wasn’t an option.

“No heat, lady? And you’re pregnant?” The 911 dispatcher yelled to someone in the background, then said, “OK, hang tight. Pile on the blankets. We’re contacting air rescue. Only a jackass would be on these treacherous roads.”

Shawna laughed.

“Sorry lady. Wasn’t professional of me.  I’ve been working the phones for thirty-six hours straight. Stay warm.”

Shawna turned off the mobile device to save the battery. She drank the remains of the cold coffee in the pot. “Yeah, right. Stay warm.”

A favorite refrain played in her head, and Shawna went to bed humming, “I’ve got my love to keep me warm.”

                     #

The pounding on the door woke Shawna. She sat up in bed.  I didn’t hear the sounds of the rescue helicopter’s rotors, she thought.

The door slammed opened. Cold drafts of air and snow blew into the room. A man stood in the doorway.

Shawna screamed.

“Honey. Honey,” Don said. He put his arms around Shawna and hugged her. “When I heard the weather report, I remembered about the propane.” He kissed Shawn, rocked her back and forth, and said, “I thought I had lost you. And the baby.” His mittened hand patted Shawna’s stomach. “How’s my Honey,” he crooned.

“How, how–?”

“I drove all night to get here.”

“Only a jackass would attempt driving in such traitorous conditions,” Shawna said. She kissed Don’s cold cheek. “My jackass.” Good!

Very nicely done and thanks for the submission!  Best, WHC

Instructor Response

Well done. You’ve comprehended the goals of the exercises and executed well. Creating conflict in many aspects and levels is a gift the fiction writer has that is not as readily available to memoir or creative nonfiction writers. And you have nicely demonstrated how conflict is a valuable resource to enhance characterization.

Nate Peterson, a middle aged man, was diagnosed with cancer. He could take the chemotherapy and radiation treatments, but most likely all that would get him would be constant nausea and fatigue, not to mention losing what remained of his already thinning hair. He chose to forego the treatment.

He quit work, purged himself of possessions, friends and acquaintances. He’d never had a family.

 “Some place where I can be alone among people,” he told the travel agent. He settled on the Middle East, for no reason other than it seemed as far removed from Chicago as one could get.

“Do you have anything to declare?” they asked him at customs.

“Nothing but the specter of death.”

They checked his suitcase and let him pass.  Good opening.

He liked the language barrier; he could get by with gestures and nods while avoiding true conversation. He drifted, drank and smoked his way toward death.

One day he joined a group of bystanders as a large procession of Buddhist monks marched down a dusty road. Another demonstration, Nate supposed. He’d seen several. But this procession ended where a vehicle sat on the road, as if stranded, with its hood up and the driver peering at the engine. The monks shifted seamlessly into a semi-circle, surrounding one particular monk who sat, lotus style, on the road. Nick rested his gaze on the monk, amazed by his serenity, his apparent lack of perception of the activity buzzing about him.

Suddenly, the driver grabbed a gasoline container filled with gasoline and ran toward the sitting monk. Everything grew eerily quiet so that the sound of his footsteps resounded like thunder. Nate tensed, sensing something disturbing about to happen.

The monk acknowledged the driver with a nod. The driver doused the monk. The monk struck a match to himself. Flames whooshed, engulfing him instantly.

The crowd gasped. Nick charged toward the burning victim. Maybe he could smother the flames. The monks closed ranks as he approached. He bulled into them like a blitzing linebacker, but there were too many. They beat him, flattened and held him firmly to the ground.

He spit blood and dust. Burning oil and flesh scorched his nostrils. Grappling to free himself, he turned to the heat. His eyes stung. His hair singed. The burning monk sat still, as if perfectly at peace. But, up close, Nate saw the agony in his face, beneath a mask of terrible determination. Nate squirmed, to no effect, restrained firmly his captors. He gaped at the monk through the merciless flames. The monk’s flesh softened like butter and dripped—distorting, obliterating his face.

The fire died. The monks gathered the remains of their fallen martyr and departed in solemn reverence.

Set free, but spent, Nate managed a sitting position. He scrunched his face at the persisting odor of burning flesh, and at the image of the monk’s anguished face branded on his brain.

“Are you all right?”

Nate looked up. A reporter, Australian from his accent, with a camera in his hand, stood over him.

“What kind of people are they to do this to one of their own?” Nate asked.

“Desperate, I suppose. They called me here. They want international attention to their protest.”

Nate’s eyes widened. “You knew this was going to happen?” Yes. This works well.

“I expected a demonstration. Not this. Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Nate shivered, despite the heat. “Are you going to write the story? Publish the pictures?”

“Hell yes. I’ll win the Pulitzer.”

“You let this happen just to further your career?”

“I couldn’t stop them. Look what happened to you.”

“Maybe one of us could have got through if you had tried.”

The reporter shook his head, “He won’t have died in vain. They will have the publicity he died for.”

Nate shook off the helping hand of the reporter. Then he retched.

That night, Nate surrendered to a restless sleep, dreaming he was on fire while his doctor tried to save him. But the dream never resolved; he remained in agonizing limbo, not burning to death, not saved.

The next morning, he booked a flight home, having lost the taste for cultural exploration. From the Chicago airport, he traveled straight to the doctor’s office.

He told the doctor he had changed his mind. “I want a chance to live. No matter how small the chance, or how sick the treatments make me.” If the monk could face agony for the sake of justice, then he could face pain for the hope of life.  If you make this into a longer piece (without the word restrictions you were working under) you might spend a little more time working through his logic behind this decision. In essence, clarify what specifically about the monk experience translated into his decision to try to stay alive. The dream doesn’t quite fit the bill. Dreams in general are tricky for story contribution. They are void of personal responsibility for action, and often depend on illogical and incredible images and ideas to maintain interest. It’s not the right solution, so you might consider something like this. Could Nick come to his revelation through a discussion generated in the conflict with the photographer? Or could there be a moment of interaction where something the monk says or does (specifically to Nick) that brings Nick to his personal revelation? In general, there are times where it is an advantage to use character interaction to generate revelation. It provides depth to the story. But this is not true for all stories. And if the revelation is internal, it is usually better to instill with clarity some cause and effect in the character’s thinking . . . and feeling.)

The doctor sighed, “You’ve lost valuable time. It may be too late.” Yes.

Most days Nate felt fatigued and nauseous, but was grateful and surprised to receive visitors. Linda, from work, brought a box of personal effects he had left behind. Randy admonished him for his abrupt disappearance, but everyone wished him well. He asked after their families with real interest. He made amends the best he could. He called his childhood friend, Bob and made a dinner arrangement. He had drinks with casual acquaintances. He refused to allow his illness to become the theme of his life. He accepted the sorry in the eyes of others as affection, and counted each person he knew as a blessing.

The treatments ultimately failed; his cancer metastasized throughout his body. He returned to the hospital, in need of constant care. He became a favorite with the hospital staff, especially Lucille, the night nurse. Near the end, he suffered greatly, but he refused drugs during visiting hours. He wanted to be alert for his callers. In moments of unbearable pain, remembering the monk got him through.

He died peacefully, at night. Lucille held his hand when he passed.

 _____________________________________________________________

2

The falls—frozen—Jennifer insisted they had to see it. Her parents called from the Canadian side. Previous winters had been too warm, so this was Sam’s first chance, in his eight years with Jennifer, to see what the fuss was about. He would rather have stayed home, but Jennifer would be furious. Things were tense between them already.  Good. This opening sets the scene well and contains plenty of conflict: warm/cold; Jennifer insists/Sam wants to stay; something tense between them.

The plan was to walk across the top of the falls, Jennifer and Sam Henderson, son Johnathan, and Jennifer’s parents, Stan and Iris. Little Johnathan was all for it, but Sam looked at them as if they were crazy.  Conflict between safety and danger.

“Look at me, Sammy,” Stan said, in his fatherly manner. He grabbed Sam by the shoulders and stared into his eyes. “Would we put our lives or the lives of our daughter and grandson in danger? We’ve lived here all our lives. It’s dangerous below but up here it’s safe.”

Sammy! Jennifer quit calling him Sammy after they were married. But her parents still call him that—Sammy. It reminds her of the good days, before disagreement ruined there marriage, before Sam got stubborn about his store. He did not make enough money to support their little family. If he had given it up for a real job, she never would have had to work, so then she would not have started up with Kevin. Hell, she wouldn’t even know Kevin. She wouldn’t have to make this dreadful decision. It was all his fault. Sam was a stubborn bastard.  Great!

There was a time when she would have coaxed him onto the ice, saying “Come on, Sammy, listen to Daddy.” She would have taken his arm and led him. But no more, he had to prove to her that he was willing to make an effort to do a thing, just because she wanted it.

“Come on daddy, let’s go.” Johnathan jumped onto the ice and started sliding, as if we were wearing skates. Jennifer and her parents followed. Sam hung back until Jenifer gave him a frosty stare.  

This outing belonged to a younger Sam and Jennifer, when he didn’t have the responsibly he had now. Leaving his hardware store in the hands of his eighteen year old assistant, made him nervous. Good.

He transformed the store from a rundown dump into a first class establishment. Customers respected his expert advice. Then the Home Depot came to town. Even customers he counted as friends came by less often. But he loved his store. He missed it now.

Still, he felt attracted to the lustrous ice. It coated tree branches on each bank, glazed hand rails and the walkways about the falls. Time itself seemed to freeze, as they teased the gods with each daring stride. He felt suddenly light and hopeful.  Yes. I could see a falls without the photograph.

 He caught up to Jennifer. He put his gloved hand around her shoulders. She frowned and shrugged it off. He shook off the rejection, refusing to let her ruin his new lighthearted attitude. Yes. He hurried ahead to catch up to Johnathan, slipping and staggering on the uneven ice.  Conflict with nature.

Look at him; he walks like a horse with a broken tail. He’d turn the boy into another damn shopkeeper if she allowed it. Kevin is so much manlier. She longed for the warmth of Kevin’s body. She envisioned this trip to be a chance to change her mind, to discover the real Sam over again, away from the repressing presence of his store. Instead, it had the opposite effect, stressing their differences, accentuating the chill between them as a physical presence. It hardened her heart against him.

 Her parents seemed distant. She sensed their unease; they knew something wasn’t right. They liked Sam, admired his independent spirit. She imagined her mother’s admonishment, carried on the howl of the wind.  Good.

The old folks were tiring. Everyone was cold. Poor Johnathan’s nose turned crimson so Iris pulled the scarf back over the boy’s face. They decided to turn back.

Sam took Jennifer by the hand, leading her to the edge of the falls. Iris watched the couple, silhouetted against a gray sky, and smiled. She took little Johnathan’s hand and said, “Let’s give the lovebirds a moment of privacy.”

Sam removed his glove. He touched Jennifer’s wind burned face, “Thank you for bringing me here.”

She centered an icy-blue eyed stare on him. She turned her lips to his. Sam trembled. There was a flaw in her makeup [opportunity for concrete image rather than abstract “flaw in her makeup.” Could have chilling effect with a little work.]  and frost on her kiss; eternity lurked in the blink of her eye— as that kiss told him goodbye.  “

In that kiss, that awful, coldhearted kiss, he realized all was lost, as if he had fallen into the frigid water beneath the thick ice, an opaque lens, through which he saw only a blurred image of what, from this moment on, was his past life, his wife and his son, while icy currents dragged him to oblivion.  [Not exactly sure what this implies. Is it possible to clarify it without sentimentality? Does he die? Or is this an expression of his realization? You may want the obscurity as part of your story, but personally I think the ending would have even more impact by knowing what is happening or will happen.] 

He longed for the sanctuary of his store.  Compliments on effective use of multiple points of view to establish major and minor conflicts. It really keeps the momentum going.