Arlene’s House Exercise
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This once boisterous house stands subdued at the corner of Eternity and Time in Hollywood, California. In its glory days, the sounds from within rocked-and-rolled around all eight rooms. Words tumbled over the kitchen and dining room tables, reverberated into the living room and the den, then, exhausted, collapsed in the bedrooms until the late-night whispers fell into silent sleep.
Today, silence greets the remaining owner of the house at the opening of the front door and hangs around hour after hour. Gone is the wake-up whir of the bean grinder followed by the enticing aroma in the kitchen from the fresh-brewed coffee. Gone is the smell of the onions, garlic, Italian sausage, and red-ripe skinned tomatoes blended with basil, oregano and thyme cooking into a delicious red sauce for the evening pasta meal.
The fawn-colored worn leather recliner has enough sweat stains and indentations left on it to reveal the manly shape and broad size of the absent occupant. It stares at the blank screen of the soundless television. The empty office chair pushed into the knee hole of the mahogany desk looks for the financier to return to pay the bills, manage the accounts and plan the next vacation.
The master bedroom closet, void of men’s wear, looks pathetic in its neatness. Where suits and trousers intermingled with shirts, and where separated pairs of shoes spread comfortably across the floor, now dresses, slacks and blouses hang in patterns of color, and the shoes are uplifted on to a rack.
In the bathroom shower, the sound of the steady stream of hot water, announced the start of the morning ritual including the clean smell of shaving cream and the lingering fragrance of Pleasures cologne. It doesn’t make sense anymore; neither does the king size bed without the king to sleep in it.
The fishing rods hang useless on the garage wall; the car longs for a soothing protective rubdown with Colonite wax. This house waits for the time when a young family moves in to turn on the music again that sings it back to life.
House Work
The two-story cape house on Verwendet Street hid behind the overgrown weeds where its lawn had once grown. The apple trees in the side yard had been stripped of all their fruit and a hole lingered where the baby cherry tree had stood. Instead of prize winning roses, the front yard now held tires, washing machines, oilcans or other items of trash the neighbors couldn’t get the garbage men to haul away.
The newer picket fence lining the yard had sections gone, and you could see some of those pickets holding yard sale signs on the weekends. The pathway leading to the front door had missing bricks here and there. Often those bricks showed up around the neighborhood holding up flowerpots or propping up a plywood ramp for kids to drive their bikes over.
The front porch still held muddy boot prints that no one had bothered to wash off making the periwinkle color now brown from dried mud. A caravan of carpenter ants streamed into the white pine siding for an almost endless buffet. The windows had panes of glass not broken but missing. And although the front door was closed, there was no handle. The second story windows held one shutter apiece and the gutter was gone on the right side of the house.
When you peeked inside the pane less windows you wouldn’t find a carpet or appliance. The outlets showed exposed wires and the mantle above every fireplace was gone.
If you happen to pass by this house in the early morning hours you would see a family of mice leaving through the hole they had made in the roof. You could watch the mice run across the street and into the neighbor’s yard where they sat and munched on blossoms from a baby cherry tree.
The House
I watched the house across the street being built, in the early nineties. From the top floor of my three-story pink condo, I photographed the foundation as it was poured. I snapped Polaroids of the first floor’s cinderblock walls as they were stacked high on top of the cement slab. When the wooden two-by-four frame was balanced above the cinderblocks, defining the second floor, I took more photos.
Before the roof could be put on top of the house’s beautiful bones, however, construction stopped. It was halted for quite some time and the house was left alone, open to the elements. For months, the St. Lucie River’s salty, humid winds blew across the busy street and laid rest in the house’s exposed walls. Black soot from the airplanes flying overhead covered its unfinished interior with a thin film. Rains would pour in, washing over the vulnerable structure. The half-built house withstood the pollution and weathering, holding its head up high, and strong, waiting.
Eventually, I saw workers come back and finish framing the roof. They wrapped the outside of the house in a protective, yellow stucco covering and tiled the rooftop in strong, burnt orange Spanish barrel tiles. The house stood proudly on its soon-to-be-landscaped lot. Palm trees and birds of paradise were planted around the house. Sod was laid to create a front and back lawn. Ficus hedges were planted along the front perimeter to keep the house beautifully shielded from the busy street. A six-foot privacy fence was built around the back yard, and night blooming jasmine planted along the wooden walls, providing perfume in the moonlight. A long, hibiscus-lined driveway was poured, to invite visitors and eventually welcome new owners.
I witnessed the house’s new residents move in and make it their home. The house beamed, happily inhabited and eager to please its new owners. They lived there together for only a month before the man left. For a couple more years, the house continued to shelter the broken woman. It did its best to keep her safe until she had to leave, unable to take care of it any longer. The house looked sad, but stood strong and while it waited for another owner to come take care of it.
Soon, a new owner arrived. He was a large man with a big white dog and he seemed to take pride in the house. He built on a screened-in patio and installed strong, new windows to protect the house from hurricanes. He planted banana trees and more bushes and added landscaping lights, irrigation and special touches to the interior. The house looked happy and loved. After many years of being pampered and preened, the house lit up on its lot, until the man and his dog had to leave.
Soon, new, young owners moved in and put piles of boxes in every room. They pulled a big boat in the driveway and parked two cars on its front lawn. They argued and yelled and came and went. The house tried its best to keep them safe and sound but they were too busy fighting to notice.
When the first hurricane was announced, the man nail-gunned plywood to cover the house’s windows and the couple fled, running far away from the house, the wild rain and whipping winds. The hurricane came, and the house’s fence fell. Some of its trees were ripped to shreds. Everything else held up very well. When the couple came back, the new man seemed mad. In a fit, he pulled off the plywood, leaving nail holes in the stucco. He roped together the fallen fence pieces to re-stabilize them. He cut away some of the fallen trees and left the rest of the landscaping bare and alone.
When the second hurricane came, the house tried as best it could to stay strong. It withstood additional damage but its effort seemingly went unnoticed. The screaming and hollering got worse inside. For the next year, the house tried its best to muffle the anger inside. One day, the man left and the woman stayed, and the house couldn’t conceal her crying.
Everything inside was taken away and the house, like the woman, appeared empty. Together they managed to get through each day until the third hurricane hit. This time, the house couldn’t hold up as well and its balcony flooded, letting water flow into the top floor’s two bedrooms, soaking the carpet and sub-floor. Many of the roof tiles blew off and water leaked through the ceilings and dripped into the rooms downstairs. The woman had people come to take out all the wet carpet and treat the floors so mold wouldn’t grow. That’s about all she could manage. The house stood, ripped raw for another year.
One day, the furniture came back. The house, like the woman, was hopeful for a new lease on life. She cleaned it and painted it and filled the holes in the stucco all by herself. She had the roof and leaky ceilings repaired. She replaced the floors upstairs, putting in fresh new carpet. She planted flowers and hung orchids on the patio. She lovingly worked day and night to put the house back together again. She and the house were renewed. She had parties and visitors and I heard laughter pouring out of the open windows. That’s when I put the photos in the mailbox, knowing the woman loved the house and would like to see how it came to be.
Soon, though, things began to fall apart again. The lights were on less, the yard work started slipping and she was often away, working night and day. It was clear she couldn’t manage taking care of the house anymore. It still tried its best to continue to shelter and protect her. It was warm for her in the winter and, even though it lost one air conditioner to a lightening bolt, it tried its best to keep her cool in the summer with the one unit it had left. She tried her best to keep it clean on the inside and had people continue to come take care of its lawn, but she, like the house, was in trouble.
She put a sign out by the road and tried to show people how pretty and wonderful the house was, in hopes of finding someone who could manage to take care of it. People came to visit and said nice things but nobody else wanted to live there.
She stayed in the house another year. Raccoons moved into the attic, bees built honeycombs along one wall. Plaster began to fall from parts of the ceiling where new leaks sprung. The plants grew over the fence, the grass grew tall and mold started to grow where the air conditioner condensation started building-up. The flowers died off and orchids wouldn’t bloom. Soon, she had to leave.
She packed all the things into boxes again and had movers come take everything away again. Her last night in the house, I saw her sitting on the back porch, leaning against one of its walls. She sat outside in the cool January air, inhaling the night-blooming jasmine and listening to the palm fronds rustle in the wind. She looked up at the starry sky, the moon and the missing soffit. I saw her look around at the overgrown bushes glimmering in the moonlight. She looked through the house’s strong windows at the empty interior with plaster hanging in patches from the ceiling. She saw the granite counter tops she and the man who lived with her had installed, the beautiful cabinets they added and loft they built upstairs. I believe she thought about the dreams she had for the house and how they never came to fruition.
She started to cry, saying out loud, “I tried, I really tried. I always felt safe here but I just wasn’t strong enough.” Her sobs became more audible and I heard her say, very softly, “I’ve loved you but I can’t stay. I can barely take care of myself now. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
The next week, the house was empty again. I peered into the empty windows and could see the photos I gave her, laid on the kitchen counter with a note, “Please take care of this house as well as it took care of me.”
House description
The rounded turret with gingerbread trim over the large curved windows commanded one’s eyes away from the wraparound porch where a wooden swing jiggled from brackets to which were attached rusty chains. Worn treads, evidence of the many feet on the wooden stairs, marked the passage of time. Roof shingles of varying colors implied attempts at repairs to the conical top of the turret as well as the sharp angles of the steep sided roof that must cover a large attic area.
The House
The soft curtains were gently swaying in and out with each pulsation of the wind. The hanging boxes showed a profusion of red and white colors. I couldn’t smell the aroma of those flowers but knew it would be there. As I got closer, I could smell some bread baking. The melodious sounds of music I heard from within, reminded me of the massage I had experienced yesterday. I was home.
Fiction or Non-fiction? That Is the Question
Why is Robert’s piece, “Al and Annie,” considered fiction even though it’s based on a real incident? That is the question, and therein lies the answer. It’s based on a real incident. Robert is not delivering a faithful account of events as they occurred; he’s relaying these events as he imagines them.
How do we know? Robert as the author is privy to moments that he could not have witnessed. Chances are Robert wasn’t there to see Al feeling Annie up. He wasn’t looking over Al’s shoulder as he marveled at the diver. He wasn’t along for Al and Annie’s ride to the dive shop/card store. And even if he was present at all of these moments (I suppose anything is possible), he certainly could not have known what these people were thinking.
In essence, this is fiction because Robert has taken authorial liberties with the story. He is not reporting; he is creating.
That said, I hate to oversimplify, so let me add this to the mix: there is also an element unnamable at work here. Robert’s piece just reads like fiction, doesn’t it?
Class Photo
Today’s Your News section of the Stuart News features a photo of our group on page11 with a great article by Justine!
Workshop Tips
The beginning stages of a writing project, path or career can be frustrating. The desire to improve is strong, but the process is slow. Writing is like any other artform—music, fine art, etc.—in that practice and determination are the only means to the end: becoming truly great at what you do. Unfortunately, no one can give you any hard and fast answers about how to write better because it is such a personal process and wildly different for everyone. It is something you will discover on your own, using the workshop as a foundation and an inspiration. Here are some suggestions for how to get the most out of the workshop experience:
-Write every day. A few hours is best, but even a few minutes will do. It keeps you in the literary mindset and provides the opportunity to make mistakes and learn from them. So much of writing is trying and failing. You will throw away more pages than you keep, but the ones you do keep are golden.
-Treat each writer’s workshop as if it is your own. There is a great deal to learn from others’ missteps and successes. When we’re discussing someone else’s work, ask yourself, what elements of this piece are similar to my own work? What feedback can be applied to my own writing? How can this particular workshop inform my project?
-Pay even closer attention to the way your fellow writers are reading and responding, not only to your work but to each others’. This small group is a representation of your audience. They will teach you how your work will be read.
-When you do get discouraged (which you will), don’t give up. Just keep on truckin’.
Oh, and …
If you wait until your manuscript is ready before sending it off, and if you do your homework, and if you target the right publications, and if you follow submission guidelines, good things can happen. Like they did recently for our Ms. Goldberg, who learned that her short story “The Pill” will be appearing in a forthcoming issue of Whiskey Island, the literary magazine at Cleveland State University.
Congrats on placing yet another piece of writing, Justine. And stop hogging all the publication credits.
Good Example of a Submission “Don’t”
With the holiday bringing me relief from my 9-5, I’m spending the morning trudging through the slush pile at Fringe. One “cover letter” in particular has caught my eye, and it serves as a good example of what not to do, in line with our handout last night.
On the Fringe submission page, the guidelines state that “Your email should include your name, a cover letter, the title(s) of the pieces and a press-ready bio.”
This particular writer sent a cover letter that begins: “Not sure what is meant by a cover letter, but here’s a short bio of me.”
What this comment tells me is that this writer did not care enough about the submission process, and hence, his own work, to take the time to learn “what is meant by a cover letter.”
Lapses like this will cause some editors out there to discard (i.e., throw in the trash) a writer’s manuscript before even reading the first line. I’m not that jaded (yet), but when I do start reading this story, I’ll be doing so with a jaundiced eye. And that is never good news for a writer.
Reasearch, research, research.
Introvert’s Perversion
As I sit here and neurotically obsess over how my writing is being dissected, I remembered something…
Once, on a dare, I took an online personality test that showed I was ninety percent introverted. Well, I all ready knew that! There are times I would rather lick a toilet bowl clean than be social with a group of strangers. So, learning I was introverted wasn’t a big surprise. However, that ninety percent number kept rattling around in my noggin annoying me. Then I remembered how I had exited out of the personality test web site and allowed my word document to pop back up on my computer screen. That is when it hit me. How on earth could I be ninety percent introverted and love to write? Those two just don’t seem to mix. I mean as a writer, you delve into the most intimate feelings and thoughts going on in your soul, vomit them out on paper and give it to strangers for them to read. I know plenty of extroverts who share less with their spouses! This made me wonder, what if writing is like some sort of perverted exercise in extroversion?
Maybe that web site should have another category in their little personality test saved just for writers, such as the perverted introvert. Or for those of us that still hide behind fiction, the subterfuge extrovert.
What do you guys think?
This Week's Reading
How are we all doing with Brockmeier’s “The Ceiling”? Pretty different from Stone’s story, huh?
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