First Classic Story

“If you don’t take chances, you might as well not be alive.”

            Devin squinted at the homeless man, wearing brightly colored neon pink and black striped pajamas, blocking his path. “Yeah, but what if the chance you take is skydiving, and your parachute doesn’t go off? Bet you woulda wished you hadn’t taken that chance.”

            The old man shrugged his thin shoulders and shuffled away, the bottoms of his stripped pants dragging along the dirty sidewalk. Devin watched the man go, turning his words over in his mind. He was never much of a risk taker, and how was it that wise old homeless men always seemed to know exactly what to say to him to get his mind all befuddled?

            Shaking the encounter off, Devin continued on his way down the noisy New York street. Today was his first day of a cooking class he had signed up for. Devin was a somewhat secluded man, especially for being in his mid twenties, but when he saw the flyer in his apartment lobby a few weeks ago something told him he should try it out. Living off of take out Chinese food and street vendor tacos was starting to take a toll on his gut.

            He reached the building and glanced at his wristwatch, realizing he was already a couple of minutes late and sprinted up the stairs, quietly opening the appropriate door and slunk into an empty seat.

            The room was large and had six island counters fit for two people to a counter and filled with an array of cooking supplies and a built in oven. Devin took in the room before letting his eyes rest on the teacher, a pretty brunette woman around his age standing at the front of the class. She wore a light pink apron with violet flowers printed over it and her hair was tied into a neat braid that flowed over her left shoulder. She was giving him this sweet smile filled with straight, white teeth and pink lips and Devin felt himself blushing before he took to organizing his station, just so he didn’t have to keep looking at her and smiling like an idiot. He vaguely heard her announcing to the class that they were starting today with something simple: chocolate chip cookies.

Bird by Bird #2

How is "looking around" part of the writing frame of mind according to Lamott?

"I don't want to sound too Cosmica Rama here, but in those moments, you see that you and the chipmunk are alike, are a part of a whole. I think we would see this more often if we didn't have our conscious mind. The conscious mind seems to block that feeling of oneness so we can function efficiently, maneuver in the world a little bit better, get our taxes done on time."

I love this quote because I feel like I know exactly what she's talking about here. That feeling you are hit with every once in a while that is almost surreal, that we are so small in the universe yet entirely linked together. That is a great feeling to take into writing, it connects you to all the things around you and help you understand the people in your own writing better. Helps you give them more dimension and character, helps you empathize with their situation and really bring them to life. 

Do you agree with what she has to say about writing a story's "moral" in the "Moral Point of View?"

"If you find that you start a number of stories or pieces that you don't ever bother finishing, that you lose interest or faith in them along the way, it may be that there is nothing at their center about which you care passionately. You need to put yourself at their center, you and what you believe to be true or right. The core, ethical concepts in which you most passionately believe are the language in which you are writing."

This speaks to me because I can't tell you how many stories I have started and never finished. I think she is absolutely right in here assumption here- looking back on all of those half finished stories, they were dull and lacked the morals that I believe in. I think she is right that in order to write something that you are truly passionate about and want to finish you have to inject your own morals and beliefs into it. Otherwise it becomes stale and malignant. This reminds me of the author Chuck Palahniuk, who is so very good at injecting his beliefs into his stories- Survivor, Fight Club- they are absolutely dripping with the tone of his disdain for modern culture and they really pack a punch. 

How should we approach a story like a "letter?"

"The letter's informality just might free you from the tyranny of perfectionism. You might dress the letter to you children, if you have a few lying around, or to a niece or nephew, or to a friend. Write that person's name at the top of the page, and then in your first line, explain that you are going to tell them part of your story, entrust it to them, because this part of your life meant so much to you."

I feel like this is a great idea to get your ideas out there without feeling the pressure of having everything perfect. Like she said, the informality of it would make you feel relaxed and the idea of just telling a story to someone, of getting a piece of your past out on paper to someone that you care about, might make you look at things from a new perspective and discover something about the story you are telling that you never noticed before. 

Bird by Bird Journal One

Describe some advice she gives her students early on.

"Start with your childhood, I tell them. Plug your jose and jump in, and write down all your memories as truthfully as you can. Flannery O'Connor said that anyone who survived childhood has enough material to write for the rest of his or her life. Maybe your childhood was grim and horrible, but grim and horrible is okay if it is well done."

- I love this, because I definitely use my own childhood as inspiration for a lot of my writing. I had one of those "grim and horrible" childhoods and it helps me put my life into perspective when I can take those experiences and write about them. Inspiration, for me, usually comes from a dark place and it's what I find interesting in writing anyways. People generally don't want to read about things that are always perfect and where nothing ever goes wrong- people want conflict and a glimpse at the darker side of life. 

What kind of attitude do you need just to get writing done according to Lamott? Is "perfectionism" your friend?

"So I'd start writing without reining myself in. It was almost just typing, just making my fingers move. And the writing would be terrible."

- Obviously, Lamott does not believe that your writing needs to be perfect right off the bat. She believes that what is important is just making yourself write, no matter how hard it is or how much you don't want to do it. Eventually you will write something that speaks to you and sticks with you and you will realize that that is what you wanted to write about. It comes from somewhere inside of you that you would never be able to get to if you didn't let yourself write every thought down without a filter, because that's where a lot of great ideas come from. 

Describe some of the advice she gives about dialogue.

"Second, remember that you should be able to identify each character by what he or she says. Each one must sound different from the others. And they should not all sound like you; each one must have a self. If you can get their speech mannerisms right, you will know what they're wearing and driving and maybe thinking, and how they were raised, and what they feel."

- I love this advice. I feel like being able to know your characters in a way that you are able to give people a clear picture of them just through what they are saying- that is something incredible. I've always had trouble with trying to find the right dialogue for characters mainly because I write it too much like myself. Reading other books written by really amazing authors, Wuthering Heights, for example- you could probably tell exactly who is speaking in that book without ever being told. The words that each person chooses and the way that they say them are so easily identifiable to a certain character. And there's nothing better when you're reading a really intense scene in a book and the author is able to make you feel the moment solely through the character's dialogue- that is one of my favorite things ever. 

Lake Hyatt

1. The back yard abutted a vast corn field, and in the months before winter we would watch it wilt and die. 

2. "Why are all your clocks set wrong?" Tyler questioned, gaze wandering lazily over the room. 

3. Back in the day we used to skip rocks at Lake Hyatt, we'd lay together on the shore and let the water lick our toes. 

4. Men are all afraid of commitment, I'm sure of it now. 

5. Mr. Healy had a fat, round face that wobbled when he talked and I couldn't help but watch it sway back and forth and think about batting his jowls around like a cat. 

Part Two

Back in the day we used to skip rocks at Lake Hyatt, we'd lay together on the shore and let the water lick our toes. When I turned thirteen his dad took us out on his boat for the day, for my birthday. For all the times we had lain next to the vast body of water we had never ventured any further; always watching others swimming and boating from the sidelines like an apt audience.   His dad loaded the little speedboat with life vests and plastic-wrapped sandwiches for lunch. I watched attentively as he unwrapped the rope anchoring the boat to the dock and started up the engine. We cruised away from the shore where weeds and other debris could get caught in the engine and when we got going, really got going, I couldn't stop laughing. My dark hair was flapping behind me in the wind like a flag and my eyes started to water from the wind whipping into them. I felt slanted and nearly lost my balance as we picked up speed and the top end of the boat tipped out of the water a little with the force of it. We circled around a few times, watching other people swim and drink on the lake and then cruised to the middle where we cut the gas and let it drift. Sandwiches were passed around and as I was unwrapping mine a sight from the shoreline caught my attention. There was a little girl and boy, both about nine, lying in the scratchy rocks and sand and watching the people on the lake. Seeing it from this perspective, they looked very small.

Judge Who Barred Witches from Adopting Children Turned into Guinea Pig

He was grocery shopping when he began to hear the whispers. Dressed in a pair of jeans and a button-up shirt, standing in the middle of the canned soup aisle.

"There he is."

Gerry whipped his head around, his deep brown hair fluttering over his brow. Eyes wrinkled around the edges narrowing as he squints at the end of the aisle. He shrugged when he didn't see anything and placed a can of chicken noodle into his metal cart.

He was comparing the integrity of different bunches of bananas when he heard it again.

"We'll follow him home."

Gerry turned to the man behind him.

"Did you hear that?"

The man looked startled.

"Judge Tearheart? What are you doing... out?"

Gerry looked down at his bananas as if this was an obvious question. "I'm grocery shopping."

The man waved a dismissive hand at the fruit. "Yes, I see that. But why are you out? Haven't you heard what's going on?"

The Judge cast a questioning look at the man. "What do you mean?"

"The witches!" The man gesticulated wildly, brining his voice to a whisper. 

"The Amerson women?" 

"Yes!" 

"What about them?" Gerry didn't understand what this man was blathering about. Last week he had passed a judgement in the Amerson v. State case that the women, three sisters aged twenty-four, thirty-two and thirty-five, would not be allowed to adopt a child. He thought it was pretty reasonable, considering they were witches. For god's sake, just last week they burned down the school house because some of the children were making fun of them. No one was harmed, but it was the principle of the matter. In his opinion, they were unfit to be mothers and he quite thought that everyone agreed with him. Well, the more sane people anyways but you can never get away from those crazy woman's activists, right?

"They're planning something, Judge Tearheart. I'd watch your back if I were you!" And the man pointed a threatening finger at him as he backed away towards the cereal aisle. 

Gerry scoffed and went about his shopping, trying to push the incident from his mind. Those witches wouldn't do anything to him, would they? Sure they were irrational and probably more than a little upset with him. And they did burn down that school house. But it was at night, they weren't really aiming to hurt anybody- more like make a statement. Still, they burned down a school house, that's a pretty bold statement. Unease started to grow in the pit of Gerry's stomach as he paid for his groceries and drove home. It didn't help that he kept hearing those strange whispers coming from seemingly nowhere that couldn't possibly have anything to do with the Amerson sisters. Could it? 

He was a nervous wreck by the time he got home, fidgeting and shaking as he loaded up his cabinets with the food he bought. His house was dark and quiet, which he was used to since he lived alone and had no family to speak of, but that night it felt ominous. The whisper of the wind outside his window seemed to be calling his name and the groan of the heater as it kicked on sounded painful and aware. 

He turned on every light in the house and sat in the large leather armchair in front of his television. The spicy burn of red wine running down his throat soothed him a little as he attempted to zone out the world around him. 

Suddenly they were there. As if they had ridden the whistling wind beyond the walls of his house on a current that lead straight to his living room. The three of them stood exactly before him, looking terrifying and scorned. All three had long identical locks of blond hair falling messily around their shoulders and their clear blue eyes bore straight through him. 

"Gerry Tearheart." The middle one spoke calmly, her lips quirking into a smirk. "You will not deny us again."

Gerry stuttered in fright, his body paralyzed with fear. "I- I- n-no, I w-won't." 

"Oh no," The youngest of the sister standing on the right spoke. "We don't mean for you to take back your judgement. We mean that you won't be able to deny us again."

Gerry gripped the stem of his wine glass so hard it snapped in half, pouring dark red liquid all down his button up shirt. 

The eldest sister took half a step forward, raising one perfectly manicured finger slowly as she did. 

And then Gerry Tearheart felt as if his entire body was attempting to collapse on itself. A horrible pain shot through his spine and every bone and ligament and muscle in his body retracted, reformed and gave a sickening crack. And then Gerry Tearheart was no more. Sitting on his large leather armchair was a tiny, furry guinea pig. Tan and white body quivering as it squeaked helplessly.

"Aww, it's so cute!" The youngest sister squealed, moving to scoop the rodent into her hands. "Can we keep it?"

The oldest sister rolled her eyes. "Yes, we can put it with the rest. Now come on, let's get home."

Wolf's Head Lake

It's an early dusk at the lake because the sky's marbled with clouds and some of them are dark, heavy, tumescent as skins of flesh ready to burst. I walk along the water's edge, random pebbles tumbling from under the soles of my shoes to break the surface. The ripples cascade outwards, desperately reaching for the opposite shore. They always break too quickly though. 

My eyes trace the line of trees across the water and come to rest on a ghostly figure. It flits between the trees pale white and eyes large and luminescent. It looks like an old photograph of my mother from when she was a girl. The haunting image beckons me and feet are moving forward before I can think to tell them to stop. One rubber sole breaks the surface, and the ripples of it do reach the other side. 

I'm up to my neck in cold water now, gasping at the frigid tendrils liking up my skin and still I wade deeper. 

My foot catches on a rock, slimy with algae and I slip, head ducking under the surface. The current catches me and pulls me along. I close my eyes against harsh cold. When I open them again I see the figure, more defined now under the water. The lines of hands reach out to grab me and I pull her to me. She wraps me up and pulls me to the opposite shore. 

A Kind of Flying

Allie ran her fingers over the hem of her skirt, rough edges of her nails where she had bitten them catching on the cloth. Her hands were shaking when she opened the door. 

"Where the hell have you been?"  

She flinched at the shout coming from the other side of the room. Paul was standing near their tattered couch, looking as if he had just leaped up upon her entering the apartment.  

"I- I was just-" 

"Nevermind, It doesn't matter. I have been waiting for you for hours! You always do this to me, Allie!" He was advancing slowly towards her, eyes narrowed in a frustrated glare. 

"Please stop yelling, the landlord will hear." Allie averted her eyes to the scuffed hardwood floor. She wondered for a moment if the creaky surface would just give and swallow her up.  

Paul stopped walking suddenly. His face knitted together in frustration before he flung his hands into the air.  

"This is exactly what I'm talking about- you're so passive aggressive! I can't stand it anymore." 

Paul is pacing the small living room now, carefully avoiding the banged up coffee table in the center of the room.  

Allie wonders absently how many times they've had this fight now. Always the same, yet so different. Centering around everything and nothing all at once. She's really not even clear on what she did wrong this time. They had gotten into an argument the night before and she had left to stay at a friend's place. She was just getting home now, after leaving work. He should have known she would be here around this time, and yet here they were. She was in the wrong again.  

"I just wish you would-"  

"You're so unresponsive!" Paul shouted over her and Allie clamped her mouth shut out of pure irony.  

His brown eyes were wide and clear as he stared at her. Allie focused on a spot above his head, over the couch. A section of the wall where the wallpaper had peeled away and revealed the concrete underneath.  

When they had moved here it had been a new beginning. They had taken so much care in decorating the place and making it feel like their home. It seemed that as their relationship deteriorated, those happy days dissolving into angry nights, so did their home. The couch was torn, the dishwasher broken. They just didn't care enough anymore.  

Allie crossed the room, passing Paul and sinking onto the couch. Her eyes gazed blankly at the black screen of the television, blinking slowly. Paul was starting to talk again when she interrupted him.  

"Why don't you pack your things and leave, then? If I'm so dreadful then just go." Her voice was strong as her eyes finally met his.  

He looked shocked. His silence stretched on for one, two, three minutes.  

"You're right. I should." 

So he did. And after he left, slamming the squeaky front door behind him, she shuffled her shoe off and chucked it at that exposed piece of cement behind the couch. Watched quietly as dust filtered through the air on impact and silently screamed when she heard her landlord pounding on the floor beneath her with a broom.