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Somewhere to Start

by CBrooks 

Posted: 14 June 2011
Word Count: 861
Summary: This is my first attempt at writing. I've got a few more pieces at http://nevercafedespauvres.blogspot.com/ but not written much yet. Looking for some feed back.


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Every good story should have a hero (if not many) but this one doesn't. There are some losers, some survivors and then there's me. But then this isn't a story. These are mixed recollections of very real events. Mixed because I couldn't put these events in sequence even if I tried, my brain left confused and dazed by the quantity of emotions experienced, unable to organise itself.

I suppose I should try and start from the beginning but I can't quite bring myself to. So instead let me take you back to a memory I have. I don't know why I have chosen this one just that it's prominent in my mind. I'm often haunted for days at a time by vague memories of things I would rather stay buried, maybe writing about them will help me put them to rest once and for all.

It's the smell that wakes me. The sweet smell of brioche being warmed in the oven. My eyes adjust to the darkened room and register the few sharp strands of light which penetrate through the gaps in the wooden shutters. Its the middle of August in the south of France and yet the room is cool. That's just the way old French houses were designed, incredibly efficient at remaining cool in the face of the summer heat. I slip out from under the covers of the huge old double bed, menacing with it's dark wooden surrounds, and head towards the window, desperate to cast light over the various pieces of furniture, all made of dark varnished wood, all foreboding in their own way. Admittedly, to an antiques dealer, or someone with more mature taste, the furniture which is heavy and ornate would be enchanting but to a twelve year old like me, they are gloomy and ominous and reflect my feelings beautifully.


I wait to be sure that the sunlight has chased away the gloom before I turn around. As I stand there waiting in the face of the open window, I can feel the breeze which is warm almost muggy, even early in the morning. It gently runs through my hair which tickles the small of my back. My long chestnut locks, my crowning glory as my mother used to say, damp with sweat from the heat of the night. From my window I can see green fields and blue sky as far as the horizon, the quiet only disturbed by the occasional car which whizzes past on the only nearby road or by the bleating of the many goats. Some dream of this. Of sweet smelling pastries, of sunlight, heat, fields of gold and only animals to break the peace. Not me. I am in an idyllic setting and yet inside I am numb.


I slip on some clothes and go and sit on the bed, my feet dangle, swinging backwards and forwards wondering whether it is me who is short or the bed which is high, trying not to think of anything else. Trying not to think of the car, crushed, bent like an accordion, battered and broken. The hospital, the paper shoes we had to wear, the scowling nurses, the machines. The wine bottles, the old men, their cheeks stained with red blotches and broken blood vessels...then the noise of tyres on the gravel interrupts my wondering mind. Someone is here.


I listen intently as the car stops, I hear the car door open and close, footsteps, voices, broken French and fluent.


“I want to see her, please”... “I think she is still sleeping”... “please check. I just need to speak to her”... I hear footsteps coming down the corridor and the kind lady who is fostering me gently taps at my door. She speaks in French slowly to me, knowing mine is far from perfect. “Your mother is here, she wishes to speak with you.” … “Please tell her I am not ready”... “are you sure...it's been weeks”


… “I just can't yet”. I don't know why I do that. I want her more than anything. More than anything I want to hold her and not let go. But then I suppose that's the problem. I would have to let go, would have to stay here and I'm just not strong enough. And I can still feel the anger, the complete uncontrollable anger. I'm know I'm not angry at her. I'm angry because my father is dead, because I don't know where my brother is, because I'm in a foreign country away from friends and family, because we had everything and now we have nothing not even each other. Because I'm scared. And it's true, when we are at our lowest we hurt the ones we love because we know it's safe to do so. I love her so much and I'll hurt her so much.


“I'm afraid she's still sleeping”... “wake her please, I need to see her”... “I'm sorry, the child needs her rest” I know she has reluctantly accepted the poorly concealed lie, probably because it hurts less than hearing the truth. And as the tears slowly pool onto the floor I wish for one thing only. Strength.






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Comments by other Members



Manusha at 23:19 on 14 June 2011  Report this post
Hi Connie,

Thanks for posting your story here. My first impression is that I love the depth of emotion expressed in this piece. The personal and autobiographical way it is written is very moving. Unfortuately for me, I've run out of time today, but I hope to give your story a proper read tomorrow. ;

Regards, Andy

GaiusCoffey at 08:09 on 15 June 2011  Report this post
Hi CBrooks,
I hope you don't mind a drive-by crit; I'm a former member of IC and noticed this here, then started reading, and...

Anyway, very much enjoyed this. As Andy says, it has a great deal of depth to it and plenty of emotional meat to get your teeth into. Equally, your writing is clean and strong so most of the changes I will suggest below are cuts to make the most of that.

I guess the one real niggle is that I don't understand why the daughter has been separated from the mother and placed in foster care? I thought that was something that a) took a long time and b) was only done if the child was at risk? It is possible that the mother was responsible for the crash, in which case, she may have been deemed a danger to the child, but the way you portray her is as somebody emotionally together enough to understand a quite complex bit of emotional play despite the recent loss of her husband.

That niggle aside, I am down to suggested cuts for impact;

Every good story should have a hero (if not many) but this one doesn't. There are some losers, some survivors and then there's me. But then this isn't a story. These are mixed recollections of very real events. Mixed because I couldn't put these events in sequence even if I tried, my brain left confused and dazed by the quantity of emotions experienced, unable to organise itself.

I suppose I should try and start from the beginning but I can't quite bring myself to. So instead let me take you back to a memory I have. I don't know why I have chosen this one just that it's prominent in my mind. I'm often haunted for days at a time by vague memories of things I would rather stay buried, maybe writing about them will help me put them to rest once and for all.


These two paragraphs are a bit a bit wordy and a bit tell - they don't have the emotional closeness of the later ones - and I don't know that they add very much. I would be inclined to just cut them and to start on the much stronger and compelling third paragraph. EG: I think you could consider opening with: "It's the smell that wakes me. The sweet smell of brioche being warmed in the oven. My eyes adjust to the darkened room and register the few sharp strands of light which penetrate through the gaps in the wooden shutters..."

Admittedly, to an antiques dealer, or someone with more mature taste, the furniture which is heavy and ornate would be enchanting [...to some...] but to a twelve year old like me, they are gloomy and ominous and reflect my feelings beautifully.

After a strong paragraph that was in the moment, you lose the character for a moment here - I become aware of you, the author, and I don't want to be. I don't see the need for the bits I've highlighted in bold-italics and think the sentence would be stronger without them.

Some dream of this. Of sweet smelling pastries, of sunlight, heat, fields of gold and only animals to break the peace. Not me. I am in an idyllic setting and yet inside I am numb.

I'm in two minds about this. On first read, I wanted to cut and trim, on second read, it suggests the self-involvement and egocentric world view of a twelve-year-old. However, I think you can still cut a word or two to heighten the effect.

I slip on some clothes and go and sit on the bed, my feet dangle, swinging backwards and forwards wondering whether it is me who is short or the bed which is high, trying not to think of anything else.

1. There is a dangling modifier here; the way you have written it, it is ambiguous as to whether your feet are wondering who is short or you that is wondering who is short.
2. On an old bed like that, feet cannot swing back and forth without bashing against the sides.

Trying not to think of the car, crushed, bent like an accordion, battered and broken. The hospital, the paper shoes we had to wear, the scowling nurses, the machines. The wine bottles, the old men, their cheeks stained with red blotches and broken blood vessels...then the noise of tyres on the gravel interrupts my wondering mind. Someone is here.

Nice. Only glitch was the scowling nurses. Why are the nurses scowling? My limited experiences with nurses has been that they invariably put on a cheery face, even if only to jolly their patients along and stop them bloody whinging about stuff...

“I want to see her, please”... “I think she is still sleeping”... “please check. I just need to speak to her”...

It works here and, to a point, is a matter of taste. However, I tend to have a new line for each new voice to make the change of character clearer.

the kind lady who is fostering me

What, you mean, your "foster mother"? The original felt very wordy.

“Your mother is here, she wishes to speak with you.” … “Please tell her I am not ready”... “are you sure...it's been weeks”

Again, a question of style, but having all the voices on one line here made it marginally harder to grasp.

I would have to let go, would have to stay here and I'm just not strong enough. And I can still feel the anger, the complete uncontrollable anger. I'm know I'm not angry at her. I'm angry because my father is dead, because I don't know where my brother is, because I'm in a foreign country away from friends and family, because we had everything and now we have nothing not even each other. Because I'm scared. And it's true, when we are at our lowest we hurt the ones we love because we know it's safe to do so. I love her so much and I'll hurt her so much.


Loved this. But still confused as to why she has been separated from her mother?

Anyway, as I say, this is a really good piece of writing and the changes above are just tweaks and snips.

Thanks for the read,

Gaius

CBrooks at 20:23 on 15 June 2011  Report this post
Hi,

Firstly just want to say thank you to you both for your comments. I'm venturing out into this new world of writing and am lacking in confidence so I can't even begin to tell you how much it means to me that you have both taken the time to post.

Gaius, your breakdown of my work is invaluable, I'll take the time to go over your comments. I noticed that you seemed confused as to the whys and wheres behind the story. Well I was told that it's best to start writing about things you know and that's exactly what I've done. This story is in fact a memory. I thought about writing about all the things that hapend to me when we moved to France as they were so unbelievably hard and full of emotion for me so a great source to draw upon. I didn't know where to start though and this seemed as good a place as any (and I have to say that I think it's worked as you asked a few times why, from which I can only deduce that you would like to read more to find out why. )

Anyway, I still have a long way to go but I'll keep plugging and I take into account the advice I'm given.

With respect to you both, Connie.

firethorne at 18:25 on 16 June 2011  Report this post

Hi Connie,

Not at crit ,rather a note to say I've had a read through this and the work on your blog and it's very readable and interesting and real. If it was in a book I'd turn the pages.
It's like looking at series of images in my head - did you study art?

I'd certainly keep going with it because it's important to you but it breaks the personal memoir barrier and makes what you have to say ,and how you say it, important and worthwhile for the reader.

Hi Gaius !

Andy

Manusha at 13:39 on 18 June 2011  Report this post
Hi Connie,

Gaius is just being humble; he was a member certainly, but also IC’s esteemed group host for many moons. Thanks for driving by with your crit, Gaius, your insightful critique is always most welcome here, and I must say, much missed.

As I’ve already said, Connie, I enjoyed the emotion expressed here and your descriptions create a realistic atmosphere. I feel empathy for the girl and am left with a wish to know more of what has happened to her. In your summary you don’t say whether this is a story in itself or the beginnings of a longer piece. As it stands, I wonder if the lack of knowing why she has been fostered makes this feel more of a beginning with more yet to be revealed. If it is a complete story in itself I would think it needs a more of a sense of conclusion.

I agree with Gaius that the first two paras could be cut. As I read them I almost felt I was still reading the summary. But then I thought it does set the scene in a very personal way right from the start, yet perhaps it would work fine in an autobiography but not quite as well in a story as such.

The main points have already been made; I just have a few suggestions that are simply alternative ways of looking at some of the sentences. Not that there’s anything wrong with how they stand, but it’s just an obsessive habit of mine, I hope you’ll excuse my indulgence! ; It’s only opinion, but hopefully something might be of help. At the end of the day, of course, it’s your work and your opinion is the most important.

My eyes adjust to the darkened room and register the few sharp strands of light which penetrate through the gaps in the wooden shutters.

If she’s been asleep, I’m not sure her eyes would need to adjust to a darkened room. Wouldn’t they need to adjust if she woke to a bright room? Just an idea:
My eyes open to the darkened room; sharp strands of light penetrate through gaps in the wooden shutters.

I really liked ‘sharp strands of light’, by the way.

Its the middle of August in the south of France and yet the room is cool.

with it's dark wooden surrounds

It’s or not to be it’s: that is the question! You probably already know this, but if it can be ‘it is’ or ‘it has’ then use ‘it’s’. Because ‘It is the middle of August’ works, it must be ‘it’s’, but ‘it is dark wooden surrounds’ doesn’t work, therefore ‘its’ is the one to use.

That's just the way old French houses were designed, incredibly efficient at remaining cool in the face of the summer heat.

I don’t think you need this, it brought me out of her thoughts and I felt the narrator was addressing me directly.

all foreboding in their own way

I like this, and perhaps a little hint of why she finds it so foreboding would give an opportunity to give a deeper glimpse of her fears. It’s just a thought and perhaps not needed because her feelings become aptly revealed anyway.

I love the evocative nature of the whole paragraph from ‘I wait to be sure’ to ‘I am numb’. I hope you don’t mind suggestions on a re-ordering, because the sentences already work, but I feel that sometimes it’s good to look at possible options as well:

I wait to be sure that the sunlight has chased away the gloom before I turn around.

I turn, but only when I am sure that the sunlight has chased away the gloom.

As I stand there waiting in the face of the open window, I can feel the breeze which is warm almost muggy, even early in the morning.

Is she waiting because she knows her mother is visiting? If so, wouldn’t she wait after she has dressed? Or perhaps ‘waiting’ here means something else. Also, I’m not sure I have ever thought it is ‘almost muggy’. I know what you mean, but I think it either feels muggy or it doesn’t. Only preference, but I wonder if the word ‘humid’ might fit better with the tone of the piece anyway. Another of my obsessive re-ordering suggestions:

I stand at the open window; the early morning breeze already humid.

It gently runs through my hair which tickles the small of my back. My long chestnut locks, my crowning glory as my mother used to say, damp with sweat from the heat of the night.

Just playing with words here:

Its warm breath runs through my hair. Damp with the sweat of the heat of the night, my curls tickle the small of my back. My chestnut curls. My crowning glory: those were my mother’s words.

There a slight incongruity here, earlier you say that the room is cool, yet now you have said that her hair is damp from the heat of the night. Not sure how you could address this, perhaps by attributing her damp hair to a fitful sleep rather than the heat.

interrupts my wondering mind

Do you mean ‘wondering’ or ‘wandering’? I guess it could be either.

I agree with Gaius about separating the speech into their own paras. It would also remove the need for the ellipsis (…). Generally it’s good to try and minimise their use so that they don’t draw too much attention to themselves. And you certainly don’t need the one before ‘’I can’t just yet'’. Whether you change it or leave it as it is, you need full-stops and the end of each piece of dialogue.

This is incredibly picky, I know, but of the nine paragraphs, six begin with ‘I’, one with ‘I’m’ and one with ‘It’s. Only one begins a letter that isn’t ‘I’. To be honest, I didn’t notice when I read this the first time and it’s only because this is Intensive Critique that I even noticed it at all (many readers might not see it either), but you might want to look at varying the beginning of paragraphs.

This is a fine and evocative piece of work, Connie, and considering it is your first attempt at writing I think you’re off to a great start. You certainly deserve to feel very pleased with this. I hope we get the chance to see more of your work. I would certainly like to see more of this story; I’m intrigued already, especially knowing that it is based on a true experience. More please!

Regards, Andy

PS Sorry it’s taken me so long to get my crit posted.


Libbie at 20:16 on 20 June 2011  Report this post
Hi Connie,

Gauis and Andy have gone into the nitty gritty, and covered everything well, so I won't repeat what they wrote.

I just wanted to say that I thoroughly enjoyed reading this - it was very well written, the scene was beautifully drawn and I was sorry when it came to an end.

Is this the beginning of a novel/novella? Both your characters and story are very strong
and it's crying out to be continued.

L





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