I started writing this piece last week but was interrupted by school, work and a social life. I had some time to continue the piece today but instead opted to re-write portions of it. I'm still left with the main question of where am I going with this piece. At first it just came out but as I was writing a couple "older" thoughts occurred to me, including a writing exercise from The Pocket Muse which suggests: Picture a jacket. Picture a pocket of the jacket. Picture what is inside the pocket of the jacket. I was also reminded of a character trait that was inspired by Little Miss Sunshine (if you haven't seen, you should run not walk to your local theater).
Michael slouched into the worn couch, waiting. He squirmed until he found himself in his customer position on the middle cushion. The rush hour traffic noise leaked through the open window in Angela's apartment living room. Michael listened to the parade of cars, trucks and buses rumbling by, scurrying home as quickly as their fellow drivers allowed. The window was cracked open, only allowing the noise to reach his ears, not the pleasant autumn air passing through the city. He stared at the window, trying to decide if he wanted to open the window more for the breeze or shut it to drown out the traffic noise.
Michael untangled himself from his seat, his hand lightly brushing the faded tan corduroy jacket perched on the couch's arm. Walking to the window he started at the sidewalk below, noticing an older woman wearing a scarlet scarf, vainly trying to cross the street. Something about her stride reminded him of Aunt Nancy. The breeze was pleasant as he stood there, so his fingers curled around the window pane to pull it open. He was rewarded with reddened fingers and flecks of white paint falling to the sill. Michael sighed as he adjusted his hands, forcing the window down.
"Mike, did you just close the window?" Angela's voice cracked from her bedroom. "You know how difficult it was for us to open it.
Michael could hear the exasperation in her voice, but ignored it. Sighing again, he shrugged at the small calico cat which appeared from Angela's bedroom. Michael shared a knowing look with Beckett before Beckett pounded across the hardwood floor into the kitchen. Michael fell back into the couch; this time his body sliding natural into his accustomed perch, waiting. Scanning the room for something to occupy his mind while Angela finished getting ready, his eyes noticed the strange imprint in the couch cushion next to him. Not for the first time did he wonder how many boyfriends had sat in a similar state waiting. Not for the last time did he push any further thoughts of ex-boyfriends out of his mind, ignoring the likelyhood that more than just sitting happened on this couch.
Anxiously Michael looked at his watch and found himself mesmerized by the ticking second hand. His right hand started tapping the next cushion. The smallest motion shifted his jacket from his perch. A muffled thud accompanied its collapse to the floor. Michael could also her the slight movement of Beckett, scurrying back into Angela's bedroom. He leaned forward to pick up the jacket, cradling it in his lap. Another muffled thud reached his ears as he felt something strike his right thigh. Holding the jacket before him, he quickly rummaged through all the pockets until his found a small book tucked in the lining. The book came free with some difficulty and Michael was sure he heard a rip. Oh well, he thought, it is not the first for this jacket. Faith loved.... Michael decided not to pursue that thought either but instead turn the book over in his hands. He had misplaced this book months ago, during the spring. With the cooler autumn air moving in he had only recently pulled out his warmer clothes.
It was an older printing of Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling. Michael thumbed through the worn, yellowed, dog-eared pages. Noting the hand-writing in the margin and the various pages with faded highlighter marks. Some pages were completely highlighted. Flipping through the pages he landed on a particular passage that caught his attention. [I haven't decided what the passage is yet, but it is v. important that I find the "right" one.]
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1 comment:
OK Jeff, I am happy to be the first one to leave a comment, to lay the cornerstone for what surely will be a brilliant literary community.
The strands weave together well: First brushing the jacket, later finding the book; the cat moving around the apartment, the familiarity of Mike's spot on the couch (which contrasts nicely with his wandering imagination regarding previous [ahem] sitters). The details of the apartment are also well used. For example, the flecks of paint falling off the window correspond with the "cracking" of Mike's girlfriend's voice. The awareness of ambient noise and the image of the old lady crossing the street create a distinct atmosphere that's hard to describe, but seems serene and somewhat melancholy, as if the wealth of life is to be found in the small details you provide.
The sentence about the cars, I think, can be shortened. Specifically, "as quickly as their fellow drivers allowed" can be dispensed with. Prior to that, the reader is enmeshed in this little slice of domestica in the apartment; that line abrubtly thrusts us outside. But the wealth of your story is inside, in the details. The line is jarring and, as far as I can see, unimportant for the rest of the tale. And in a piece so short (for now), economy is paramount.
Along similar lines, the reference to Aunt Nancy can go. Unless you can relate her to Kierkegaard or make family an overarching theme.
Finally, using Kierkegaard explicitly comes off as intellectual name-dropping. Even if you quote Kierkegaard directly, don't tell us who it is. Let those in the know get it and the rest of us marvel at the wisdom in this mysterious book.
I am intrigued by the story, which seems to be about a relationship with something dark underneath the surface: cracked voice, disintegrating paint, Mike not sure whether to open up or shut the window, crossing streets, exasperation, and knowing glances with the cat. There is a lot there. I may be reading too much into it, but isn't that the point? I am curious about what happens next, what Mike finds in the book.
Take or leave my comments as you wish, I won't be offended either way. Criticism can be helpful, but there is also a point where you have to forget everyone else and follow your intuition.
Steve
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