This is my November Novel -- A 50,000 word exercise used to help those of us who would like to write but don't ever seem to find the time to write. (I don't seem to be able to ever find enough time to write)
This story is one that has been creeping around in my head -- so here you go, follow along as the month progresses -- Lets see if i can do it.
GIVE ME DEATH -- By T.S. Smith
Prologue
The shrill whistle blew marking the end of another day. Dirt and grime covered every inch of exposed skin and clothing the young man wore. His Dickies were more gray silt than tan with the debris. His white hard hat puffed a plumb of rubble into the air as he tapped it roughly against his leg. He wiped his brow with a dirty red work rag that left behind a gash of moist dirt in its wake. He replaced the hat -- tapping it home on his head, gathered his lunch pail and tattered jacket into his free hand.
His pace was resigned -- almost reluctant to leave the shelter of the giant crane’s cabin; he slowly placed his gloved hands and steel-toed boots on the long metal ladder, descending the thirty-odd steps to the ground below.
He lifted his time card out of the rack containing fifty duplicate time cards. The only discerning difference was the T. Thomas printed at the top of his. He slid the card into the time clock flinching as the clock stamped the time and bit a chunk out of the side of the beige benign surface. He slid it back into the rack where its home would be until the next workday.
T. Thomas turned and walked through the steel meshed gates to the sidewalk beyond then slowly trotted down the street toward home, head bent counting the separations in the sidewalk to himself. There were two hundred and twelve separations until he reached home. Tomorrow there would be two hundred and twelve separations in the sidewalk on his way back.
GIVE ME DEATH
By T.S. Smith
Have you ever given much thought to your own death? Not that I think about you dying, well not much, at least. However, I do think an awful lot about myself dying -- it’s an obsession really. I also obsess about the death of those around me -- those who are close to me -- those who I really wish would die. Not you of course, you’re fine in your perfect world, but mine isn’t quite as nice as yours is. Let me illustrate….
My name is Tom T. Thomas, or in reality, my birth certificate is emblazoned with the name Thomas Thomas Thomas. I didn’t have the most creative parents. I had to change my first name to Tom in grade school just to keep the bullies off my back -- if I’d only knew then what I know now I would have let them beat me to a bloody pulp before puberty reared its ugly head.
My mother -- who held me bound in purgatory for nine months, felt little need to touch me after giving birth. She felt her job was adequately finished. Most of the care I received in the early years came from my grandmother -- luckily enough she died choking to death on a chicken bone along with the dog. We buried them together to save my father from having to dig another hole. I didn’t cry at the funeral. To be honest I was happy to see my grandmother die, she was a miserable woman and would have likely made a top three spot on my list of people who should die.
She always smelled of a week old ashtray and flowers mixed, it was a revolting aroma. Her lips had a permanent divot where the Lucky Strike cigarette sat with an inch long ash dangling precariously waiting to drop on my body as she dressed or bathed me. She also wore the reddest lipstick and nail polish -- a color that’s only natural with arterial bleeding. Her skin was always pasty white except for those areas nicotine had painted yellow. The contrast between the red and pasty white lead me to believe she was a vampire -- and my dreams were darker those nights she tucked me into bed. My last waking visions of those blood red lips wrinkled with age, lowering over my face to kiss me goodnight -- still gives me nightmares.
My father on the other hand was a wonderful man. He loved having a son to carry on the family name -- even if that name was obviously so common. When he came home from work in the evenings he would tossle my hair and ask, “How was your day?” I nodded dutifully, even though I was unable to articulate the horrors I lived every waking moment he wasn’t in the house. On the weekends my life was bearable. My father would take me to the park, or fishing, or just sit and read the paper to me depending on how miserable the weather was outside.
It was one of those beautiful sunny days at the park that the only bright spot in my life was extinguished.
Walking along the tree lined lane of the park my father reached up and grabbed his left arm as if someone had suddenly hit him. I watched his face in horror as the pain gripped his chest and he was -- in seconds -- laying face first in the grass, dead. I cried that day.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Healing Hearts
My friend and coworker is learning first hand what it’s like to help heal a heart. Death, I’m afraid, touches us all at one point or another and how we deal with grief is unique to each of us. Psychologists like to classify grief in a group of stages.
SHOCK & DENIAL
PAIN & GUILT
ANGER & BARGAINING
DEPRESSION, REFLECTION, LONELINESS
THE UPWARD TURN
RECONSTRUCTION & WORKING THROUGH
ACCEPTANCE & HOPE
Many of us have heard of these stages, but if you haven’t been through it yourself, you can’t begin to imagine how difficult it can be.
I lost my mother-in-law a few years back to a rather unusual accident.
During the September 2004 flood in my town, we lived in a war zone of destruction. Neighbors’ roofs were lying in yard three houses away. The fence that once surrounded my home was swept away by the raging waters. This left the six-foot drop-off into the creek accessible to anyone not paying attention to where you were walking.
We, Kevin and I, received a phone call that horrific morning at 3:00 am. My nephew had driven by the house and noticed Mary Catherine’s car parked in the street, still running, lights still on and the door locked. He tried getting into her house but the doors to the house were locked. That’s when we got the call. Kevin called his brothers and they all met at the house looking for their mother. Luckily, or unluckily they found her. She had walked off the six-foot drop off at the rear of the house. She was conscience for the short term but dropped into a coma when she was taken to the hospital only waking up shortly stating she was ready to see her mother before passing away.
I can’t even begin to imagine the grief that rocked this family -- my daughter was completely knocked off her axis by the trauma. I loved Mary, but I wasn’t attached to her like my husband and daughter were. This was my first time, as an adult, dealing with grief on this scale. I was besides myself trying to help a five year old little girl come to terms with her grandmother dying. We made it through. It has taken 5 years for her to come to terms with that loss.
While I worked through this trying time with my daughter I tried to remember what it was like loosing my grandmother. I was close to the same age as my own daughter, but I didn’t have the kind of relationship with my grandmother that she had with hers. Mary was like her second mother -- I only saw my grandmother occasionally. Mary spent every second of her day with my daughter -- it was something she loved. Man she loved her grandchildren. My grandmother was suffering with cancer (something I wasn’t aware of at the time). I loved my grandmother, but I didn’t depend on her for a portion of my everyday happiness. My daughter was tightly bonded to her grandmother -- those two were like Frick and Frack -- one wasn’t far away from the other.
This one episode in my life showed me how little I had entrusted my happiness to someone else. While I watched, helpless to do anything about it, my daughter suffered because she was so amazingly close to someone else.
Her heart is healed now and she will go on to bond her happiness with others in her life. This is a good thing. Time does heal wounds -- just remember the stronger the bond the deeper the wound and the longer it takes to heal.
SHOCK & DENIAL
PAIN & GUILT
ANGER & BARGAINING
DEPRESSION, REFLECTION, LONELINESS
THE UPWARD TURN
RECONSTRUCTION & WORKING THROUGH
ACCEPTANCE & HOPE
Many of us have heard of these stages, but if you haven’t been through it yourself, you can’t begin to imagine how difficult it can be.
I lost my mother-in-law a few years back to a rather unusual accident.
During the September 2004 flood in my town, we lived in a war zone of destruction. Neighbors’ roofs were lying in yard three houses away. The fence that once surrounded my home was swept away by the raging waters. This left the six-foot drop-off into the creek accessible to anyone not paying attention to where you were walking.
We, Kevin and I, received a phone call that horrific morning at 3:00 am. My nephew had driven by the house and noticed Mary Catherine’s car parked in the street, still running, lights still on and the door locked. He tried getting into her house but the doors to the house were locked. That’s when we got the call. Kevin called his brothers and they all met at the house looking for their mother. Luckily, or unluckily they found her. She had walked off the six-foot drop off at the rear of the house. She was conscience for the short term but dropped into a coma when she was taken to the hospital only waking up shortly stating she was ready to see her mother before passing away.
I can’t even begin to imagine the grief that rocked this family -- my daughter was completely knocked off her axis by the trauma. I loved Mary, but I wasn’t attached to her like my husband and daughter were. This was my first time, as an adult, dealing with grief on this scale. I was besides myself trying to help a five year old little girl come to terms with her grandmother dying. We made it through. It has taken 5 years for her to come to terms with that loss.
While I worked through this trying time with my daughter I tried to remember what it was like loosing my grandmother. I was close to the same age as my own daughter, but I didn’t have the kind of relationship with my grandmother that she had with hers. Mary was like her second mother -- I only saw my grandmother occasionally. Mary spent every second of her day with my daughter -- it was something she loved. Man she loved her grandchildren. My grandmother was suffering with cancer (something I wasn’t aware of at the time). I loved my grandmother, but I didn’t depend on her for a portion of my everyday happiness. My daughter was tightly bonded to her grandmother -- those two were like Frick and Frack -- one wasn’t far away from the other.
This one episode in my life showed me how little I had entrusted my happiness to someone else. While I watched, helpless to do anything about it, my daughter suffered because she was so amazingly close to someone else.
Her heart is healed now and she will go on to bond her happiness with others in her life. This is a good thing. Time does heal wounds -- just remember the stronger the bond the deeper the wound and the longer it takes to heal.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Practiced at the Art of Procrastination
The road to hell isn’t paved with good intentions; it’s paved with the bodies of procrastinators. Those who don’t procrastinate are driving the steamrollers.My to-do list has become quite extensive this past week. The holidays tend to do this to women. The house needs a holiday cleaning, cookie recipes need baked, and I don’t even want to figure out what box I packed the Christmas decorations in last year. We were flooded twice in the past few years so much of what I once had is now floating somewhere in the Atlantic. If you notice a fake Christmas tree, it’s probably mine.
So with the never ending list of my own, we add to that -- Halloween parties at work and school (plus the opportunity to TP the local haunted tree up the street from my house -- not to worry, it’s a yearly event graciously accepted by the owners of said tree), Thanksgiving, a music recital (thrown in for good measure), Christmas parties at work and school, New Years Eve parties (amateur night, I tend to stay in for those), and then the Monster’s Birthday. Three months crammed full of stuff to do. I’m starting to feel my age and the ever-present devil sitting on my shoulder whispering into my ear, “Procrastinate.”
To be honest, I don’t know how some women do it because I sure as hell can’t keep up with the PTA, wannabe Martha Stewart, school moms. I’m quite happy just being able to get out of bed in the morning, have enough energy to shower and head off to work. (Mind you, my work starts when most of you all go to bed. I sleep during the day, which is a whole other set of problems that lends itself to procrastination.)
Of course, the older I get, the faster time essentially flies by, so that being said -- those same three months will fill all of about 50 minutes in age related time. “And what does that mean?” you ask. Well that means, I will run around like a chicken with its head cut off for several weeks during which the prospective D’days will arrive and I will possibly be able to enjoy a combined total of 50 minutes of the festivities. So instead of being a crazed lunatic this year I decided to prioritize those things that needed to be done thinking I would have more time to enjoy the holidays.
“How’s it going?” you ask. Well, I’m getting to it…
Saturday, October 10, 2009
“M” Kind of Day
Monday, an expletive to most, madness for me on the Full “M”oon “M”adness “M”onday. It was my “M” kind of day. Do you ever have those? Days that seem to stick out in your memory better then some, more abstract then others.
I have those kinds of days.
Numbers do that to me also.
I am a 222 person, that number does something to me every time I see it.
Just a reflection on something -- I am a counter, a bit of OCPD embedded in my psyche. It isn’t a bad thing. I believe a small amount of Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder is a good thing for some people. My OCPD has become less noticeable in my life. After having children, it’s difficult to keep up with the routines we demand from ourselves. I try to repress mine as much as possible. I still find myself wanting to yank the towels out of my husband’s hands when he isn’t folding them correctly, but I suppress it -- realizing that it doesn’t really matter.
I have a friend who is another member of the OCPD Family. I used to watch him with wonder as he worked. Everything in its place, the same way each time, everyday. I asked him about it one day, years ago. He said that, “I do this so I know where things are without worry of finding them. Just one less thing on my list to deal with. I have much more important things to do with my time.” I have to agree with him. I tend to put things in the same place each day so I have no worries about where they will be when I need them, but I didn’t realize I did it until someone else cleaned my house.
That day, it was many years ago, the women who cleaned my house decided that symmetrical alignment of objects was her preference. So she put everything symmetrically on the shelves, the mantel, and the bookcases. When I walked in the door, I was suddenly struck with horror. Things weren’t as I left them. My house had changed and it made me profoundly uneasy. This was when I realized I had OCPD. I immediately went through the house putting everything to rights. It wasn’t until it was finished that I could sit down. There was a flash of insight in that moment; this wasn’t the first time I had felt disturbed by things being out of place. I remembered as a child that I used to line the insides of my drawers where my clothes went. I had taken a ruler and marked out the insides so that each thing had its place. It was order in my chaos, and it started when I was very young.
Mine (My OCPD) isn’t as profound as others are. I know how debilitating this disorder can become. For many they are unable to finish tasks because they believe, “Their idea of perfection,” isn’t being met. I still catch myself in the same situations, taking over tasks from others because they aren’t doing what I would consider a, “Good Job.” I try not to do this often; it makes working with others difficult. I seriously try not to do it with my children. They have enough to deal with now a day without their mother trying to turn them into little perfectionists.
They (my children) have taught me a lot about the need for less perfection. Go ahead, toss your clothes on the floor, don’t wear matching clothes, forks and spoons can go on any side of the plates.
They are great teachers.
I have those kinds of days.
Numbers do that to me also.
I am a 222 person, that number does something to me every time I see it.
Just a reflection on something -- I am a counter, a bit of OCPD embedded in my psyche. It isn’t a bad thing. I believe a small amount of Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder is a good thing for some people. My OCPD has become less noticeable in my life. After having children, it’s difficult to keep up with the routines we demand from ourselves. I try to repress mine as much as possible. I still find myself wanting to yank the towels out of my husband’s hands when he isn’t folding them correctly, but I suppress it -- realizing that it doesn’t really matter.
I have a friend who is another member of the OCPD Family. I used to watch him with wonder as he worked. Everything in its place, the same way each time, everyday. I asked him about it one day, years ago. He said that, “I do this so I know where things are without worry of finding them. Just one less thing on my list to deal with. I have much more important things to do with my time.” I have to agree with him. I tend to put things in the same place each day so I have no worries about where they will be when I need them, but I didn’t realize I did it until someone else cleaned my house.
That day, it was many years ago, the women who cleaned my house decided that symmetrical alignment of objects was her preference. So she put everything symmetrically on the shelves, the mantel, and the bookcases. When I walked in the door, I was suddenly struck with horror. Things weren’t as I left them. My house had changed and it made me profoundly uneasy. This was when I realized I had OCPD. I immediately went through the house putting everything to rights. It wasn’t until it was finished that I could sit down. There was a flash of insight in that moment; this wasn’t the first time I had felt disturbed by things being out of place. I remembered as a child that I used to line the insides of my drawers where my clothes went. I had taken a ruler and marked out the insides so that each thing had its place. It was order in my chaos, and it started when I was very young.
Mine (My OCPD) isn’t as profound as others are. I know how debilitating this disorder can become. For many they are unable to finish tasks because they believe, “Their idea of perfection,” isn’t being met. I still catch myself in the same situations, taking over tasks from others because they aren’t doing what I would consider a, “Good Job.” I try not to do this often; it makes working with others difficult. I seriously try not to do it with my children. They have enough to deal with now a day without their mother trying to turn them into little perfectionists.
They (my children) have taught me a lot about the need for less perfection. Go ahead, toss your clothes on the floor, don’t wear matching clothes, forks and spoons can go on any side of the plates.
They are great teachers.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Getting Organized
I write in long hand -- something, I guess, that's unusual for writers in general, I don't know.
In today’s technologically abstract world, if you don't have a computer screen blinking a cursor at you on its digital page, you are extinct. I feel extinct some days. I have lost touch with technology.
I guess I write long hand because paper and pen are so much more available than to lay ones hands on a laptop. I don't own a laptop. I do own a computer, which takes up nearly 50% of the desk it occupies. I write there too.
I am working on a novel, which should be finished shortly -- Christmas by my estimations. The story is done in my head; many of the pages are typed and unedited. I am a poor writer, both monetarily and grammatically.
I filed that experience away in the apothecary chest of endless drawers in my mind, along with most of the other experiences. Some easier to find then others. (Because I remembered to label some of the drawers, but alas not all of them.)
In today’s technologically abstract world, if you don't have a computer screen blinking a cursor at you on its digital page, you are extinct. I feel extinct some days. I have lost touch with technology.
I guess I write long hand because paper and pen are so much more available than to lay ones hands on a laptop. I don't own a laptop. I do own a computer, which takes up nearly 50% of the desk it occupies. I write there too.
I am working on a novel, which should be finished shortly -- Christmas by my estimations. The story is done in my head; many of the pages are typed and unedited. I am a poor writer, both monetarily and grammatically.
I filed that experience away in the apothecary chest of endless drawers in my mind, along with most of the other experiences. Some easier to find then others. (Because I remembered to label some of the drawers, but alas not all of them.)
What I’m All About
This phrase is interesting -- “What I’m all about.” I saw this on my Facebook page relating to a person (who is my friend) tagged in a set of pictures. These pictures referenced a person's (who isn’t my friend) culmination of existence. Houses they want to live in, cars they want to drive, people they like, but don’t know, and people they love and do know -- the list is extensive, but not all encompassing.
Are we (the royal ‘we’) the sum of a quantifiable list of material items?
That is hard to answer, so I am on a quest to see if it’s possible. I started to put together a photo collection of my own list. The “What I’m all about” list.
Sure, I found, just as the person before me, items that I wanted. I mean who doesn’t like Italian shoes, or Coco Channel’s exquisite taste. Oh and the shiny, shiny cars… ooooh sparkly. I can find images of authors, actors, directors, sports teams -- all of which I enjoy, covet and love. I can put in family photos (these I love much more). But, how do you find images that reference feelings… I love a certain time of the year that isn’t easy to find in photographs. It is the time right before the leaves turn bright orange and red outside the doors of my house. It is a time just before autumn arrives. There are usually only one or two days just like this. The air is a bit snappy; you can almost taste autumn beating on the door. I can’t find a picture of this.Therefore, I guess I can’t make an all-inclusive list of “What I’m all about.” Well, at least not until they find a way to download my brain into the computer and upload that information to my Facebook page.
Go have fun. See if you can find pictures of “What you’re about.”
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Characters Becoming Part of the Family
The girl I am writing about, ‘Trees’ an assassin, which is her birthright, is a lot like me -- compartmentalizing many of the more traumatic episodes in her life along with those that are genuinely good. They share the same storage box, only divided by balsa wood separations, the grooves cut in irregular intervals of the drawers allowing more then one memory to be contained. Think, apothecary cabinet. I still can’t figure out my own filing system until I need to retieve something.The Grand Canyon is today’s memory and the drawer slides out; cross sections of other memories relating to that surreal place are contained in here. I want to use the Grand Canyon analogously in my book.
(excerpt from book)
The Grand Canyon had looked so surreal, like a backdrop painting in a Western being filmed. As I stood there on the rim, I wanted to reach out my hand and touch the canvas to see if the paint was still wet. Actually, I wanted to drag my fingers across the canvas smearing at it, because I knew in my mind that it couldn’t be real.
That memory now retrieved from its cedar drawer has texture in my mind. I can recall it with clarity, just as I saw it, standing there those many years ago. I didn’t get to close, I still had, as I do now, fears of falling -- vertigo --which my character has also inherited. And with that memory -- another slot in the drawer opened up -- reminding me that a friend of mine Patrick had been with me on that trip. I hadn’t thought about him in… I don’t know how long, that drawer wasn’t opened at the moment.
But I believe that Trees sees things the same way I do at times, a little of the surreal leaking into her imagination -- watching from the sidelines.
(excerpt from book)
“Life is like Billboards racing past at 70mph. They are large enough to make an impression, but pass quickly by, with acknowledgement to the designer -- sometimes -- for their creative insight, if they leave a lasting impression.”
Trees watched the man die -- commit suicide right in front of her eyes with the same fascination she had when seeing the Grand Canyon. The artist had been talented, it looked almost real to her eyes, and her hand lifted to the canvas wanting to test the paint, seeing if it was still wet.
I think that’s what watching someone die would be like, that’s how my mind would interpret it. Life on film or a master’s oil painting hung in the Louvre. Real, but wet with paint.
This reminded me of the first hospital rotation I did while working on the ambulance. I was in the emergency room of Allegheny General Hospital. A gun shot victim was wheeled into trauma and I watched with detached interest, like watching a movie. I didn’t smell it, I didn’t feel it, I was sitting there on the leather seat at the Metropolitan Museum admiring the painting, and how realistically God paints. Could I get close enough to see the brush strokes? Or a stray hair from the sable brush still embedded in the medium?
That was how I viewed trauma, that was how my brain kept me sane in those instances, that is how I kept my psyche in tact and I know that is how Trees does it too.
(excerpt from book)
Her mind shields her from the reality, making it beautiful to watch, and she smiles a secret smile, something no one else would notice or understand as they passed by her in that moment as she looks at the painting. Most people would just flinch and pass on by. But she sees the genius in the brush strokes, the attention to detail. The way the light falls just right, turning what should be bright red into muddy brown and she smiles because she knows the artist personally, intimately, and in the right hand corner of the canvas she sees her name.
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