Story Discussion: Feb.9,09 -"Eclipsing Sorrow" by Christabelll

[christabelll]

HI there ya'll. Thanks for coming over here and taking a peek. Most of you know my screen name and have read most if not all of my meager postings. I have been working on a much longer tale, not very erotic at first but becoming so towards the end of the story. I had hoped that this story could go through the contest - but - alas the muse was having none of it - as this is not a story that can be told with only a few lit pages to tell it. So here we go -

The whole story has a different name. This is the name of the chapter I would like some help with.

The story revolves around a Young woman whose life has been utterly destroyed. After a terrible accident she is wheelchair bound, her husband has divorced her, her best friend has died and she is alone. Has been alone for many months. Battling depression, drug induced ennui, and still recovering from horrendous injuries the chapter opens with her coming home from the hospital after more than a year of being there relearning the most basic of abilities.


I seriously contemplated posting the whole damn thing. But since I know how well received I am around here these days I have chosen to only post one chapter.


Also please note- This is a work in steady progress.

 

[christabelll]

Chapter Two – Eclipsing Sorrow


He had stripped the house bare. Vague outlines limned the walls where paintings and portraits had hung. He had taken everything even her toothbrush.

Some do-good group had arranged for her to be brought back to this travesty of a home. She had a meager bag of hospital pajamas, her electric wheelchair, and a permanent pick line in her chest. Must and dust assailed her nostrils unaccustomed to scent not stung with antiseptic and sorrow. It hurt. Even now, more than a year later it crushed her beneath its heavy weight.

Broken.

Half Alive.

Inadequate.

These words beat at her, devastated her further. However, she was not allowed to be defeated. The insurance settlement had finally come through and she could start over. Doing what she had no earthly idea, but she could start with this. This hollowed out shell, devoid of warmth, of comfort. Absent of laughter and love.

With newly skilled fingers on the electric lever, she actuated the motor of the wheelchair and rolled to the curved bay window that fronted her place of address. She looked out at the fog and mist of the early summer day and felt her aloneness engulf her.

“Mrs. Ramsey, you can’t be staying in a place like this.” The young woman, sent by Social Services, protested as she walked out of the dusty kitchen. “It’s just not right. I’ll call around and see if we can’t find you a hospice or something. But you can’t stay here. There’s not even a bed.”

“Take this.” Elizabet held out a black colored piece of plastic. “I like blue and white and lavender and simple clean lines.”

The woman looked at her, quite cross-eyed, and then gasped “You’re kidding right? You mean, just like that go and buy you everything?”

“Everything. Hire a cleaning crew, a window washer, whatever you think I need. But, by the end of the day I will need a bed to lay myself down on.”

Such was her apathy that what should have charged her up, plotting and planning to bring into being, merely annoyed her with needing it to be done. She just didn’t care. Could not bring her self to care. There was nothing left inside her. She would let the Social Workers think she was doing what needed doing. But once the mirrors were in place they, they, like every one else would vanish from her life.

Mortality was apparently infectious.

**

Elizabet was dreaming.

Music tumbled through her sleeping mind, lifting her up on limbs that functioned, were whole. She spun in vivid circles, her hair whipping across her face. Diaphanous material swirled and eddied around her legs which lead her in frenzies of uncontrollable steps and glides and whirls. Guitars and pipes, drums and cellos urged her to paroxysms of dance.

She careened over cars, and skidded into buildings. She slammed up stairs and floated over bridges. Try as she might she could not control what her body was doing. She stretched and strained seeking to follow the sound of low strings, but insensibly Elizabet danced on – unable to stop, unable to do anything except spin. Inchoate anguish pumped in time to her frantically beating heart. Her arms were outstretched reaching – reaching…

Until at last, the unformed keening of her soul dragged her from the dervishes of sleep and left her flattened to the hard surface of the bed. Sweat limned her body as tears leaked numbly into her hairline.

Laboriously she rolled to her side, dragging her upper body to meet her knees in a fetal curl empty of comfort. God was indeed cruel she thought darkly as the innominate music faded from her internal hearing and the dizziness of her dream dance subsided to that of merely narcotic induced disequilibrium. She lay there, heedless and subdued, wondering if she could find the strength to continue her empty existence.

Only a few minutes passed before she chided herself as a sniveling coward and forced her self to sit up. It was no mean feat; it had taken months for the strength in her left arm to be enough to hold a spoon. These days Elizabet could usually drag her self from bed to chair to shower and back again, but sitting up still required concentration and a quick dose of morphine to take the pain to mere knife stabs instead of crushing lightning strikes.

Glancing down at the tubes still anchored within her body she grimaced in self-abhorrence. The Foley and colostomy bag were full and needed changing very soon and a swift glance at the clock told her that it was far too early to expect the home care nurse.

Muttering and flinching, she wrestled her legs to the edge of the bed and pushed them off. They fell without a jot of sensation to mar the blankness that existed below her waist. She saw that bruises mottled her shins and her ankle had a shallow scrape on it from a stray clip on the electric chair.

She closed her eyes in shame and perverse justification. It was only right that she should be as she was. Perhaps she really deserved to have her inner worth broadcasted by her outer shell. Useless and barren, immobilized at last from causing further harm to others by simply existing.

Elizabet snorted. Yeah, daring to exist like this! Daring to survive and still be a human albeit a paralyzed one. After Geraldine had died, everyone she knew had dropped away. One by one, they had found excuses to stay away until eventually she got the message. Leave us alone. You need too much. You’re broken now and we don’t want to play with broken things. And the most painful of all – she just wasn’t worth anyone’s time after Tyler had left her and Geraldine had died.

She snorted again swallowing past the lump that tried to clog her throat. As angry as she still was with it all she simply could not find the energy to rise above it. All she really wanted was to be left alone, to heal or not, in peace. Nevertheless, for now, she had to get herself from the bed to the chair without falling again. Elizabet just couldn’t bear the thought of being found on the floor shivering and helpless once more.

With an eye on the tubes taped down her inner thigh, she reached forward and actuated the lever control of her chair. It skimmed forward faster than she expected and she yelped instinctively when it slammed into her legs. She hadn’t felt a thing.

Impotent tears trickled unheeded as she grabbed the handles of the chair and pulled with all her might. With no legs to support her it was a feat of strength she couldn’t always pull off.

Today was no exception.

Shoulders wedged painfully against steel handles, her legs crumpled and useless beneath her, agony scorched her spine as it twisted under her weight. Small cries bled from her lips as she struggled to pull her self back up. The chair tottered in spite of its counterweights and flipped sideways leaving her stuck against the bed-frame, her left arm pinned underneath the bulk of its wheels. The plastic catheter had a kink in it and unless she could get it un-kinked she risked more than a simple over flowing bag of urine. Visions of bursting bladders and exploding crap danced behind her eyes leaving her sobbing in frustration as she twisted around trying to reach the tubing.

Elizabet’s right fingers grazed the fluid filled tubes that much out of reach. Blazing pain made spots flit across her field of vision, the button for administering morphine somewhere above her tucked close to the pillow. Anger rose from the depths of her body and she began crying in earnest. Of course, it only pissed her off more. Her fist pounded an insensitive hip, the unforgiving metal, the thick bedside carpet. Sweat burst from her pores as she fought her phantoms with useless fury.

She tried to unpin her arm with no success. Crepuscular depression clouded her mind as she realized that she couldn’t even call for help. She was stuck like this until the nurse showed up. Another two hours. She would be lucky to have her left arm survive being pinned under the weight of the electric wheelchair. A scream tore out of her throat before she could stop it. Screams littered the air, rang in her ears.

A loud thump startled her mid-scream cutting it off like razors through flesh.

“Hey lady?” a masculine voice made her gasp. “What’s the matter in there that you’re screaming like a banshee?”

For a moment she thought she was hallucinating the voice. But he spoke again as she gathered breath to scream.

“You need some help or something? I can’t see where you are from here.”

From here? She thought then called “Where are you?”

“I’m standing on the ledge outside washing the windows. Where are you?”

“Oh my God,” Elizabet breathed, my window ledge? Washing my windows? She cried out, “Come in! Please for the love of God, climb in. I’m on the floor on the other side of the bed.”

She waited tensely listening to the creak of the old round bay window as it opened the rest of the way. Footsteps thudded on the hardwood floor as they slowly came further into the room.

“For Gods sake,” A deep male voice growled still out of her field of vision. “Hang on let me get that thing off of you.”

Metal and nylon pinched and pulled as her erstwhile rescuer righted the wheelchair. “I would never have thought those things were so heavy,” He grumbled as he crouched down where she could see his face.

Burning green eyes stared at her from a face suntanned and open. She blinked at him and managed to say thank you before she struggled to sit up. With no feeling in her left arm all she managed to do was flatten herself.

“You want help with that?” He smiled at her, not at all sarcastic she decided, as he reached out a hand within her easy reach. Elizabet’s cheeks burned as the man looked her over assessing everything he saw with green eyes gone cool and suddenly shuttered. “Mrs. Ramsey, I’m going to have to touch you to put you back in the bed. I am sorry if it hurts.”

“How- ?” She swallowed in confusion, “How do you know my name?”

“The Agency sent me over because you requested a window washer. I should have been here last week but something else came up and I had to reschedule. It looks like it’s a good thing I did.” He slid strong, tanned arms beneath her useless legs and upper back. “Ready?”

She nodded tightly, gulping in air as she felt his muscles flex where they pressed against her arm and torso. In one smooth, fluid motion, he raised her from the floor and eased her onto the bed. With surprising skill, he straightened her limbs, fluffed her pillow then handed her the button for the morphine pump. “Go ahead and take some of that and tell me where your first aide kit is?”

“Huh? Why would you need to know that?” The morphine blurred through her blood as she stared up at her window-washing rescuer. His sandy blonde hair danced on a broad brow that was furrowed with concern.

“You’ve a cut on your leg that needs bandaging.” He smiled at her though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Who are you? What’s your name?” Elizabet asked him, wondering why his eyes seemed so familiar to her.

“Doc - Patrick McDonough, Missoula Glass Cleaners, at your service.” White teeth glinted at her as he turned away, “You’ve extra Foleys and colostomy bags too, right?”

“Of course, but why… Mr. McDonough, you don’t have to do that. You should go back to work. I’ll be fine, the home care nurse will be here soon and she’ll take care of it.”

He ignored her attempts to send him away, “I reckon that if you wait that long it will be too late. Let me do this for you and then I’ll get back doing what you’re paying me to do.”

Shame burned her, making angry tears begin their usual leaking run. “Don’t. You don’t have to and-”

“I’ve done it before if that’s worrying you. It’s been a while but I am sure I can get those things taken care of and you will be a whole lot more comfortable and able to rest until your nurse gets here. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. We all need help sometimes.”

He turned those speaking eyes on her again and something inside her leapt up and howled for attention. Brutally she squelched the feeling, knowing that she was stupid and weak, and every other kind of fool she despised for even considering the minutest possibility that she could respond to him like a woman. She would never be a real woman again.

Gulping in air, she blurted, “Do it then.” Then turned her head away.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she marveled at how quick and skilled his fingers were as he changed out the bags that hung from her body like pod children. He did it all with out raising her gown, or a single improper touch. Not that she could feel him touching her at all. Childishly, she’d slitted her eyelids and watched him quickly and efficiently disconnect and connect the various tubes and deftly dispose of the full bags. Patrick then carefully used gauze and tape from her nightstand and dressed a rather ragged looking cut on her left shin.

“I know it’s not my business,” Patrick said, “But, you really shouldn’t try to get out of bed without help. These cuts on your legs could get infected and you wouldn’t know it.”

“Oh I’d know it all right,” she snapped, “Go on. Thank you. I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

“All right. You need anything, you just holler.” If he heard the embarrassed anger in her voice he gave no indication as he tipped an imaginary hat and walked back to the window where his bucket of cleaner and stack of rags lay on the wide ledge. “Just call out if you need me.”

Elizabet watched him fold his tall, athletic body through the large window and take up a large sponge of soapy water to continue cleaning the windows. The stretch and pull of lean muscles as he scrubbed sent vague desire pooling into her belly.

Still human she mused, biting her lip to keep from calling him back to her bedside. Aching loneliness was no excuse to torment another human with her lack.

**

The weeks passed in crushing boredom sprinkled liberally with bouts of self pity and depression. When she wasn’t in bed lost in drugged dreams she relearned the confines of her existence rolling from room to room, grateful at least that she lived in a single story rambler. The home care nurses came two and three times a day offering little in the way of companionship. She would find herself mumbling or humming some nonsensical tune under her breath just to hear something besides the electric hum of her chair.

She would run her fingers through her growing hair and press the bones of her skull as hard as she could, daring herself to feel something, anything besides despair. It dawned on her, yet again, that she had been abandoned. She was mortally, agonizingly lonely. With no one to talk to except an overly efficient nurse she felt herself creeping inevitably toward the edge of madness.

In a desperate bid to see something besides four bare walls Elizabet took to staring out her front window. The wide bay of it accommodated her wheelchair nicely and there she would watch the street. A few doors down a sparkling example of the American dream went through their days in bursts of controlled chaos. Envy bubbled in her heart as she watched the love they had for one another touch everything they did. The children were dark headed and beaming and the envy stabbed deeper reminding her all too clearly of everything she had lost.

“You are disgusting.” She shouted vehemently to herself. “You can’t have that anymore. You will never have that again. Fool. Idiot.”

It didn’t matter that she had never had it to begin with. She had believed the lie and had lived her life according to it. Now, nothing stopped the harsh reality of her life from tearing her apart every moment.

She watched with dull curiosity as the homeless denizens of her town rolled their hijacked carts through the detritus of the streets. A dark thought crossed her mind - that could have been me; but for the turn of fate that kept her from destitution after the accident and the divorce. It was another thing to be grateful for in a world where her fragile thought of gratitude meant nothing. Not even to her.

One vagrant in particular, a little mouse of a woman, however, always made her look. Petite and fragile looking, this tiny thing, dressed in brilliantly colored rags, pushed her cart along as if she were dancing. No matter the weather, she bounced along, never seeming to let her dire circumstances get her down. Always smiling, chattering as she went. On a few occasions she had witnessed the imp handing out bags of what looked to be grass clippings and dried flowers to others of her ilk, with much finger wagging and belabored pantomime of what seemed to be directions.

Early one spring day, it startled her to no end when the imp walked straight up to her window. Just as bold as brass she winked at her then started talking to her as if she were a child caught sneaking a cookie from the jar.

“How you doing in there, Missus?” she had quipped in a slightly singsong voice that belied the lines of wisdom that crinkled her face, “I see you watching there everyday. Don’t you have nothing better to do than watch peoples all day?”

“Why - Excuse me?” Elizabet stammered her surprise feeling shame stain her cheeks.

“Why Missus, why you be blushing for watching all us folks trying to live? Don’t you have no one to watch ‘sides us?” A giggle seemed to lace her drawlingly slurred words, “I means really, all you do is sit there and watch, what be so wrong with you that you don’t go no where or talks with nobody?”

Elizabet gaped in astonishment as this apparition spoke. Nothing better to do? I can’t do anything!

The brilliantly clothed woman leaned against her window sill, “Oh I see now, you are confined. Confined, oh my.” A momentary haze seem to pass over her strangely colored eyes, one blue, the other so dark a brown as to be almost black before they snapped back to Elizabet’s face with laser precision, “Stuck like mushrooms to a tree I sees. Surely you gots more to do than sit there feeling sorry for your self?”

“Feeling sorry for myself? How dare you!” Elizabet choked out, “Who are you to talk to me like that?”

“Me? Why I be no one in particular but I knows a wallower when I sees one. When you be done wallowing you just let me know.” On that insulting remark she danced away, the wheels of her cart squeaking in merry accompaniment.

Wallowing? I’m wallowing? Elizabet stared after the strange woman, indignity surging futilely through her veins.

“You try being in this thing and tell me I’m wallowing,” she whispered as the woman wheeled around a corner and disappeared from her outraged sight.

**

When she wasn’t lost in the arms of morpheus Elizabet read books online and gazed dumbly at her television screen, her days listless and doubtless numbered she reflected dully.

Nurses came and went tending her body but never her soul. Sure they smiled, asked her the same repetitive questions but then they went on their way to other people, other needs. Long days sped by as she struggled with herself. In so many ways it was simply easier to lay in her drugged stupor and give up all pretense of getting on with her life.

Long since had she figured out the codes for changing how much of the morphine she received and when the pain was nigh to unbearable she would stare at the machine strapped to her body and try to summon the courage to do more than simply suffer. Even in that she proved to herself that she was a coward. She couldn’t end it. But neither could she bring herself to begin again.

As the summer slipped into the harvest season Elizabet finally managed get out of bed again. She found herself remembering the strange little woman who had spoken to her like a loving but heckling grandmother. The words she had spoken came back and then they began to rankle.

The world was alive with birdsong and ripening things, a haze of heat dimming the mountains in the distance. It wouldn’t be long before that heat turned her into a sweating heap of worthlessness.

Window watching left her restless, mumbling under her breath. “Something’s got to give here. I really will go out of my mind if I don’t do something. Anything!”

She caught herself zooming through the house. Careening into walls, leaving dents and black rubber streaked behind her. She wanted to feel alive. The buzz of the engine filled her ears as she caromed from her living room to the kitchen and back again. Playing tag with her ghosts she brooded and stewed questioning her worth to keep on living. Obviously she was still alive but no not really living. Worthlessness was not an option if she wanted to do more than merely survive.

As if on queue the bag lady came wheeling up the street, fuchsia and scarlet scarves fluttering obscenely bright in the air. A smile adorned her vixen features fit to beat the sun for its brightness.

“Hullo there, Missus.” She called in that strangely child-like voice. “It is a fine day to stop wallowing!”

Elizabet sucked in a breath, ready to be offended, but let it out on a gusty sigh muttering softly. “Fine day indeed.”

“So you ready to start getting better? You ready to be all you can be in the arrr-arrr-meee?” Those odd eyes pierced her, so clear and happy looking as she sang softly then continued, “For real Missus, what you needs to be doing is drinking my teas and doing something with your mind besides watching the inside of your eyelids.”

She was silent as she stared at this woman-child.

“See, my teas is something fierce for all kinds of ayleements.” Her strange patterns of speech didn’t hamper the light that seemed to envelope the bag lady’s body, “They works on just about everything. Two cups a day and you will see. You just got to brew it up and drink it down like a good girl. All that nasty stuff I am sure you be taking can’t be no good, no how for you to be getting better.”

“Tea? How is tea going to make me better? Not even the best doctors in the world could make me better. I don’t know how tea will.” Bitterness laced Elizabet’s words as unwanted tears pooled under her lashes. “What you see is what you get, it isn’t going to be any better.”

“And here’s I thought you were ready to get better.” A sharp edge stung the woman’s warbling words, “I guess I was wrong about you.” The light seemed to fade like clouds passing overhead.

“Wait. I am. I just-“ Elizabet faltered, hands tightening unconsciously on the armrests of the wheelchair. “Please don’t go. It’s just hard to believe that’s all.” A tear singed her cheek. “What’s in the tea?”

“A little of this and a little of that, whatever I finds to put in it.” The light returned pouring like liquid gold over the garishly clad woman. “The tea will help you I swears it. But we’s got to find something that will occupies that mind I knows you have under all those depressions you been hauling ‘round.”

Without warning a strangely wizened hand reached through the window frame and took Elizabet’s in a tight but gentle grip. She wanted to snatch her hand away but didn’t. She wanted to actuate the lever of her wheelchair and hide in her bedroom. But she didn’t. She stared at this young-old creature of brightly colored rags and held her breath instead.

“You gots to breathe to live child, so get breathing.” The lilting tones of the bag lady’s voice compelled her to draw in a breath then another, “You been betrayed in the worstest of ways, but you’re alive anyway. You been bleeding hurt and there’s no one to makes you remembers life without it. So much inside of you that you has forgotten. All those drugs to hide behind and all that pain to keep your self in a box. T’aint no good for the spirits and no good for the bodies.”

An oddly clean finger, complete with an incongruously well groomed nail traced the lines of her palm.

“You needs to create. Likes your breathing, you can’t hold it in forever. You gots to create an’ you needs a way to be doing it. I knows you thinks you canst do nothing, but honey-girl, you are fit to burst at the seams and I’s for one don’t want to be the one who cleans it up. You get your self a paint set. All the trimmings. I’ll be back with your tea when I see an easel in the window.”

A tingle was spreading through her hand where the woman held it, warmth flowing up her arm. Right alongside it the affectionate moniker of honey-girl seemed to ease the tightness in her chest as the woman returned her hand to rest on the chair. Gerry used to call her that when she was sad or upset. “You will be all right.” Her smile beamed at Elizabet, “You just gots to believe it.”

On those words she danced away with cart wheels squealing and her garish colors drifting down the street.

Elizabet stared after her, her hand held wonderingly against her chest as the warmth continued to pervade her senses. Oddly enough, she could feel it, that warmth.

All the way down to her toes.




******************

 

[christabelll]

The Notes Section

Now I know I have dropped you into the story with no way of really knowing what has come before except by what I tell you here.

I am aware (I think) that there is a bit too much expostulation. And over the next several weeks I will be working on adding meat to the bones I have provided.

Here - I am looking for -

• flow
• characterization
• too expository?
• believability
• weakest spots
• strongest spots
• suggestions towards clarity
• and just about whatever else you might want to say to me

I understand that some are more ascerbic than others. I only ask that you not be deliberately insulting or unreasonably harsh. Its not necessary to get a point across. That said - I am really looking forward to hearing what other tale spinners have to say about this.
It is a labor of love , this story, for me. I admit to struggling with digging that deep into the driving emotions of this piece. And I think that is what is missing here.... What do you all think?


And, Thank you. Thank you for taking the time to read and note on this.

 

[CrimsonMaiden]

I don't have a bad thing to say about it. It drew me in. I want to read more. I want to know what happens. I'm hooked.

Okay, so that might not be at all helpful, and I know it is in no way a critique. I'm sure there's probably a few places here and there that could be tightened, but honestly? I like it just the way it is.

 

[christabelll]

Thanks Crim

Well that actually does help - at least to know that I accomplished establishing the readers empathy toward Elizabet. It can be tough to do that, you know?

It drew you in and you want to read more to know what is happening. Thats Good Right? Okay yay!

Hopefully you will add more to this

Thank you!

 

[_Lynn_]

I’ll assume that since it’s a work in progress it hasn’t been edited and overlook the errors. This caught my attention right away though.


He had stripped the house bare. Vague outlines limned the walls where paintings and portraits had hung. He had taken everything even her toothbrush.

Some do-good group had arranged for her to be brought back to this travesty of a home. She had a meager bag of hospital pajamas, her electric wheelchair, and a permanent pick line in her chest.

****

The main character did nothing for me. I thought it could be cut, chopped and condensed very easily by leaving out some of the over-the-top descriptions.

To tell the truth, I was bored within minutes.

Just my opinion.

 

[christabelll]

I’ll assume that since it’s a work in progress it hasn’t been edited and overlook the errors. This caught my attention right away though. edited and re-editied actually - but not by a council of peers


He had stripped the house bare. Vague outlines limned the walls where paintings and portraits had hung. He had taken everything even her toothbrush.

Some do-good group had arranged for her to be brought back to this travesty of a home. She had a meager bag of hospital pajamas, her electric wheelchair, and a permanent pick line in her chest. I am curious as to why you think those are errors? is it because they weren't contracted?

****

The main character did nothing for me. I thought it could be cut, chopped and condensed very easily by leaving out some of the over-the-top descriptions. Over the Top? How so? where in particular?

To tell the truth, I was bored within minutes. And thats fine - not everybody is into tales like this. But its a bit surprizing - as the folks away from here who I trust with reading my work before publishing it anywhere say nothing like this - not even when they pointed out some really bad errors elsewhere in the tale... Just my opinion.

Thank you for taking the time to comment and leave your opinion with me. I guess I can assume that as you were bored and disliked the character and apparently the writing there will be no further information forthcoming.

Thanks again for at least giving it a read.

 

[CrimsonMaiden]

Thanks Crim

Well that actually does help - at least to know that I accomplished establishing the readers empathy toward Elizabet. It can be tough to do that, you know?

It drew you in and you want to read more to know what is happening. Thats Good Right? Okay yay!

Hopefully you will add more to this

Thank you!

I'll come back later and try to apply a more critical eye and see what I can come up with. Right now, I'm too annoyed with a certain tax organization.

 

[_Lynn_]

Thank you for taking the time to comment and leave your opinion with me. I guess I can assume that as you were bored and disliked the character and apparently the writing there will be no further information forthcoming.

Thanks again for at least giving it a read.

The first part just caught me. You'll note that I didn't state they were errors.


A few examples of wording I consider 'over-the-top' follow, chosen at random. Will the average reader know the meaning of some of these words, or will they stumble on them, losing their place in the story as they try to figure them out? Just a thought.

With newly skilled fingers on the electric lever, she actuated the motor of the wheelchair and rolled to the curved bay window that fronted her place of address.

Diaphanous material swirled and eddied around her legs which lead her in frenzies of uncontrollable steps and glides and whirls. Guitars and pipes, drums and cellos urged her to paroxysms of dance.

God was indeed cruel she thought darkly as the innominate music faded from her internal hearing and the dizziness of her dream dance subsided to that of merely narcotic induced disequilibrium.

Crepuscular depression clouded her mind as she realized that she couldn’t even call for help.

 

[christabelll]

hmmm... you had highlighted what appeared to be(at least I thought0 some errors? okay -

as for using words that average readers will stumble over.

I love using language that expresses more deeply or clearly or both the feelings or situations portrayed. At least for me they do. I assume those who are reading - or I would hope anyway - have a love of language as well - else why are they reading? There are four words I can see right off the bat as some not knowing - innominate - inchoate - paroxysms - and crepuscular.

the first two are meaning almost the same thing = unformed. Given how paroxysms is used it can be and should be assumed to mean uncontrolled /wild and crepuscular - twilight - grey -dank near lightless conditions.

I am not sure how else I would say what I want to say without horrible repitition of the same descriptors. Each has a slightly different depth to it that I chose deliberately to help create how bleak things are for her.

That said - I can see why that would seem over the top to some. Funny I was thinking something similar about another work I am reading and though I have to really work on some of their more obscure language usages - I love doing it - it helps expand my mind and vocabulary. Hmmmmmmm- I'll have to really think about it regarding the use here.

Thank you for pointing that out - honestly I hadn't thought about average readership -

 

[_Lynn_]

hmmm... you had highlighted what appeared to be(at least I thought0 some errors? okay -

as for using words that average readers will stumble over.

I love using language that expresses more deeply or clearly or both the feelings or situations portrayed. At least for me they do. I assume those who are reading - or I would hope anyway - have a love of language as well - else why are they reading? There are four words I can see right off the bat as some not knowing - innominate - inchoate - paroxysms - and crepuscular.

the first two are meaning almost the same thing = unformed. Given how paroxysms is used it can be and should be assumed to mean uncontrolled /wild and crepuscular - twilight - grey -dank near lightless conditions.

I am not sure how else I would say what I want to say without horrible repitition of the same descriptors. Each has a slightly different depth to it that I chose deliberately to help create how bleak things are for her.

That said - I can see why that would seem over the top to some. Funny I was thinking something similar about another work I am reading and though I have to really work on some of their more obscure language usages - I love doing it - it helps expand my mind and vocabulary. Hmmmmmmm- I'll have to really think about it regarding the use here.

Thank you for pointing that out - honestly I hadn't thought about average readership -

Many people just read for entertainment after a stressful day. They want to forget everything and lose themselves in the fantasy world of a story, not have to figure out what the words mean that they are reading. Sure, there are people that love language, and I imagine they read to expand their knowledge as well as enjoy the story.

It just depends which group you're writing for, I suppose. I would have to think that there is a higher number of 'average' readers though.

 

[manyeyedhydra]

ooh love inchoate, and especially crepuscular. Such a lovely roll off the tongue. Feels like its real meaning is wasted and they should have saved it for descriptions of greasy old perverts or child molesters

Haven't had a chance to read the story yet, will try and do it later.

The argument over not using words the majority of people don't understand is an interesting one. I can see how it would provide roadblocks to people's enjoyment of a story, but then also always pandering to the lowest denominator would lead to sterile, bland writing (like most modern pop songs).

Pretty word salad can derail a story totally though, IMHO. If i'm thinking, 'ooh how pretty the writing is' then I'm looking too much at the machinery rather than being pulled into the story.

I'll have a jump through when I get a chance and throw back my thoughts.

 

[Keroin]

Pretty word salad can derail a story totally though, IMHO. If i'm thinking, 'ooh how pretty the writing is' then I'm looking too much at the machinery rather than being pulled into the story.

OK, the premise is interesting and I get the idea that there is a fantastical element to this story, still to come. However, I found myself tripping over the language. (Have to agree with ML on this point). I have nothing against “big words” but there were passages that were so jammed full of them it was distracting. Your prose is at its best when you simply describe what is happening or what your protagonist is thinking without trying to decorate the scene.

For example:

“Elizabet snorted. Yeah, daring to exist like this! Daring to survive and still be a human albeit a paralyzed one. After Geraldine had died, everyone she knew had dropped away. One by one, they had found excuses to stay away until eventually she got the message. Leave us alone. You need too much. You’re broken now and we don’t want to play with broken things. And the most painful of all – she just wasn’t worth anyone’s time after Tyler had left her and Geraldine had died.”

This is very good. It gives the reader a little back story and shows us Elizabet’s state of mind. Not worth anyone’s time? Ouch! Also, notice the lack of adjectives and adverbs? (More on that later). This is the kind of passage that drew me into the story.

In contrast:

”Laboriously she rolled to her side, dragging her upper body to meet her knees in a fetal curl empty of comfort. God was indeed cruel she thought darkly as the innominate music faded from her internal hearing and the dizziness of her dream dance subsided to that of merely narcotic induced disequilibrium. She lay there, heedless and subdued, wondering if she could find the strength to continue her empty existence.”

This is one of the passages that yanked me out of the story. This seems like a long way of saying she woke up from a good dream and felt depressed. Yes, that’s a bit simple but do you see what I mean?

Just as an extra example, I wanted to show a bit of simple writing that manages to be powerful without using up half the thesaurus:

“Their love story did not begin until afterward: she fell ill and he was unable to send her home as he had the others. Kneeling by her as she lay sleeping in his bed, he realized that someone had sent her downstream in a bulrush basket. I have said before that metaphors are dangerous. Love begins with a metaphor. Which is to say, love begins at the point when a woman enters her first word into our poetic memory.”

This is from Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being. I don’t think anyone can accuse this novel of being light or escapist or average. There are no “fancy” words in that paragraph but it still packs a punch. “Love begins with a metaphor” – brilliant and simple.


If I had to pick a weakness in this chapter it would be the language and the overuse of adjectives and adverbs. I feel like I’m being beaten over the head with description. I like to go through all of my first drafts and highlight every adverb and adjective, then I try to eliminate at least half of them. Most of the time, it’s just a matter of finding a better or more interesting verb. Sometimes, however, excessive descriptive words are a clue that the scene or passage is not necessary.

The geography of the second scene with the bag lady confused me. At first I thought Elizabet was watching her through a closed window. Then it seemed odd that the bag lady should get so close – close enough to grab – without Elizabet noticing and having time to back away.

At the moment, while I like the bones of the story, it comes across as melodramatic. I think facts like having to deal with a colostomy bag and living alone while in a wheelchair are jarring enough that they don’t need to be churched up.

I don’t have time to address all your points in detail but here is a brief synopsis:
• Flow – slowed by description but otherwise OK
• Characterization – Elizabet is well-drawn, I found the bag lady’s speech distracting, the window washer was probably the character I liked most
• too expository? Yes
• believability - the first half yes, the second half not so much
• weakest spots – language overload
• strongest spots – moments of truth, i.e. the danger of being pinned beneath a wheelchair with no one to help
• suggestions towards clarity – cut the adverbs and adjectives, keep it simple
• and just about whatever else you might want to say to me – see above

I hope these comments help.

 

[manyeyedhydra]

Seems good to me.

It's clearly a setup chapter in a novel so you can probably get away with more flowery prose than a short story. I don't know where the story is going but I would guess at some kind of fantasy. That's mainly from other things i've read that have taken a similar premise of starting with a broken character and then fixing them in some strange parallel world.

I was expecting to be more bothered by overwritten descriptions than I actually was. Most of the big words were in the dream sequence, but you kind of expect that from dream sequences.

I agree with Keroin on the innominate paragraph. That one seemed a little awkward and could probably do with a rewrite.

There's a few spots where i think you might be trying too hard to be fancy (sadly, Crepuscular was one of them, as much as I was extolling its virtues. Bleak, black or even just starting straight with Depression would be better there IMHO). I'm not sure I'd want to to be too handy with the knife though as I quite like the richness of some of the descriptions.

The main character seemed well drawn. She's clearly a wallower, as the bag lady points out, but that's the point I guess. There's enough hints of her past without it slowing the story down too much.

Good chapter. Just needs a little spot of careful pruning here and there.

 

[christabelll]

Many people just read for entertainment after a stressful day. They want to forget everything and lose themselves in the fantasy world of a story, not have to figure out what the words mean that they are reading. Sure, there are people that love language, and I imagine they read to expand their knowledge as well as enjoy the story.

It just depends which group you're writing for, I suppose. I would have to think that there is a higher number of 'average' readers though.

You are right about that. And yeah right about that too. Sometimes when one is carried away writing a tale - its easy to forget a basic rule - keep it simple - in some ways anyway Thank you.

manyeyedhydra ooh love inchoate, and especially crepuscular. Such a lovely roll off the tongue. Feels like its real meaning is wasted and they should have saved it for descriptions of greasy old perverts or child molesters Un Unh Not gonna
Haven't had a chance to read the story yet, will try and do it later.

The argument over not using words the majority of people don't understand is an interesting one. I can see how it would provide roadblocks to people's enjoyment of a story, but then also always pandering to the lowest denominator would lead to sterile, bland writing (like most modern pop songs).
(I certainly don't want to do that - fliesh waht ever it is says 3.0?)
Pretty word salad can derail a story totally though, IMHO. If i'm thinking, 'ooh how pretty the writing is' then I'm looking too much at the machinery rather than being pulled into the story. A most excellent point. I will admit I do get carried away with the dressing as it were

I'll have a jump through when I get a chance and throw back my thoughts.



Thank you both very much on these.... It does help me.
I am guilty of florid language use.
I will agree that a judicious knife is necessary =

 

[christabelll]

OK, the premise is interesting and I get the idea that there is a fantastical elementa very small part of it - but perhaps outside of patrick - one of the most important to this story, still to come. However, I found myself tripping over the language. (Have to agree with ML on this point). I have nothing against “big words” but there were passages that were so jammed full of them it was distracting. Your prose is at its best when you simply describe what is happening or what your protagonist is thinking without trying to decorate the scene.

For example:

“Elizabet snorted. Yeah, daring to exist like this! Daring to survive and still be a human albeit a paralyzed one. After Geraldine had died, everyone she knew had dropped away. One by one, they had found excuses to stay away until eventually she got the message. Leave us alone. You need too much. You’re broken now and we don’t want to play with broken things. And the most painful of all – she just wasn’t worth anyone’s time after Tyler had left her and Geraldine had died.”

This is very good. It gives the reader a little back story and shows us Elizabet’s state of mind. Not worth anyone’s time? Ouch! Also, notice the lack of adjectives and adverbs? (More on that later). This is the kind of passage that drew me into the story.

In contrast:

”Laboriously she rolled to her side, dragging her upper body to meet her knees in a fetal curl empty of comfort. God was indeed cruel she thought darkly as the innominate music faded from her internal hearing and the dizziness of her dream dance subsided to that of merely narcotic induced disequilibrium. She lay there, heedless and subdued, wondering if she could find the strength to continue her empty existence.”

This is one of the passages that yanked me out of the story. This seems like a long way of saying she woke up from a good dream and felt depressed. Yes, that’s a bit simple but do you see what I mean? Actually here, I was trying to show what she has to go through (the turning) just to change position what her thought was - sending her a dream of dancing when she will never dance again , the dream had been so real that for a moment after waking she was dizzy with it. Then the aftermath of waking - no dancin g-no one to help her get up and on with it....(Well damn I think I just rewrote that ! LOLOL

Just as an extra example, I wanted to show a bit of simple writing that manages to be powerful without using up half the thesaurus:

“Their love story did not begin until afterward: she fell ill and he was unable to send her home as he had the others. Kneeling by her as she lay sleeping in his bed, he realized that someone had sent her downstream in a bulrush basket. I have said before that metaphors are dangerous. Love begins with a metaphor. Which is to say, love begins at the point when a woman enters her first word into our poetic memory.”

This is from Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being. I don’t think anyone can accuse this novel of being light or escapist or average. There are no “fancy” words in that paragraph but it still packs a punch. “Love begins with a metaphor” – brilliant and simple.


If I had to pick a weakness in this chapter it would be the language and the overuse of adjectives and adverbs. I feel like I’m being beaten over the head with description. I like to go through all of my first drafts and highlight every adverb and adjective, then I try to eliminate at least half of them. Most of the time, it’s just a matter of finding a better or more interesting verb. Sometimes, however, excessive descriptive words are a clue that the scene or passage is not necessary. Wow - you all have made the same point with different textures.... And though you may not believe it -Just in the past few days I had been going through and trying to fix some of the overdosing verbiage. To see it pointed out so clearly is bracing

The geography of the second scene with the bag lady confused me. At first I thought Elizabet was watching her through a closed window. Then it seemed odd that the bag lady should get so close – close enough to grab – without Elizabet noticing and having time to back away. Ah remember Elizabet is always in a morphine haze at this point - not to mention the other meds to control pain etc - And though it is strange in its way - this the set up of the fantastical part - desperation, depression, and being heavily medicated - that would slow all her responses in some ways and heighten others. But good point - I need to make it clearer earlier than I do - that she always has the windows open - rain or shine - after having been in a hospital for so long she can't bear to have closed windows around her. I can see now that I need to clear up a few things - showing wise

At the moment, while I like the bones of the story, it comes across as melodramatic. I think facts like having to deal with a colostomy bag and living alone while in a wheelchair are jarring enough that they don’t need to be churched up. what does that mean? do you mean too purple?

I don’t have time to address all your points in detail but here is a brief synopsis:
• Flow – slowed by description but otherwise OK
• Characterization – Elizabet is well-drawn, I found the bag lady’s speech distracting, the window washer was probably the character I liked most
• too expository? Yes
• believability - the first half yes, the second half not so much
• weakest spots – language overload
• strongest spots – moments of truth, i.e. the danger of being pinned beneath a wheelchair with no one to help
• suggestions towards clarity – cut the adverbs and adjectives, keep it simple
• and just about whatever else you might want to say to me – see above

I hope these comments help.

At the moment, while I like the bones of the story, it comes across as melodramatic. melodramatic - this means over dramatic - okay - it is supposed to be dramatic - - and perhaps some word choices could be tightened down - but is it over dramatic because of the florid language or is it because of >?>>> I'm teetering on the edge with this one - for surely not the entire thing is - but only certain phrase>?

Huge insights here.
See this is why I did this. I can't always see the things that are being pointed out. I am aware of my faults - florid, flowery sensory overload I also am beginning to see where I leave some key elements out - not on purpose - but still needing to be added in - and in some cases toned down.

Tons of food here. Thank you so very much. Quite insightful from all of you - and the different perspectives and the whyfores and wherefores really help me hone the art I am trying to produce. Thank you Thank you.

 

[christabelll]

Seems good to me.

It's clearly a setup chapter in a novel so you can probably get away with more flowery prose than a short story. I don't know where the story is going but I would guess at some kind of fantasy. That's mainly from other things i've read that have taken a similar premise of starting with a broken character and then fixing them in some strange parallel world.

I was expecting to be more bothered by overwritten descriptions than I actually was. Most of the big words were in the dream sequence, but you kind of expect that from dream sequences.

I agree with Keroin on the innominate paragraph. That one seemed a little awkward and could probably do with a rewrite.

There's a few spots where i think you might be trying too hard to be fancy (sadly, Crepuscular was one of them, as much as I was extolling its virtues. Bleak, black or even just starting straight with Depression would be better there IMHO). I'm not sure I'd want to to be too handy with the knife though as I quite like the richness of some of the descriptions.

The main character seemed well drawn. She's clearly a wallower, as the bag lady points out, but that's the point I guess. There's enough hints of her past without it slowing the story down too much.

Good chapter. Just needs a little spot of careful pruning here and there.

Yes yes and no no LOLOLOL

There is an element of the fantastic here - (and in the additional 80 some pages after this part)....It is the turning point of her story - She has been wallowing since her friend died (Geraldine). But she hasn't given up either ....

The sorrow - the helplessness she suffers from - the unwanted solitude - I think now I need to do what I was thinking of just since last night - make it more real - the difficulties she faces - and why its such a huge thing for her to have Patrick come into the scene - and the Baglady - messages of hope and possibilities - when none exist for her at the moment.

And I would so love to find a sensitive editor - one that understands my need for rich language - but also will help me contain it, shape it to its fullest potential.

This is Rich Folks. And I mean that in a totally good way - even if I was a bit taken aback for a second or three Exactly what I want to know -

More? Please?

 

[Keroin]

At the moment, while I like the bones of the story, it comes across as melodramatic. melodramatic - this means over dramatic - okay - it is supposed to be dramatic - - and perhaps some word choices could be tightened down - but is it over dramatic because of the florid language or is it because of >?>>> I'm teetering on the edge with this one - for surely not the entire thing is - but only certain phrase>? /QUOTE]

Sorry, sometimes I forget that "church it up" is an expression my friend invented! It means to make something more extravagant or grandiose than it is or needs to be. Keroin slang.

No, I don't think the entire chapter, or the story at its core, is melodramatic. I think it is the florid language which makes it so. I mean, I could say, "she engaged the ignition" or "she started the car" - the former sounds pretty but it is over the top. I admit I am biased. I like succinct, efficient prose that gets to the meat of the story. Pretty words need to be treated like dialect and swearing - sprinkle them lightly or they will overwhelm the flavour of your story.

As for the bag lady scene, I think you only need a few explanatory sentences to clarify the action. No biggie.

Good for you for putting your neck out! Personally, I love sacrificing my work for shredding but then I am a masochist. LOL.

 

[_Lynn_]

Good for you for putting your neck out! Personally, I love sacrificing my work for shredding but then I am a masochist. LOL.

It's hard to put something you've worked so hard on out here for others to tear apart.
I know I learned a lot from the discussion on mine though.

 

[christabelll]

Point of fact, I almost backed out of it.

I am glad I didn't.

This story is very close to my heart. And one that I have struggled with writing since last spring. Last spring/into early summer I wrote the opening chapter and then didn't touch it again until about 4 weeks ago. Since then it has gone from about 10 pages to 92 as of today.

I started letting close friends and other writerly types read drafts of it up until the contest opened. Then - from there I have been tweaking it - adding, reaaranging, taking away etc. So when One of my writerly friends suggested putting it up here - I put my name into the hat since I figured out pretty early on that this story would not do to be posted up for the contest. And because I want it be more than fluff - I am still working of the depth ----

Then - poof - its time and I almost pulled the cowards act with it.

I really am glad I didn't.

Still blinking over some of it But absolutely spot on. Even the boredom and dislike of the character - made me sit up and take notice. While it is true not everyone is going to like a particular story - it was an eye opener. hehehehehe


Now here is a question....

Would you all look at it again in a few days - with the rewrites?

Would it help if the Opening Chapter were also posted? Instead of dropping you into the story with her arrival home for the first time in over a year?

Or am I asking to much? Hell Maybe I should do this will all the chapters? After I go through with this invaluable advice and clean a few things up of course?
Not all at once but over a course of weeks?

As much as I may want to get this out there and being read - I don't want it to be just another story - know what I mean?


so thank you so very much - if there is anything else to be said - please do so - I know I am waiting for Crim to put in her opinions I am quite looking forward to it all

 

[drksideofthemoon]

It's a PIC or pic or PICC or picc line, not a pick line. (Periphally Inserted Catheter).

I read this once before, or something close to this by you, and I liked it then, and I liked it now.

I didn't like the line, "Mortality was apparently infectious." It was like you were trying too hard to be clever, and I felt it took away from strength of this story.

 

[Selena_Kitt]

Bri! Good to see you

Just a side note - there are far, far too many adverbs here. Dumbly, softly, apparently... just something to try to purge in an edit.

Carry on.

 

[christabelll]

It's a PIC or pic or PICC or picc line, not a pick line. (Periphally Inserted Catheter).

I read this once before, or something close to this by you, and I liked it then, and I liked it now.

I didn't like the line, "Mortality was apparently infectious." It was like you were trying too hard to be clever, and I felt it took away from strength of this story.

Yes I caught that Thank you... for reminding to go back and do the stupid edit instead of lookingat it and saying yeah I need to change that for the tenth time

Really? Wow that must have been way back -


So good to see you! ((((((((YOU))))))))

Awww I liked that line too!
But I know where it should be and you're right its not here.

Thankyou

 

[DeeZire]

Comments from a more lowbrow-ish reader - I liked the flowery language. It seemed to help frame the character, giving her a voice distinct and different from the norm. It gave her an air of sophistication, which could have also been enhanced by some details about her possessions. As it is now, the scenes are a little generic, in dire need of a gold-framed picture, or a pair of slippers from somewhere - you know, the kinds of things that personalize a scene. (Oops. She don't need no stinkin slippers!)

I think the adverb thing is relevant. I just recently read the Stephen King Book "On Writing" and he's big on not using adverbs.

I liked the language of the bag lady. It reminded me of the colorful dialogue in the Mark Twain stuff. Perhaps adding a sentence about how the morning nurse opens the front window and the evening nurse closes it would have made that part more believable. Or perhaps that's one of her little victories - figuring out how to open and close the window by herself. I think the wallowing needs to be balanced by instances of her strength, which would help to set up what follows in the story.

Coming from the perspective of a songwriter, (less is more) I am always wondering "is this moving the plot forward?" Perhaps that's why I prefer short stories. They're generally succinct and to the point. But a well-drawn scene wins me over every time, and I did make it through the piece without resorting to skimming (although I did breeze through the dream sequence, perceiving it to be a detour rather than integral to the plot.)

A clever metaphor here or there is always fun to read, and I don't recall any zingers. (Stacy Richter is my fave mainstream oddball-author. I use her writing as a benchmark. The fact that her first short story collection was published by Scribner indicates she's going something right.) In particular, I saw "garish" multiple times when a more specific descriptor could have made the bag lady's clothes more visual.

I'm assuming the window washer is coming back? If so, I think she could have been thinking about him now and then. If not, I don't think I want to read the finished story. (I kid! I kid!)

Nice work.

 

[christabelll]

razzlefratzin fricking web machine do good loose everything 'afore ya can freaking post the mutha and then in that moment of Oh My fucking god gasped inward like pain and outward like dismay forget every loving thing you had to say - not even a sploosh to sing the rings in the water, slipped heavily to the silt. DagNabit!


So yes and yes - and there really isn't anything personal in the house. A few tables, a few curtains, a bed and medcine chest and a night stand - eventually - that changes - as she comes out of the -nothingness - she is enduring. She is nothing, has nothing, will be nothing - at this point. (Oohhh I am so using that in there. ) Barely functional, highly medicated, compulsive/impulsive (manic/depressive) with NO High.... grieving for her Life before the accident, grieving for her best friend who died suddenly, the vicious cycle.

Its very hard for me to express those feelings clearly. Even starkly. Or beautifully. To get that deep can be a challenge... because I feel all to nearly exactly as she does. This story has been rattling some of those vault doors ya' see.

Patrick and the Bag Lady are pivotal characters in her recovery. In rediscovering herself as she is now. Only a few things have changed, but they were profound and extremely difficult. While she may be slowly on the mend she has to be willing to let go of her past and look to the future.

Hehehe

No worries - I love the flowering, flushing language I use to write with. I do admit to being a bit to happy with it The story can stand a judicious, sensitive, editing. One day I will have an editor who understands my style and understands the language to help me with it ))

Thank you Deezire!