Category Archives: Family

“Old Ghosts” / Practice with Steering the Craft #5

If you’re just checking out my blog, I’m in the early stages of a summer project: applying lessons from LeGuin’s Steering the Craft to a short story idea I had been messing with unsuccessfully.

Remember, if you’re part of the #WriteLGBTQ and #WritingCommunity groups on Twitter, maybe you’ll join me on this excursion by sharing your response to this post on Twitter! Use the hashtag #steeringthecraft and reply to me @nicanorabbott.

Here’s the draft of the short story “Old Ghosts”. I’m pretty sure I have to take it out of first person, and there’s a disjuncture near the end between old and new material. I am trying to speak about the temporary nature of people as a product of time in a given space.

*****

Old Ghosts

A spring wind whipped the woods to life. Daffodils lifted yellow faces to the sun, and blossoms blown from the trees speckled the stream in pinks and whites. Mountain ridge snowmelt strengthened the headwaters. The stream swelled; muddy banks submerged, lost until summer. The peepers chirped away the sun each night. Bullfrogs croaked. Little furry things scuttled beyond the rushes. Snakes slithered over bent logs and wound their way across the surface. Shad and trout returned. And with them came the people.

I happened upon a pair the other day, just after dawn. They set up camp on a fallen oak, a beaten metal pail between them. The older man was scruffy; his hat brim frayed from weather.  His trousers were patched in one knee, the waistband taut around his girth.

“Like this,” he said, and cast his line again.

The waif was a scrawnier version of his teacher. From the muddy, waterlogged state of his overalls and the dirt on his face and hands, it seemed the natural lack of grace in boys that age had already taken its toll that morning.

The fishing rods seemed antique, perhaps forced back into service? Bamboo rods had gone out of style even before I was a boy, and their lines were too visible, too thick to be modern.

I waved. My right, of course. They were on my property.

“You there!” I called. “How’s the fishin’?”

They nodded. The fat man doffed his hat.

“I said, ‘how’s the fishin’?'”

They ignored me. The wind blew gently. The stream burbled. A woodpecker pecked a poplar. I could think of no earthly reason they should ignore me, so I called out.

“You’re on private property, you know.”

It was true. I hunted the woods and still cleaned the carcasses in the shed behind the stone cottage. Fished the stream and scaled and cooked that fish on red coals. Cut down the trees to keep the cottage warm in winter, to say nothing of cooking my meals. Cleared the dead wood, picked wild raspberries, planted the garden. Drove the stakes tied with white cloth to mark the corners. I worked it; it was mine.

“It’s disrespectful of you—”

Tee-and-Flannel got a bite. A little tug, a stronger tug, and a trout popped out of the stream. It flailed in the air. The big man punched his shoulder. They continued to act as if I wasn’t there.

“Now, look here,” I called. “I don’t mind you–“

The younger fella released his catch, and the pair sat down on the bank again.

I picked up a stone and skipped it across the water toward them.

“–I don’t mind you–“

“Hey,” Straw Hat called out. “Who are you?” He stood up and pointed at me with a sausage finger.

“I might ask you the same question,” I said. “Since you’re on my property.”

“Excuse me?” he said. “This is my property.” He motioned to his fishin’ buddy. “Get me the rifle, son,” he said. the younger one dropped his makeshift pole and ran up the path.

“You’re gonna get violent?” I asked.

“When you try to steal my land from me, damn right I will,” he said.

“But it’s not your land,” I insisted.

“Like hell,” he said.

I reached down into the water and pulled up a skipping stone. I played a bit of shortstop in high school. I thought I could peg him in the thigh. He was a big target anyway.

Several seconds of glaring silence passed. His boy reappeared with the gun.

“Mister,” I called out. “You touch that gun and I’ll break your hand with this stone.” I palmed it like a baseball.

He grabbed the gun. I chucked the ball at his hand. It hit him square. Then it passed through his hand, his gun, and his son on the other side.

Well, shit.

He raised it and fired. Then he stared. His boy turned white.

“Son–“

“Right through him, Pop, I swear to God.”

The shotgun crack sent a flock of geese honking skyward. Silence slipped behind them. Suddenly I saw two Lenape women on the opposite bank: one bore a basket of plants, the other filled a clay bowl with water. A column of revolutionaries drank before marching on, muskets perched on their slumping shoulders. A weary-faced grandfather joined the man and boy. A teenager draped in a saggy black clothes sat on a log, a pistol in his hand. 

Everything converged. The women retreated into the wild. The soldiers marched onward. Grandfather, son, and grandson cast their lines as one. The boy blew his head off. 

I dropped to my knees. Clutched my chest. Sweat tickled my nose. I hoisted myself up with my walking stick. They were gone—all of them. The stream dribbled along without a burble. The wind had calmed. No birdcalls. No rustling leaves. Scared, I swore to write down my experience. Just had to get home. I staggered. Shock—I’m sure it was. Yes. It was shock.

Outdated Ending

I kept walking toward them. They turned and ran. I chased after them, but they disappeared up the path. Somewhere beyond the trees I heard an engine turn over. I dropped into the big guy’s seat on the log. The wood had been worn; it was well used. I looked into the pail. It was empty. Rusted through.

So this is where I sit, waiting for the guy and his kid to come back. Seems like it’s been a while. I should probably head home soon. It’s my property after all.

*****

In the Chapter “Sentence Length and Complex Syntax,” LeGuin provides several passages from other writers, including Twain, Stowe, and Woolf, and asks readers to look at how length and syntax shape the motion of the story and the development of voice, among other things. She then recommends “EXERCISE THREE: Short and Long. Part One: Write a paragraph of narrative, 100–150 words, in sentences of seven or fewer words. No sentence fragments! Each must have a subject and a verb. Part Two: Write a half page to a page of narrative, up to 350 words, that is all one sentence.

So here is the 100-150 words, in sentences seven words long or fewer, and in full sentences. This might be the new opening paragraph:

Clay called his life Ecclesiastical. He woke with the crowin’ rooster. The hens came first. Goats followed, while he had them. In their absence, he made breakfast. Well, Clara was gone, wasn’t she? She couldn’t make meals anymore. His nephew managed the fields. Smarter than his father, that one. He’d inherit the whole patch. Just as well. Clay’d lost Clara. He’d thrown Tommy away, hadn’t he? Junior lived in New York. They never talked. Pill tasted bitter. But Clay swallowed it every day. Afternoons belonged to the garden. He planted less each spring. Less planted, less to harvest. He didn’t can as much. Clara liked cannin’. He liked eatin’. Sometimes, after the chores, he fished. The stream in the hollow beckoned. Light played on the water. Herons dropped in. Trout was good for beast and bird. Yes, to everything he had a season. Work was sacred, he still believed.

Now one sentence up to 350 words. Clay (previously “I”) is working up a lather over being ignored by the father and son:

He thought himself patient about most things in life; like when Clara had come up with the cancer and the doctors hemmed and hawed more than he cared for, he had been patient with them, though Clara’s bony hand on his had done much ’til it couldn’t anymore; and he had been patient with Junior, who hated farmin’ from the start alright, but loved the theatre so much that Clay and Clara had given up whole evenings to watch four years’ worth of school productions, which hadn’t gotten them anything but a visit from Markley come up over the hill, bitchin’ that his boy and Junior were makin’ hog sounds in the loft and threatenin’ to sue over Lord knows what, that had required patience; even when the boy came into the hospital in mascara and lipstick like a red light hussy he hadn’t yelled or nothin’ just told him to go home and clean up ‘fore his dyin’ mama saw it, and that was that forevermore; but now here this bulbous man and his ragamuffin ilk sat on his log on his stream on his property casting lines and takin’ his trout without the slimmest bit o’ decency to say “hello, how do you do?” or even recognize that Clay had worked that land for damn near fifty years and who were they to come replacin’ him since he wa’n’t dead yet nor read his name in the obituaries like he ‘spected to one day. 

Works Cited

Le Guin, Ursula K. Steering the Craft: A Twenty-First-Century Guide to Sailing the Sea of Story (p. 32). HMH Books. Kindle Edition. 

“Old Ghosts” / Practice with Steering the Craft #4

EXERCISE TWO: Am I Saramago (Part 2)

Last week, I offered up a new paragraph for my short story “Old Ghosts” sans punctuation. Here it is:

“The crack rent the morning sent a flock of geese skyward their honking cacophony carrying away all other sound silence slipped in behind them and I noticed the old Lenape woman with a basket of plants on the opposite bank another one fetched water in a clay bowl a column of revolutionaries stopped to drink before the dusty forward march muskets perched on slumping shoulders weary faced a grandfather joined the man and the waif a teenager in a saggy black drape and smudged eyes sat on a log a pistol in his hand at once the woman rose up the soldiers marched on grandfather, man, and son disappeared the boy blew his head off I dropped to my knees clutched my chest sweat tickled my nose I hoisted up with my walking stick but they were gone all of them gone from my stream so quiet it didn’t even burble and the wind had blown out a calm before a storm a chill raced through me and I swore to write it down just had to go back to my cottage up by the road I staggered with the shock I’m sure it was shock yes it was”

LeGuin’s instructions were to punctuate the passage after letting it sit for a week. Remember, if you’re part of the #WriteLGBTQ and #WritingCommunity groups on Twitter, maybe you’ll join me on this excursion by sharing your response to this post on Twitter! Use the hashtag #steeringthecraft. 

Oh my god I overuse commas. 

Just looking at the paragraph, I can see where I had expectations of pauses. She allows word changes as need, so I may need some of that. First though, what would it look like with minimal punctuation?

“The crack rent the morning sent a flock of geese skyward their honking cacophony carrying away all other sound. Silence slipped in behind them and I noticed the old Lenape woman with a basket of plants on the opposite bank. Another one fetched water in a clay bowl. A column of revolutionaries stopped to drink before the dusty forward march muskets perched on slumping shoulders weary faced. A grandfather joined the man and the waif. A teenager in a saggy black drape and smudged eyes sat on a log a pistol in his hand. At once the woman rose up the soldiers marched on grandfather, man, and son disappeared. The boy blew his head off. I dropped to my knees clutched my chest sweat tickled my nose I hoisted up with my walking stick but they were gone all of them gone from my stream. So quiet it didn’t even burble and the wind had blown out a calm before a storm a chill raced through me. And I swore to write it down just had to go back to my cottage up by the road I staggered with the shock I’m sure it was shock yes it was.”

Ok, that still feels gross. Fully punctuated then…

“The crack rent the morning, sent a flock of geese skyward, their honking cacophony carrying away all other sound. Silence slipped in behind them and I noticed the old Lenape woman with a basket of plants on the opposite bank. Another one fetched water in a clay bowl. A column of revolutionaries stopped to drink before the dusty forward march, muskets perched on slumping shoulders, weary-faced. A grandfather joined the man and the waif. A teenager in a saggy black drape and smudged eyes sat on a log, a pistol in his hand. At once the woman rose up; the soldiers marched on; grandfather, man, and son disappeared; the boy blew his head off. I dropped to my knees. Clutched my chest. Sweat tickled my nose. I hoisted myself up with my walking stick, but they were gone—all of them gone—from my stream. So quiet. It didn’t even burble. The wind had blown out—a calm before a storm. A chill raced through me and I swore to write what I had seen down, just had to go back to my cottage. I staggered with the shock—I’m sure it was—yes it was shock.”

A couple of word changes that that time as well. Getting better. Wonder if I can cut down he punctuation but cutting down and rearranging the sentences?

“The shotgun crack sent a flock of geese honking skyward. Silence slipped behind them. Suddenly I saw two Lenape women on the opposite bank: one bore a basket of plants, the other filled a clay bowl with water. A column of revolutionaries drank before marching on, muskets perched on their slumping shoulders. A weary-faced grandfather joined the man and boy. A teenager draped in a saggy black clothes sat on a log, a pistol in his hand. 

Everything converged. The women retreated into the wild. The soldiers marched onward. Grandfather, son, and grandson cast their lines as one. The boy blew his head off. 

I dropped to my knees. Clutched my chest. Sweat tickled my nose. I hoisted myself up with my walking stick. They were gone—all of them. The stream dribbled along without a burble. The wind had calmed. No birdcalls. No rustling leaves. Scared, I swore to write down my experience. Just had to get home. I staggered. Shock—I’m sure it was. Yes. It was shock.”

I’m starting to like it more, but it really is an eye opener to practice punctuation by ripping it out and putting it back in. It really is neat—the tempo changes in the unpunctuated passage vs. the others. Not just the punctuation, but the separation of the block into smaller paragraphs transforms the way the words are read.

Funny, years ago, I had a writing tutor do the same thing with a student who had been poorly taught about what punctuation does. The wheel keeps turning, doesn’t it?

“Old Ghosts” / Practice with Steering the Craft #3

EXERCISE TWO: Am I Saramago

LeGuin reminds her readers that punctuation is an essential tool of good writing, and so wants us to try this activity that includes a seven day interval.

First, we should “Write a paragraph to a page (150–350 words) of narrative with no punctuation (and no paragraphs or other breaking devices).” A week later, we should punctuate the passage.

Remember, if you’re part of the #WriteLGBTQ and #WritingCommunity groups on Twitter, maybe you’ll join me on this excursion by sharing your response to this post on Twitter! Use the hashtag #steeringthecraft. 

I am still working on “Old Ghosts”, but the assignment has forced me to move to an uptempo section, similar to the prompts suggested in Steering the Craft. But while I have a high tempo section, it’s not a part that I especially like. I think I can push this idea further if I add it in as a whole new idea. It’s noted in the text below.

Old Ghosts

A spring wind whipped the woods to life. Daffodils lifted yellow faces to the sun, and blossoms blown from the trees speckled the stream in pinks and whites. Mountain ridge snowmelt strengthened the headwaters. The stream swelled; muddy banks submerged, lost until summer. The peepers chirped away the sun each night. Bullfrogs croaked. Little furry things scuttled beyond the rushes. Snakes slithered over bent logs and wound their way across the surface. Shad and trout returned. And with them came the people.

I happened upon a pair the other day, just after dawn. They set up camp on a fallen oak, a beaten metal pail between them. The older man was scruffy; his hat brim frayed from weather.  His trousers were patched in one knee, the waistband taut around his girth.

“Like this,” he said, and cast his line again.

The waif was a scrawnier version of his teacher. From the muddy, waterlogged state of his overalls and the dirt on his face and hands, it seemed the natural lack of grace in boys that age had already taken its toll that morning.

The fishing rods seemed antique, perhaps forced back into service? Bamboo rods had gone out of style even before I was a boy, and their lines were too visible, too thick to be modern.

I waved. My right, of course. They were on my property.

“You there!” I called. “How’s the fishin’?”

They nodded. The fat man doffed his hat.

“I said, ‘how’s the fishin’?'”

They ignored me. The wind blew gently. The stream burbled. A woodpecker pecked a poplar. I could think of no earthly reason they should ignore me, so I called out.

“You’re on private property, you know.”

It was true. I hunted the woods and still cleaned the carcasses in the shed behind the stone cottage. Fished the stream and scaled and cooked that fish on red coals. Cut down the trees to keep the cottage warm in winter, to say nothing of cooking my meals. Cleared the dead wood, picked wild raspberries, planted the garden. Drove the stakes tied with white cloth to mark the corners. I worked it; it was mine.

“It’s disrespectful of you—”

Tee-and-Flannel got a bite. A little tug, a stronger tug, and a trout popped out of the stream. It flailed in the air. The big man punched his shoulder. They continued to act as if I wasn’t there.

“Now, look here,” I called. “I don’t mind you–“

The younger fella released his catch, and the pair sat down on the bank again.

I picked up a stone and skipped it across the water toward them.

“–I don’t mind you–“

“Hey,” Straw Hat called out. “Who are you?” He stood up and pointed at me with a sausage finger.

“I might ask you the same question,” I said. “Since you’re on my property.”

“Excuse me?” he said. “This is my property.” He motioned to his fishin’ buddy. “Get me the rifle, son,” he said. the younger one dropped his makeshift pole and ran up the path.

“You’re gonna get violent?” I asked.

“When you try to steal my land from me, damn right I will,” he said.

“But it’s not your land,” I insisted.

“Like hell,” he said.

I reached down into the water and pulled up a skipping stone. I played a bit of shortstop in high school. I thought I could peg him in the thigh. He was a big target anyway.

Several seconds of glaring silence passed. His boy reappeared with the gun.

“Mister,” I called out. “You touch that gun and I’ll break your hand with this stone.” I palmed it like a baseball.

He grabbed the gun. I chucked the ball at his hand. It hit him square. Then it passed through his hand, his gun, and his son on the other side.

Well, shit.

He raised it and fired. Then he stared. His boy turned white.

“Son–“

“Right through him, Pop, I swear to God.”

NEW MATERIAL HERE

The crack rent the morning sent a flock of geese skyward their honking cacophony carrying away all other sound silence slipped in behind them and I noticed the old Lenape woman with a basket of plants on the opposite bank another one fetched water in a clay bowl a column of revolutionaries stopped to drink before the dusty forward march muskets perched on slumping shoulders weary faced a grandfather joined the man and the waif a teenager in a saggy black drape and smudged eyes sat on a log a pistol in his hand at once the woman rose up the soldiers marched on grandfather, man, and son disappeared the boy blew his head off I dropped to my knees clutched my chest sweat tickled my nose I hoisted up with my walking stick but they were gone all of them gone from my stream so quiet it didn’t even burble and the wind had blown out a calm before a storm a chill raced through me and I swore to write it down just had to go back to my cottage up by the road I staggered with the shock I’m sure it was shock yes it was 

END NEW MATERIAL

I kept walking toward them. They turned and ran. I chased after them, but they disappeared up the path. Somewhere beyond the trees I heard an engine turn over. I dropped into the big guy’s seat on the log. The wood had been worn; it was well used. I looked into the pail. It was empty. Rusted through.

So this is where I sit, waiting for the guy and his kid to come back. Seems like it’s been a while. I should probably head home soon. It’s my property after all.

*****

Works Cited

Le Guin, Ursula  K.. Steering the Craft: A Twenty-First-Century Guide to Sailing the Sea of Story (p. 18). HMH Books. Kindle Edition.

“Old Ghosts” / Practice with Steering the Craft #2

Week Two, and I’m going to continue with part two of lesson one. The use of writing for sound is not just for description, but for action and emotion as well. Below is the complete short piece integrating the revised passage from last week.

Remember, if you’re part of the #WriteLGBTQ and #WritingCommunity groups on Twitter, maybe you’ll join me on this excursion by sharing your response to this post on Twitter! Use the hashtag #steeringthecraft

Old Ghosts

A spring wind whipped the woods to life. Daffodils lifted yellow faces to the sun, and blossoms blown from the trees speckled the stream in pinks and whites. Mountain ridge snowmelt strengthened the headwaters. The stream swelled; muddy banks submerged, lost until summer. The peepers chirped away the sun each night. Bullfrogs croaked. Little furry things scuttled beyond the rushes. Snakes slithered over bent logs and wound their way across the surface. Shad and trout returned. And with them came the people.

I happened upon a pair the other day, just after dawn. They set up camp on a fallen oak, a beaten metal pail between them. The older man was scruffy; his hat brim frayed from weather.  His trousers were patched in one knee, the waistband taut around his girth.

“Like this,” he said, and cast his line again.

The waif was a scrawnier version of his teacher. From the muddy, waterlogged state of his overalls and the dirt on his face and hands, it seemed the natural lack of grace in boys that age had already taken its toll that morning.

The fishing rods seemed antique, perhaps forced back into service? Bamboo rods had gone out of style even before I was a boy, and their lines were too visible, too thick to be modern.

I waved. My right, of course. They were on my property.

“You there!” I called. “How’s the fishin’?”

They nodded. The fat man doffed his hat.

“I said, ‘how’s the fishin’?'”

They ignored me.

“You’re on private property, you know.”

Tee-and-Flannel got a bite. A little tug, a stronger tug, and a trout popped out of the stream. It flailed in the air. The big man punched his shoulder. They continued to act as if I wasn’t there.

“Now, look here,” I called. “I don’t mind you–“

The younger fella released his catch, and the pair sat down on the bank again.

I picked up a stone and skipped it across the water toward them.

“–I don’t mind you–“

“Hey,” Straw Hat called out. “Who are you?” He stood up and pointed at me with a sausage finger.

“I might ask you the same question,” I said. “Since you’re on my property.”

“Excuse me?” he said. “This is my property.” He motioned to his fishin’ buddy. “Get me the rifle, son,” he said. the younger one dropped his makeshift pole and ran up the path.

“You’re gonna get violent?” I asked.

“When you try to steal my land from me, damn right I will,” he said.

“But it’s not your land,” I insisted.

“Like hell,” he said.

I reached down into the water and pulled up a skipping stone. I played a bit of shortstop in high school. I thought I could peg him in the thigh. He was a big target anyway.

Several seconds of glaring silence passed. His boy reappeared with the gun.

“Mister,” I called out. “You touch that gun and I’ll break your hand with this stone.” I palmed it like a baseball.

He grabbed the gun. I chucked the ball at his hand. It hit him square. Then it passed through his hand, his gun, and his son on the other side.

Well, shit.

He raised it and fired. Then he stared. His boy turned white.

“Son–“

“Right through him, Pop, I swear to God.”

I kept walking toward them. They turned and ran. I chased after them, but they disappeared up the path. Somewhere beyond the trees I heard an engine turn over. I dropped into the big guy’s seat on the log. The wood had been worn; it was well used. I looked into the pail. It was empty. Rusted through.

So this is where I sit, waiting for the guy and his kid to come back. Seems like it’s been a while. I should probably head home soon. It’s my property after all.

*****

Lesson #1, Part 2. Being Gorgeous

LeGuin Writes “Part Two: In a paragraph or so, describe an action, or a person feeling strong emotion—joy, fear, grief. Try to make the rhythm and movement of the sentences embody or represent the physical reality you’re writing about.”

So here are the lines I’m working with from draft one:

They ignored me.

“You’re on private property, you know.”

And here’s my revision:

The wind blew gently. The stream burbled. A woodpecker pecked in a poplar. I could think of no earthly reason they should ignore me, so I called out.

“You’re on private property, you know.”

It was true. I hunted the woods and still cleaned the carcasses in the shed behind the stone cottage. Fished the stream and scaled and cooked that fish on red coals. Cut down the trees to keep the cottage warm in winter, to say nothing of cooking my meals. Cleared the dead wood, picked wild raspberries, planted the garden. Drove the stakes tied with white cloth to mark the corners. I worked it; it was mine.

“It’s disrespectful of you—”

Works Cited

Le Guin, Ursula K. Steering the Craft: A Twenty-First-Century Guide to Sailing the Sea of Story (p. 9). HMH Books. Kindle Edition. 

“Old Ghosts” / Practice with Steering the Craft #1

With the change in circumstances that accompany the end of the semester, I find myself at a place where I can try a little different approach to this blog. I want to put more time into a book length project, but I don’t want to post too much from it here. 

However, it’s important to practice writing, and not just by throwing words on a page and seeing what sticks. To that end, I’ve picked up Ursula K. LeGuin’s Steering the Craft: A 21st-Century Guide to Sailing the Sea of Story. LeGuin is one of my favorite authors, her stories are forward thinking, and her prose is beautiful. Just look at the opening description in The Telling.

My goal is to work my way through LeGuin’s guide while revising (or really finishing) a single short story. I want to see how much the story is transformed when I tend to her suggestions for practice. The story I have chosen to work with is a piece—really a badly assembled skeleton with a lot of loose, flappy, flaking dialogue—called “Old Ghosts”. Here it is:

Old Ghosts

They sat on the log across the stream, each clutching a slender branch with a line tied to the end. I had never seen them before.

The first, a large, greasy man, wore overalls and no shirt. His head covered with a straw hat. The second, hungrier-looking fella wore a white tee with a flannel tied around his waist. A bucket of worms sat between them.

I waved. My right, of course. They were on my property.

“You there!” I called. “How’s the fishin’?”

They nodded. The fat man doffed his hat.

“I said, ‘how’s the fishin’?'”

They ignored me.

“You’re on private property, you know.”

Tee-and-Flannel got a bite. A little tug, a stronger tug, and a trout popped out of the stream. It flailed in the air. The big man punched his shoulder. They continued to act as if I wasn’t there.

“Now, look here,” I called. “I don’t mind you–“

The younger fella released his catch, and the pair sat down on the bank again.

I picked up a stone and skipped it across the water toward them.

“–I don’t mind you–“

“Hey,” Straw Hat called out. “Who are you?” He stood up and pointed at me with a sausage finger.

“I might ask you the same question,” I said. “Since you’re on my property.”

“Excuse me?” he said. “This is my property.” He motioned to his fishin’ buddy. “Get me the rifle, son,” he said. the younger one dropped his makeshift pole and ran up the path.

“You’re gonna get violent?” I asked.

“When you try to steal my land from me, damn right I will,” he said.

“But it’s not your land,” I insisted.

“Like hell,” he said.

I reached down into the water and pulled up a skipping stone. I played a bit of shortstop in high school. I thought I could peg him in the thigh. He was a big target anyway.

Several seconds of glaring silence passed. His boy reappeared with the gun.

“Mister,” I called out. “You touch that gun and I’ll break your hand with this stone.” I palmed it like a baseball.

He grabbed the gun. I chucked the ball at his hand. It hit him square. Then it passed through his hand, his gun, and his son on the other side.

Well, shit.

He raised it and fired. Then he stared. His boy turned white.

“Son–“

“Right through him, Pop, I swear to God.”

I kept walking toward them. They turned and ran. I chased after them, but they disappeared up the path. Somewhere beyond the trees I heard an engine turn over. I dropped into the big guy’s seat on the log. The wood had been worn; it was well used. I looked into the pail. It was empty. Rusted through.

So this is where I sit, waiting for the guy and his kid to come back. Seems like it’s been a while. I should probably head home soon. It’s my property after all.

*****

I’m not sure that the piece has much value—I’m not sure yet what it’s trying to say, but I have a few ideas. It’s part of a collection of gothic tales set in Pennsylvania, USA, but it still needs work.

Before I roll out lesson one, if you’re part of the #WriteLGBTQ and #WritingCommunity groups on Twitter, maybe you’ll join me on this excursion. If you have something you’d like to practice with, let’s practice together! Share your ideas as a response to this post on Twitter! Use the hashtag #steeringthecraft

Lesson #1. Being Gorgeous

LeGuin writes “Part One: Write a paragraph to a page of narrative that’s meant to be read aloud. Use onomatopoeia, alliteration, repetition, rhythmic effects, made-up words or names, dialect—any kind of sound effect you like—but NOT rhyme or meter.

I want you to write for pleasure—to play. Just listen to the sounds and rhythms of the sentences you write and play with them, like a kid with a kazoo. This isn’t “free writing,” but it’s similar in that you’re relaxing control: you’re encouraging the words themselves—the sounds of them, the beats and echoes—to lead you on. For the moment, forget all the good advice that says good style is invisible, good art conceals art. Show off! Use the whole orchestra our wonderful language offers us!”

So here’s the line I’m working with from draft one:

They sat on the log across the stream, each clutching a slender branch with a line tied to the end. I had never seen them before.

And here’s my first stab at “being gorgeous”:

A spring wind whipped the woods to life. Daffodils lifted yellow faces to the sun, and blossoms blown from the trees speckled the stream in pinks and whites. Mountain ridge snowmelt strengthened the headwaters. The stream swelled; muddy banks submerged, lost until summer. The peepers chirped away the sun each night. Bullfrogs croaked. Little furry things scuttled beyond the rushes. Snakes slithered over bent logs and wound their way across the surface. Shad and trout returned. And with them came the people.

I happened upon a pair the other day, just after dawn. They set up camp on a fallen oak, a beaten metal pail between them. The older man was scruffy; his hat brim frayed from weather.  His trousers were patched in one knee, the waistband taut around his girth.

“Like this,” he said, and cast his line again.

The waif was a scrawnier, smaller version of his teacher. From the muddy, waterlogged state of his overalls and the dirt on his face and hands, it seemed the natural lack of grace in boys that age had already taken its toll that morning.

The fishing rods seemed antique, perhaps forced back into service? Bamboo rods had gone out of style even before I was a boy, and their lines were too visible, too thick to be modern.

Works Cited

Le Guin, Ursula K. Steering the Craft: A Twenty-First-Century Guide to Sailing the Sea of Story (p. 8). HMH Books. Kindle Edition. 

Driftwood

Author’s Note: I’m torn between the Disney-fication of fairytales and just plain feeling bad for Hans Christian Anderson, who, it was suggested to me, saw himself as the Little Mermaid. For the record, I love Disney, and H.C. Anderson, and the persistence of love.

Allie sat in the front row and watched as waves of mourners processed around the peach-and-wainscot reception room. She recognized Miss Archer right away. Gran and Grandaddy’s next door neighbor, she traded pies and casseroles with Gran in exchange for fresh flowers from the garden or the mittens Gran knitted while watching her shows. Ms. Archer dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief and rubbed Mama’s back when they embraced. She held both Grandaddy’s hands while sniffling condolences and apologizing for her tears.

“But William, you let me know if you need anything, alright?” she insisted, their joined hands moving back and forth in an affirming shake. “I’m right next door.”

“I will, Melody.”

“You do that,” she insisted, and pressed his forearm.

“Mm hm,” Mama added, gently ushering her along.

Miss Archer stopped in front of the plinth upon which sat the urn with Gran’s ashes. She folded her hands, praised Jesus, and withdrew, wiping a fresh wave of tears in the process.

“Does Miss Archer fancy you, Dad?” Mama whispered during a break in the line.

“No idea.”

Gran’s friends from the public library arrived together. Mrs. Tweed shared a soft smile so foreign from her severe moue and batwing-framed gaze that Allie fretted staring too long. But Ms. Thornton-Johnson, the children’s librarian who smelled of roses and hand cream and never spoke an unkind word, stooped when she neared to hold Allie’s hand and offer a hug, which the girl accepted. 

Then Mr. Riley shuffled up in a dapper brown suit and high-polished shoes, fedora in hands. Allie listened closely; she loved Mr. Riley’s voice. It sounded soft and smooth as velvet. 

Mr. Riley was a Saturday fixture in Gran and Grandaddy’s house. While Gran and Mama helped with church functions or attended library meetings, Allie, Grandaddy, and Mr. Riley would watch football or baseball games on the television in the parlor. “Grandaddy’s room,” Gran called it. If there wasn’t a game, they might put on a movie, or just read books. Grandaddy had a wall full of them, from home repair to sports biographies to history and fairytales. Sometimes he and Mr. Riley took turns reading to her. 

“James,” Mama began, “thank you for coming.”

He embraced her gently.

“Of course.” 

He turned to Allie, who jumped up and hugged him around the waist, breathing in his familiar musky cologne. He patted her and held the back of her head they way parents hold their babies.

“You alright, Will?”

From under Mr. Riley’s long arm, Allie watched Grandaddy raise his open hands.

“It is what it is.”

Mama peeled Allie away from him so he could address Grandaddy directly.

“Well, it was a good long run, wasn’t it?”

Grandaddy nodded. “Thirty four years.” For the first time all day, he teared up.

Mr. Riley offered him a hankie.

“No, I got mine,” he said. “Thank you.”

“We’ll talk more after?” Mr. Riley asked.

“Of course. I’ll call you.”

Little by little the room filled up. Allie recognized Pastor White from the church, and several members of the choir. Gran had sung alto for a few years.

Then Daddy walked in. He didn’t bother with the line. Instead, he marched right up the center aisle, rumpled suit hanging off his lanky frame, silence following in his wake. He stopped before the urn.

“He gonna knock it over?” Somebody behind Allie murmured.

But Daddy lowered his head, folded his hands, and stood there a few seconds. Mama took a step toward him, but Grandaddy stopped her, shaking his head. 

Daddy turned toward them. Allie saw his red nose, his bloodshot eyes—he looked the same as ever. His brow furrowed, so she turned to the source of his frustration. Mama pointed toward the door, shooing him with a hateful glare; Grandaddy had stepped out of view, into a nook created by the flower displays from the Library Board and the City Council, both of whom had knocked heads with Gran more than once over the years.

Mr. Riley stood up.

“Brian,” he said gently. “If you said your peace to your Mama, perhaps you want to take a seat.”

Daddy glared. “Don’t even start with me, Riley.”

But Pastor White and Deacon Anderson appeared at Daddy’s side. “Not now, Brian,” the pastor said. “Your Mama wouldn’t want this.”

“There’s a lot of things my Mama didn’t want.” 

“That’s right. And you carrying on here would’ve been at the top of her list.”

Daddy moved to speak, thought twice, and allowed the deacon to walk him out.

Allie thought about the last time she and Gran spoke.

“Allison, why is it always blue jeans and tee shirts with you?”

Allie stood in the kitchen, one foot atop the other. Gran preferred she not bounce from foot to foot. “You look like you need the ladies’ room,” she had once said. Allie tried hard to keep still, but when she focused on her feet, that pent up energy turned into swaying hips or flailing arms. Gran took to holding Allie by the shoulders when she wanted to speak with the girl.

“You see this suit?” Gran wore her favorite pink pantsuit with a white blouse and gold cross necklace that day. ”When I walk into the library or the city council wearing this suit, this blouse, they send a message. They say ‘I’m here for business.’ Now what do your grass-stained jeans and dirty tee say about you?”

“That I’m twelve?”

Gran tsked. “They say I got to have another talk with your Mama again.”

But she wasn’t wearing her pantsuit the day she died. If she had, Allie thought, she might not have gone face first into her mashed potatoes at Benjamin’s Diner, right in front of her Tuesday supper club.

But when it came time for the funeral, Allie wore a new pantsuit of her own: light blue, in a show of respect.

After the interment and church basement meal, Mama planned Grandaddy’s evenings.

“We’ll be over each night after work,” she began.

“You don’t need to, Denise,” Grandaddy insisted. “I got things under control. Between the church and the library, I won’t need to cook for a month.” He smiled his bravest.

“Mm hm.”

He pointed to the folding table where the ladies’ auxiliary had begun packaging leftovers. “They got chicken soup. Casseroles. There’s a container full of ham that I’ll freeze.”

“Mm hm. What about putting her things away?”

“Her things are already away. That’s what the bureau and dresser and closet are for.”

“Mm hmm,” Mama said a third time. Allie could have told him it was no use, but she suspected he knew that already.

Grandaddy sighed. “Why do I get the feeling this is happening whether I like it or not?”

As the conversation turned toward the specifics of whether and how often to call on Miss Archer, Allie stepped outside. Brian awaited her.

“How’s my little girl?”

Allie scanned left and right. They weren’t alone. Good.

“Fine, Daddy.”

“You gonna come see me sometime?”

She hesitated. “Not until Mama approves.”

Brian huffed and kicked an acorn. “She ain’t ever gonna approve.”

His daughter began shifting. One foot stepped on the other. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have hit her.”

“It was once. An accident.”

“Daddy, I saw you. You hit her five times.”

“But—“

Mr. Riley appeared in the doorway. “Allison, go on inside. Your Mama wants you.”

Daddy stopped her. “No. Stay here.” He turned to Mr. Riley. “I’m talking to her.”

“I can see that, Brian. But her first duty is to her Mama.”

Brian spit on the pavement and shoved Allie aside. She cried out, tumbled over the mums, and landed in the flowerbed. 

He balled his fists and started toward Riley. “How bout if I just send you right after my Mama? God knows you gave her that heart attack.”

Allie heard the click, looked up quickly, and saw her Daddy stop cold. Mr. Riley had his pistol out. Up the walk, one of Allie’s former schoolteachers, Mrs. Banks, ushered her husband back into the church.

“I feel bad I had to bring it, and worse I had to pull it out in front of Allie,” Riley said. “But somebody had to be ready if you showed up.”

Daddy opened his hands. “Put it away, Riley.”

“I will, Brian,” Mr. Riley said, “but first we’re going to clear the air, you and I. What you accused me of wasn’t untoward, wasn’t a secret, and didn’t involve you from the start. But what you did to your ex-wife? What I just saw you do to your little girl? Far more sinful than anything you think you saw.”

Daddy said nothing. From between the parked cars, Ms. Thornton-Johnson motioned for Allie to come to her.

Riley didn’t bat an eye as Allie slipped away. “Now you get in your car and drive away, alright? You do that, and we won’t have to hold a funeral here for you next week. Nobody wants a scene in front of your little girl.”

“Brian Charles,” Ms. Thornton-Johnson called out. Brian turned to find a small but angry crowd. The librarian safely held Allie against her. “Everyone here just saw you shove your daughter and threaten our neighbor. You better pray for their lives, and the lives of your father and your ex-wife. Cause if anything happens to any of them, we will see to it that they lock you up till the Second Coming.”

“Amen,” said Mrs. Tweed, whose piercing glare had returned.

Daddy backed up, cowed by the crowd. He got into his car and peeled away.

“Thank you,” Mr. Riley said as he reholstered his pistol.

Mrs. Tweed whacked him on the head with her purse, knocking his hat sideways. “And what the dickens are you doing pulling out a gun in front of a child?”

“I… uh…”

“I thought you were smarter than that!”

“No, ma’am.” He said.

“Just as stubborn as always,” she said, half smiling. “God help us.”

Every night that week, Mama and Allie reported to Grandaddy’s. The first night they just ate and talked. Gran’s plants had missed their weekly watering, drooping behind still closed blinds. Potted plants given in her memory cluttered the old desk. Allie found Gran’s watering can under the kitchen sink and gave them all a much-needed drink.

But by the third visit, Mama brought a roll of black garbage bags and several boxes from the liquor store. 

“We put it off long enough, Dad,” Mama insisted.

Grandaddy grudgingly followed her upstairs, but returned while Allie was still deciding what to watch.

“Your Mama sent me back down here to keep you company,” he said, settling into his chair and wiping his eyes with a hankie. 

This continued all week. Mama neatly folded, packed, and removed Gran’s things little by little while Grandaddy and Allie watched movies. Sometimes Grandaddy helped, especially after the task shifted from packing her personal effects to emptying the second bedroom that served as her workroom.

“It’s easier,” he explained to Mama. “I was never in this room much. She didn’t like interruptions while she worked.” So he helped a little more and retreated to his room as needed.

That Saturday, Mr. Riley came over. Allie had already claimed her end of the sofa. Mr. Riley staked out his usual place at the other end, closer to Grandaddy, who had brought in a tray of ham sandwiches with brown mustard, chips, and Cokes for the three of them.

“What are we doing today, Allie?” Mr. Riley asked.

Watching a movie.”

“What movie?”

“Little Mermaid.”

Grandaddy laughed. “That’s not a movie. It’s a story in a book.”

Allie puffed up. “No, it’s a movie.”

He sat forward. “No. Book. Right, James?”

“Don’t get me involved,” Mr. Riley said, and sipped his soda.

“Wait, Grandaddy. Is it both?”

“Let’s find out,” Grandaddy said. “You put on the movie, and I’ll go get my book.”

So they watched the movie. At the start, Grandaddy asked Allie to pause, and explained what was and wasn’t in the story. But soon they left off the comparison—at least until it ended.

“And they lived happily ever after!” Allie cheered.

“That’s not how it ends,” Grandaddy said. “Not in the book.”

“How does it end in the book?”

“She turns into a piece of driftwood and floats away.”

“Really?” Mr. Riley asked.

“Driftwood?” Allie frowned.

Grandaddy nodded. “Uh huh.”

“And never gets her prince?”

“And never gets her prince.”

“No offense Grandaddy, but that’s stupid. Everybody should find somebody they love.”

“She got you there, Will,” Mr. Riley chuckled.

Grandaddy tapped the arm of his chair. “But it doesn’t always work out that way, I’m sorry to say.”

The trio sat quietly, watching the credits roll. Finally, Allie spoke again.

“Grandaddy, were you Gran’s Prince Charming?”

He pulled out his hankie and set it on his knee.

“I guess I was.”

“But she’s gone now.”

“Yes, she is.”

“Are you still sad?”

Grandaddy stared at the peace lily on the stand by the window. Gran had insisted it live there. “Sometimes. Yes I am, Allie. Sometimes I am sad.”

“What about you, Mr. Riley?”

He turned, surprised. “What about me?”

“Are you somebody’s Prince Charming?”

He looked at his hands, then at Grandaddy, then at Allie. “Not yet,” he said. “Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to be. Maybe someday.” He paused. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“You!”

“Me too. Maybe someday,” Allie said. “I could find a Prince Charming. Maybe I could be one. If I needed to.”

She got up suddenly, hugged her Granddaddy, then hugged Mr. Riley.

“I think people should be happy. I don’t think anyone should settle for becoming driftwood.”

“Allie!” Mama called.

“Wisdom of a child,” Mr. Riley murmured as she ran to answer her mother’s call.

By the middle of the second week, Mama had removed most of Gran’s things. When they arrived late that afternoon, Grandaddy wasn’t waiting at the door for them.

“Dad!” Mama called.

“Upstairs,” he called back. “Be down in a minute.”

Mama set a bag of prepared meals on the counter. 

“Wow, Grandaddy,” Allie said when he entered the room. He had donned a navy suit and a striped bowtie. His shoes shined like mirrors.

“Well, you’re dressed to the nines, Dad. What’s the occasion?” 

“I got a date.” 

Mama looked shocked. Grandaddy handed a bottle of cologne to Allie. “Your Gran liked this smell on me. Do you like it?”

Allie sniffed and smiled. “Yep.” It smelled musky, comforting, familiar.

“A date? Really?” Mama asked. “Ain’t it a little soon?”

“Denise,” he said. “By God in Heaven I was faithful to my Jeanne every minute for thirty four years. That’s a long time, and I got less in front of me than I used to.”

She began to argue. “But Dad—“

“And I don’t want to become driftwood. So I’m off to meet my Prince Charming. He’s been waiting a long time—as faithful to me as I was to Jeanne.”

He winked at Allie, who giggled, beaming.

“You’re somehow behind this, aren’t you?” Mama said, eyebrow raised, half a smile on her lips.

Allie tried to look innocent. Grandaddy sprayed on some cologne and checked his teeth in the mirror Gran had hung by the coat closet. 

When the doorbell rang, he was ready.