LJ Idol 7 - 3: It's A Trap
"It didn't happen that way! How dare you! Who do you think you are?"
"Yes, it did. I was right here."
"Do you realize what you did? People are going to read this and they're going be thinking things they shouldn't be thinking."
"What are they going to think? It's a story!"
"You don't understand, do you? People aren't going to look at it as a story. They're going to think that's what we do in this house! And then they'll talk! Do you want them talking about us like that?"
***
It really did happen. In a moment of pre-teen angst fueled by yet another argument, I'd grabbed one of my grandmother's delicate crystal glasses and hurled it at my mother. It missed her and hit the wall over the sink, shattering into tiny, translucent shards. With one swift movement in less than a blink's moment she backhanded me across the face. I lost my balance and fell against the dining room table. I had no idea the corner had jammed the small of my back. I noticed the bruise while taking a shower later that day. I trembled and wept.
The incident became a story.
It was published in the junior high student magazine.
I showed it to my mother, thinking she'd be proud and thinking that finally, once in my life, I did something that would make her happy.
It never occurred to me that people might talk.
***
She was a princess waiting for her prince. On that hill she scanned the horizon of her kingdom Dahlia. It was a very fine place. The sun shined bright as her flaxen hair. She heard the hoofbeats of the mighty steed in the distance. The hoofbeats came closer. She turned. There he was, her prince! He wrapped his arms around her and gave her a long, loving kiss...
No, no, that won't do.
Crumple paper into a ball. Toss it in the wastebasket.
Flick pen against paper. Tap, tap, tap.
The robots were green and square with lots of buttons on their chests and whirling orange lights on top of their heads. When Dr. Flugelmeister gave the signal to Igor, Igor pressed the big red button on the console and the robots jerkily moved their arms and legs. The doctor cackled with glee. "Yes, yes," he slyly grinned, "I shall be master of Planet Zort! I shall send its children trembling in fear yet in awe of my superior power!"
Long sigh.
Crumple.
Toss.
***
My university tutor chuckled deeply. He was a barrel of a man with a heavy salt-and-pepper beard and a twang that drawled his words into long syllables. "I'm not telling you it's not a good story, but you need hope! This poor girl has nothing to look forward to!"
He gazed at me. "Yes, you are certainly a student of a writer's first commandment of writing what you know. That's not the issue. Oh, please don't look at me like that. You know what I'm talking about."
"No...I don't! That's what happened! I swear!"
"There's a reason why fiction is called fiction. You need a fictional element in there. That will give you the hope your protagonist needs."
"But then it won't be true."
"That's why it's called a FIC-tional element, darlin'. You may know it's FIC-tion, but your readers won't."
***
There was the writing RPG where we created characters assigned to different roles -- the Paladin, the Ranger, the Empath, the Healer. I thought I knew something about medieval life, roleplaying. My cohorts were D&D denziens, budding fantasy writers. They corrected me every single time I posted something.
Hardboiled detective: A genre, something easily picked up watching movies. Yeah, right. You should be a cop, a forensic scientist, a PI. They'll know if you're just tossing around the words.
Slash! Oh...you have to write sex scenes, and not necessarily male/female. Uh...
Wait, Emily Bronte wrote Wuthering Heights! She was a parson's daughter, very much the loner, the one who only rarely ventured from home her entire lifetime! What did she know about possessive love, cruelty, heartbreak? Oh, that's right, she knew those moors like the back of her hand, its atmosphere and heather as much a part of her as her flesh, her soul...
***
I lay on my bed, watching the ceiling fan lazily spin. It's dark outside, rainy, wind rattling the windows.
Somewhere downstairs in the dining room, somewhere in the hutch, are the rest of my grandmother's delicate crystal glasses.
"Yes, it did. I was right here."
"Do you realize what you did? People are going to read this and they're going be thinking things they shouldn't be thinking."
"What are they going to think? It's a story!"
"You don't understand, do you? People aren't going to look at it as a story. They're going to think that's what we do in this house! And then they'll talk! Do you want them talking about us like that?"
***
It really did happen. In a moment of pre-teen angst fueled by yet another argument, I'd grabbed one of my grandmother's delicate crystal glasses and hurled it at my mother. It missed her and hit the wall over the sink, shattering into tiny, translucent shards. With one swift movement in less than a blink's moment she backhanded me across the face. I lost my balance and fell against the dining room table. I had no idea the corner had jammed the small of my back. I noticed the bruise while taking a shower later that day. I trembled and wept.
The incident became a story.
It was published in the junior high student magazine.
I showed it to my mother, thinking she'd be proud and thinking that finally, once in my life, I did something that would make her happy.
It never occurred to me that people might talk.
***
She was a princess waiting for her prince. On that hill she scanned the horizon of her kingdom Dahlia. It was a very fine place. The sun shined bright as her flaxen hair. She heard the hoofbeats of the mighty steed in the distance. The hoofbeats came closer. She turned. There he was, her prince! He wrapped his arms around her and gave her a long, loving kiss...
No, no, that won't do.
Crumple paper into a ball. Toss it in the wastebasket.
Flick pen against paper. Tap, tap, tap.
The robots were green and square with lots of buttons on their chests and whirling orange lights on top of their heads. When Dr. Flugelmeister gave the signal to Igor, Igor pressed the big red button on the console and the robots jerkily moved their arms and legs. The doctor cackled with glee. "Yes, yes," he slyly grinned, "I shall be master of Planet Zort! I shall send its children trembling in fear yet in awe of my superior power!"
Long sigh.
Crumple.
Toss.
***
My university tutor chuckled deeply. He was a barrel of a man with a heavy salt-and-pepper beard and a twang that drawled his words into long syllables. "I'm not telling you it's not a good story, but you need hope! This poor girl has nothing to look forward to!"
He gazed at me. "Yes, you are certainly a student of a writer's first commandment of writing what you know. That's not the issue. Oh, please don't look at me like that. You know what I'm talking about."
"No...I don't! That's what happened! I swear!"
"There's a reason why fiction is called fiction. You need a fictional element in there. That will give you the hope your protagonist needs."
"But then it won't be true."
"That's why it's called a FIC-tional element, darlin'. You may know it's FIC-tion, but your readers won't."
***
There was the writing RPG where we created characters assigned to different roles -- the Paladin, the Ranger, the Empath, the Healer. I thought I knew something about medieval life, roleplaying. My cohorts were D&D denziens, budding fantasy writers. They corrected me every single time I posted something.
Hardboiled detective: A genre, something easily picked up watching movies. Yeah, right. You should be a cop, a forensic scientist, a PI. They'll know if you're just tossing around the words.
Slash! Oh...you have to write sex scenes, and not necessarily male/female. Uh...
Wait, Emily Bronte wrote Wuthering Heights! She was a parson's daughter, very much the loner, the one who only rarely ventured from home her entire lifetime! What did she know about possessive love, cruelty, heartbreak? Oh, that's right, she knew those moors like the back of her hand, its atmosphere and heather as much a part of her as her flesh, her soul...
***
I lay on my bed, watching the ceiling fan lazily spin. It's dark outside, rainy, wind rattling the windows.
Somewhere downstairs in the dining room, somewhere in the hutch, are the rest of my grandmother's delicate crystal glasses.