State of the Union... (Or a series of overdue updates)

Hi, there!  In case we haven't been previously acquainted, my name is Justin and I am a sometimes writer whose creative juices ebb and flow, sometimes to the point where a certain blog languishes for more than two years without any updates.  Major life events worth writing about sail by... and no posts.  Suffice it to say that, for the last 24 months, life has been very full, and while I've had time now and again to sit down and do some intentional reflecting, my energy expenditures and resting rhythms are just different now than they were when I began Häxprocess back in 2011.  Hopefully that's more reason than excuse, but either way I've lapsed and I'd like to get back to sharing more regular updates and ponderings.

If you're still here reading this, then you must be interested!  I'll start with the most recent talking points and work backward.

It's the Little Things

An ominous cover for decidedly
non-ominous content.  Apropos?

Sometime last year, I finished reading Stephen King's On Writing, a part-memoir, part-craft discussion piece that was originally published back in 2000.  King isn't my favorite author, but I do enjoy his work on occasion and have a decent collection of it on my bookshelves at home.  Regardless of how you or I might feel about him, let's be honest: he's a master of suspense and has been enormously successful.  Therefore, his opinions on the writing craft [should] hold a good amount of sway in the writing community.

Both of the tips I'm going to mention I've heard a thousand times before reading On Writing.  However, because I hadn't accomplished much writing at the time I was reading the book, I found myself inspired to sit down and get some work done, and in the final months of 2014, these two tactics proved instrumental in finalizing two short stories and submitting them to publishers.  I'd been working on both pieces for some time but hadn't been confident in their quality until I made this final, editorial pass.  Regardless of whether or not they will be accepted, just to get them finished and sent out was an achievement -- especially since I haven't published anything since 2010.

Sometimes it's the little things.

No matter whether you write fiction or music reviews, whether you're a student writing essays or an author working on his tenth manuscript, these simple tools are invaluable to the editing process.  If you've heard them already (and you probably have), now's the time to put them to use.

Death to all adverbs

"All the officer patients in the war were forced to censor letters... It was a monotonous job, and Yossarian was disappointed to learn that the lives of enlisted men were only slightly more interesting than the lives of officers... To break the monotony he invented games. Death to all modifiers, he declared one day, and out of every letter that passed through his hands went every adverb and every adjective."

-- Joseph Heller, Catch-22

~*~

I used to sneer at this rule.  That's because I still tend to use a lot of modifiers.

Adverbs are especially easy to throw into the mix.  They add what feels like clarity and assist in turning sentences into paragraphs.  It feels good to look over your unfinished manuscript and see large chunks of text -- it feels solid, like the story has weight, and the densely packed pages look intelligent.  Adverbs aren't the only bloat in a writer's first draft, of course, but they do contribute to the overall mass.

"Pasty, putrid, pulp" also describes that dialogue box.

King gives his "formula for success" in the form of an equation: 2nd Draft = 1st Draft – 10%.  A chunk of that 10% margin of elimination is unnecessary modifiers.  I would argue that something like 80% of all adverbs are unnecessary.  I'm making up a harsh statistic, but the point is that adverbs are the average writer's cheat.  They accomplish what a good writer's prose can do by itself.  Strong, intentional words are more powerful than strings of modifiers.  The real problem with adverbs is that, though they fill a descriptive role, they are also limiting.  When used as a crutch instead of the occasional seasoning, they weaken the writer's ability to describe and eliminate the reader's ability to participate in the story.

I think this rule is especially apparent when it comes to written dialogue.  I'm a proponent of simple "he said/she said" dialogue attribution, especially when there is significant back-and-forth conversation between characters.  This approach removes clutter and allows the conversation to flow naturally.  In the process of writing dialogue, however -- to preserve the spontaneity of snappy words exchanged in emotionally charged scenarios -- it's easy to slip into the habit of forgoing detailed prose for lazy adverbs.  For example:

"Well, if that's how you feel about it!" Jane muttered angrily.

While a simple "Jane muttered" is sometimes appropriate and would be preferable to "Jane muttered angrily," what Jane is saying should be enough to imply her tone, volume, and intent.  Coupled with a careful description of Jane's body language, her words are enough to give the reader a sense of what she is feeling without the need for such overt clarification or emphatic punctuation (side note: the exclamation point has little functionality in mature writing).  Furthermore, action can replace modifiers when it lends to the character's posture and mood.

Jane's eyes flashed.  "Well, if that's how you feel about it," she said, allowing her hand to curl into a ball against her thigh.

This example says more than the former, and not just because it has more words.  It provides insight into Jane's anger, adds specific detail without using unnecessary modifiers, and is much more powerful than "Jane muttered angrily."  Technically, I am using a participial phrase as an adjective in this sentence, but it eliminates the need for modifiers in the traditional sense, lends flavor to the paragraph, and also provides a sense of action without delaying a response in the continued dialogue.

Both options arguably achieve similar results, but the former is non-descriptive and lackluster while the latter adds specific detail without feeling cumbersome (though it could perhaps be further refined in the context of surrounding paragraphs).  For the record, it isn't more words we're after when it comes to description, it's precise words.  Purposeful, mature writing scrutinizes which words are best for the context, to eliminate the need for unnecessary, superfluous words.  Conciseness lends itself to purposeful word choice.

Sure, you should try to say more with less words.  But not if your "less words" are all adverbs.

In that regard, what really helped build my confidence in my manuscripts was the elimination of adverbs.  In addition to trimming each story's word count, this careful editing process gave each story a sense of maturity it had lacked.  Eliminating adverbs led me to choose more effective verbs and reduce my overabundance of modifiers -- limiting them to fewer, more potent numbers.  Adverbs used appropriately aren't childish: sometimes they're necessary.  They're a part of speech for a reason.  While the mediocre writer can fall into the trap of using modifiers as a crutch to crudely convey his point, the good writer can apply them as the type of seasoning that amplifies the rest of his prose.

If this seems like a simple thing, that's because it is.  It's also powerful.  Whether or not you write fiction, eliminating an overabundance of adverbs is a refining tool.  The practice of avoiding unnecessary modifiers both simplifies and expands a writer's prose.  It allows his or her sense of imagery, vocabulary, and writing style to flourish.

Edit on paper

"A blank sheet of paper equals endless possibilities. Conceptual."

-- Michael Scott

~*~ 

Maybe it's ironic that someone who maintains a blog and does the bulk of his writing on his computer should insist on this.

I've got a number of editing methods that I employ.  For instance, after I finish writing something, I'll leave it for an hour or two or maybe even several days before I finally sit back down to begin editing.  Then, I try read through the story/essay/etc as though I'm a first-time reader instead of its author.  I read sections out loud.  I move entire paragraphs around to determine whether or not the piece could benefit from a different spatial organization.  One really helpful trick I've found is to make the computer read aloud what I've written back to me.  The iWorks software has a "read text" feature built into it.  I can even save text as an audio file to listen back on-the-go.  If the bland, monotonous voice of your computer can read your work aloud and make it sound intelligent, that's a good indicator that a human reader can do the same.  This is an especially useful tool for identifying run-on sentences and deciding whether or not you should add a comma between those clauses.

However, all of that is part of my initial editing process.  It's not until I get what I've written printed on paper that I can truly get hands-on.  Literally.  There is something about editing on paper that makes the process much more deliberate and intense.  Killing your darlings should be visceral.  It should be hard to slash chunks of your work, especially when you love it.

The fact is, you notice different things on the paper than you do on-screen.  Part of that is simply because your eyes have adjusted to the way the text looks against a glowing white background.  Part of that is because the shift in format makes the prose feel fresh, and because you read more carefully and absorb more thoroughly printed text.

Whatever the conjunction of reasons, it isn't until I have a pen in hand that I really begin to eliminate large sections of unnecessary text and identify the portions of the story that are well-paced, those that are quagmires, and those that could use expansion.  I'm more hesitant on the computer.  Maybe the delete key is frightening in its finality: on paper, I can cross out but still see what I've removed.  In that regard, I can be more merciless on paper.

The bottom line?

Write on a word processor.  It's faster and more efficient.  Edit on paper.  It's more accurate and methodical.

~*~

As stated, these are two simple editing tools.  You've probably heard more than one writing professor suggest them.  Maybe you can get away without utilizing these methods and maybe even still be successful, but these are painless and efficient ways to hone your craft.  What's lost by trying them (besides adverbs)?

3 Things Writers Fear (And Why We Do it Anyway)

Like any form of self-expression, creative writing is a risk.  That's because, like any other art form, creative writing necessarily involves the willful self-exposure to share original ideas -- the proverbial placing of the ball into someone else's court in order for them to pass judgment.  I don't care who you are: that's a scary concept.  Creative writing in any form is an exercise in anxiety, elation, and defeat.  For the writer attempting to gain the attention of an agent or a publisher, that process is rinse, lather, repeat; rinse, lather, repeat.  For the writer who maintains a blog, he is subject to the internet's worst critics.  For the poet who does frequent readings, there is nothing more harsh than the silence of a room that doesn't know how to react to your material.  Regardless of the form, sharing your written work is arduous and painful, and rarely does it reap more than another opportunity to revise your already revised final draft.

I've seen a number of articles devoted to "writers' fears" floating around recently, all of them more or less accurate in pinpointing struggles that authors of any genre or media might face, but I think all of these symptoms stem from three major fears that invariably manifest in the heart and mind of a writer.  Maybe this is a silly conversation, or maybe it will encourage those of you with aspirations of writing to keep going.

Either way, here we go.

Writers fear writer's block.  Contrary to popular opinion, writer's block (or "graphospasm" -- thanks, Snapple facts) is more than simply a hand cramp or an inability to put words on paper, though it is certainly not less than either of those things.  In reality, it is a mental impairment -- an inability to connect ideas or imagine a story's progression.  Perhaps it begins with nuts-and-bolts details (i.e. "I know where the story is going, but I'm struggling to connect point A to point B"), but it spreads to more comprehensive elements, like character development and significant plot details (i.e. "I have no idea how to make this person change" or "I don't know what I want to happen next, but my thematic idea needs something huge").  Boiled down to its heart, writer's block is the fear of regressing, of having to start over.  It's the systemic absence of progress, and it's incredibly disheartening.  Furthermore, there is no foolproof cure for this condition: it is something that comes and goes as it wills, and even forcing one's self to just write in order to get past the hump is not a guarantee of recovery.

For most authors, writer's block is the specter of the "one that got away" -- their great masterpiece, left unfinished all these years, because they simply couldn't finish it.  Maybe they've had semi-successful careers, churning out a chain of pulp novels or maybe even some quality pieces of literature, but they've never been able to finish that one manuscript that they've dragged like a ball and chain behind them -- unable to let it go, and unable to finish it.  No one who aspires to write wants that type of nagging regret.  It's a fearful concept, enough to make some writers quit while they're ahead.

As stated, there is no fool-proof remedy for writer's block.  It manifests at the most inopportune times and can vanish when you least expect it.  However, here are some things I've found helpful (though not everyone's mind works the same way mine does).

First, maintain a healthy reading diet -- especially material that pertains in some way to your subject matter.  See how other writers have resolved a similar character's flaws, or how another author described what it is you're struggling to depict.  That type of cross-pollination is essential to writing.  It's not stealing to borrow method.  Figure out how the accomplished writers achieved their final product, incorporate some of their ideas into your own grand scheme, and see if that gets your train of thought moving again.  You can't write if you're not reading.

Second, outlining, diagramming, and writing about my current novel, short-story, or article has proven immensely helpful.  When I was younger, I only outlined if it was required for a writing assignment, but I've since come to see the value in sketching plot, characters, and themes outside of the text in order to develop reference material for the manuscript itself.  If I'm struggling to come up with my next plot point, then I'll work on a character sketch instead, further defining who the individual is and learning how he or she would react to given stimuli, and what types of provocation will be essential to his or her character development.  That can be as simple as jotting down notes as to what color his/her hair is, details about the house he/she grew up in, how many cousins he/she has on his/her mother's side.  It can be as complex as fears, goals, failures, and character flaws.  Sometimes, the next essential plot point develops out of my deepening understanding of my own character.

Maybe that sounds like a waste of time, but I maintain that it is always important for the author to know more about his/her characters than the audience.  That's how rich characters with full backstories are developed.  Tolkien didn't create Middle Earth without also writing volumes and volumes of history and mythology.  Furthermore, possessing an intimate and well-rounded knowledge of your characters not only makes writing them easier, but it also can save you time while you're putting pen to paper because the details have already been fleshed out in your diagram.  This method is useful not only to push through writer's block, but is also a means of staying productive even while you're not writing.

Maybe I've just got a cold?

Third, don't throw anything away.  In a moment of frustration, it's easy to tear out the page you were working on or hit ⌘-A + delete.  Don't do that.  You simply never know when an old draft might come in handy, either as supplemental material, another angle to consider, or even an emergency backup in case something should happen to your saved file (or notebook).  Throwing things away might feel cathartic, but it limits the potential to make anything useful out of the hours spent on that particular draft.  I've made it a habit, when eliminating large chunks of text from a draft, to paste them in an "excerpts" document file, just so that I can access it again later -- either during revision or during another period of writer's block, so that I can reflect on where I've been and what I tried last time.  You never know when that will spark a new idea.  At the very least, it's encouraging to see how far you've come.

Finally, at the most basic level, sometimes you do just need to put words on paper.  Even if they don't make sense, even if they jump scenes or contradict earlier chapters, forcing through to the next plot point is sometimes all it takes to get the story rolling again.  Find a place where you can be free of distractions.  Put on music if that's helpful.  Devote an hour to just typing (or scribbling), or set a word goal, and then make the leap.  Don't stop or re-read what you've written until you've reached your time limit or word goal.  If it's one particular scene you are wrestling through, jot down some notes on what you're trying to accomplish through that section and then move to the next.  Details can come later, and sometimes it's easier to develop supporting scenes retrospectively, in light of later events.  It's not cheating to write in a non-linear fashion.

Sometimes, this type of nose-to-the-grindstone approach is a good way to figure out what is essential to your draft and what can be eliminated: by only writing in such a way that the most basic ideas are transferred from mind to paper, you can often narrow down your ultimate trajectory.  Most ideas are a good percentage fat and can be trimmed significantly during editing in order to solidify the final product.  So if a power-writing session results in a few corners being cut, don't be afraid to eliminate scenes or characters that could be deemed redundant.

...but make sure you save them in a separate file, just in case!

Writers fear rejection.  Just like the rest of you (we're people too).  The truth is, writers fear rejection for the same reason any artist does: the rejection of craft is the rejection of the artist.  Someone who doesn't dabble in the arts might not understand that concept ("All I said was, 'It needs work,' and he fell to pieces!"), but for the writer, rejection negates hours of work and creativity, rendering them fruitless.  Especially from a publisher or an agent, rejection can feel like a direct challenge to the author's personal writing style, imagination, and sense of aesthetic.  It forces a negative comparison: "not good enough to be published" literally means "not as good as what is already published," and frankly, what is already published is often not worthy of being on the opposite side of the comparison.

Of course, all that is not to say that rejection can't be a form of positive criticism, of course.  Far too many manuscripts that should see another revision magically make it the shelves at Barnes & Noble.  That's the danger in self-publishing, especially with the contemporary ease of e-publishing: there is no need to perfect your work, because there won't be an editor who will reject your grammatical mess of a manuscript unless you hire one yourself.  Feedback -- especially from a publisher or an agent -- is one of the most useful things a writer can receive, because it's a powerful sharpening tool.  It's the opportunity to go back to the drawing board and fix what didn't work before -- what one wouldn't have realized needed fixing without someone else to point it out.

That being said, "I don't like it" is incredibly unhelpful "feedback."  Conversely, "I LOVE IT" isn't much more than a stroke to the ego.  Neither of these responses address particulars.  The former might as well be a statement of indifference.  Neither tells me what I'm doing wrong or right so that I can make the necessary edits.  Disliking it or adoring it only means something to the author if there are particular reasons.  Maybe the characters were boring and predictable, or maybe they were richly developed and made the reader feel empathetic toward their challenges.  Maybe the plot's pace was excellent, or maybe there was too much description for it to even take place.  Furthermore, sometimes, you're not supposed to like a piece of writing.  Sometimes a writer intends to provoke a negative emotional response to make a point.  Some of the most powerful literature has some of the most grotesque elements that make us shudder, but ultimately make such powerful statements about humanity.  Therefore, we need to be told why our work is good or bad, and why it makes you accept or reject it.

In sum, writers fear rejection but also need constructive criticism.  We need to be told precisely what needs to be fixed, because after staring at the paper or the screen for hundreds of hours, sometimes even the worst of drafts can take on the illusion of a masterpiece.  We become biased toward our own work, whether or not we admit it, and sometimes need someone to direct our attention to fatal flaws that would otherwise go unnoticed.

Writers fear sharing their first drafts.  You could also say writers hate discussing their current work -- particularly, the novel-in-progress.  To some degree, the unfinished draft feels infinitely fragile to its creator.  Sharing it before it has fully developed could result in its destruction.  Furthermore, the unfinished product could misrepresent the grand vision.  If we let someone in on the story before it's complete, it could be missing integral elements of the finished state that could influence the reader's opinion.  We fear the work-in-progress becoming not worth the effort to finish.

Tara always wants to look over my shoulder when I'm writing.  And while I'm always eager for her to read what I'm working on, there's also the overpowering urge to slam my laptop shut -- lest she see the red underlines or read something that might later be changed.  "Wait until I'm done," is my constant plea -- a request she more or less reluctantly heeds.

Of course, I'm an odd combination -- equal parts editor and writer.  That means that, for as many pages I move forward, I move backward by twice as much.  I want the perfect words and the perfect draft, a tendency that is as much a hindrance to progress as it is a boon.  Typically, writers don't care about cleaning up their manuscripts and are content to leave grammatical cleanup to their editors -- as was Oscar Wilde, who famously attached the following note to a manuscript sent to his publisher: "I'll leave you to tidy up the woulds and shoulds, wills and shalls, thats and whiches."  In other words, the importance of correct grammar is typically of less importance to writers than the declaration of their original thought.  And frankly, when someone has been writing for some time, they generally possess a solid enough grasp of the language that their typical errors are merely typographical.

In sum, don't ask a writer about a work-in-progress -- that is, unless he or she is that weird sort of writer who wants to converse about his or her novel while writing it (frankly, I do not understand that mindset).  For most of us, it's best to wait until the draft is ready to be read to ask about it.  At that point, we're [*cough*narcissistically*cough*] thrilled to discuss it.

So why do we do it?

If all of this is true, why subject ones' self to self-generated torture?  Why get on the bull if it's only an 8-second ride before the fall?

The simple answer?  We enjoy it.  It's as challenging as it is rewarding.  Writing is what I would consider my greatest strength, so it's what I enjoy doing the most.  There are few things so satisfying to me as working on a manuscript or an article.  Conversely, there are few things nearly as frustrating as struggling through writer's block or rejection.  The writing experience is as cathartic as it is invigorating.  It shouldn't be easy: it's a labor and a struggle, but it's also a passion.

The more complex answer is that we do it because there's a story to tell.  The imagination or some set of circumstances prompted the idea, and now it must be written.  There's simply a need.  Maybe it has dragons, and maybe it doesn't.  Regardless, it's a story.  It's the very nuts and bolts of humanity.

At heart, I believe we're all storytellers, whether we write them on paper or sing them into a microphone or punch them into a time card.  The story of grace is written on all our hearts, and so our very beings are comprised of conflict, character development, and resolution.

All our stories are worth telling.

That's why we do it.

~*~

A Dramatic Monologue

I type:

They say writer’s block exists only in the mind, but it can certainly paralyze the fingers. 

And then I slouch, twisting my lips pensively. And where to go from here? 

Groundbreaking is the hardest part of writing. Cracking open a fresh idea is like breaking open a coconut or a watermelon and trying not to make a mess everywhere. And if what you’ve broken on the side of the mixing bowl is a half–baked idea, all you’re going to get is partially developed bird embryo in your omelet. 

I make a face. What a disgusting mixed metaphor. And for that matter, what a terrible pun! 

The cursor blinks and winks in the absence of my typing, taunting me from behind the laptop screen. 

And then it says: [If you can’t think what to write next, then it’s my turn to do the talking.] 

For a moment, I fail to react. Frowning, I glance at the coffee mug a handbreadth away from the computer and my gigantic stack of homework, wondering if I made it too strong or not strong enough. The Christmas goose on the white ceramic stares back blankly, offering no explanations. 

I look back at the screen, watching the cursor suspiciously. “But I don’t want you to do the talking,” I say slowly, suddenly thankful that my family isn’t anywhere in the nearby vicinity to hear me exhibiting signs of certain schizophrenia. “I want to do the talking.” 

Several silent blinks. [But you’re not saying anything at the moment.] 

“I have a great opening line,” I insist under my breath, reaching for the goose mug. I am stalling, trying to think and simultaneously wishing I didn’t suffer from the habit of talking to myself. Non–fiction writing assignments are not my forte. I like to invent stories about other people, not recount ones of my own. 

[But where are you going with it?] the cursor asks inquisitively, blinking its black–pixel spine against the last period. 

I don’t really know, I think in response, but am unwilling to admit that aloud. Somehow, the demon antagonist within my computer must already know this. Or maybe I’m just being paranoid. 

[Why don’t you take a break?] 

I pause with the mug at my lips, narrowing my eyes at the screen. The cursor winks back, innocently. The kitchen is silent, broken only by the out–of–tune hum of the refrigerator, and lit with afternoon sun. With the house to myself, I am keeping myself focused by willpower alone. 

From my bedroom, my guitar is calling in a sultry, spoiled–only–child wail. In the living room, the old PlayStation and its gang of mismatched controllers and antiquated games are loitering coolly, saying nothing, but I can sense their great displeasure at being ignored. Outside, the Camaro basks in the sun, snoozing shallowly, dreaming of a good bath and my hands under her hood, working out all the knots of tension in her coolant system. The bookshelf above my bed is home to volumes of Lovecraft and Poe, Dickens and Conrad, T. S. Eliot, Fitzgerald, Anderson, Murakami and many more. The soft rustle of stimulating, intellectual conversation is audible all the way out in the kitchen as the breeze from my open window teases countless pages. 

I set the mug back on the tabletop without taking a sip, shaking my head to clear it. “You fight dirty,” I say, but I am impressed and concurrently worried that I am losing my mind. 

[You do what you have to,] the cursor replies dismissively, and I imagine that if it had possessed shoulders, it would have shrugged. [I’m just trying to help.] 

“Help?” I repeat incredulously. “Helping me would be giving me ideas of what to write about.” 

[But that would be too easy,] the cursor responds matter–of–factly, almost smugly. [You’re the one who always says he doesn’t want the easy answers.] 

I laugh, possibly out of disbelief, sinking back on the bench to put my back against the wall. “You’ve got me all figured out, huh? Me and my independent Byronic mindset.” 

The cursor blinks pensively. [Looks like you’ve got a conundrum on your hands.] 

“No,” I retort, putting my head against the sheetrock and looking up at the ceiling. “This is just what I get for not writing this by hand. 100% recycled Meade margins wouldn’t talk to me…” 

[You say that like it’s a good thing,] the cursor replies, sounding offended. I imagine it pouting. [You’re the one who procrastinated on this assignment until now. I’m the one just trying to help.] 

“By distracting me?” I retort. 

This time, there is no response. I have not touched the keys in too long and the Mac's default screensaver has drawn the intermission curtain over my piece – early, of course. The second act is destined to be even dryer and longer than the first. 

Understudy! I cry desperately, then push back the bench and stand with a sigh. My coffee has grown cold anyway. I can’t write without steaming black Folgers, my thought catalyst. 

I dump the coffee back into the pot, add fresh grounds to make more, and then hoist myself up to sit on the counter and think. All I need is a good topic. Something in my past or a current experience to use in a creative, non–fiction essay. Something amusing, sad, enlightening – whatever. Anything. I have three days left to come up with something worthwhile. Of course I’ve been procrastinating – guilty as charged. But I’m a pressure writer: I work well in the last minute. 

My gaze drops onto the stack of books patiently awaiting my attention, and the sight elicits a moan of helplessness from my lips. The essay on English Grammar (which, logically, could be about anything so long as it utilizes proper grammar – right?) is due next Friday. The next paper for The Modern Short Story waits to even be started. Finals are just a few short weeks away. 

I think about saying something comically melodramatic – something like, “I’m doomed” or “The horror!” or “But man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward!” – but heave myself to my feet instead, crossing the vacant kitchen and seating myself before the computer once more. No one is here to groan at my terrible humor anyway.

“First things first,” I say aloud, and stroke the touchpad. The Arabesque curtain immediately retreats, and there is my last sentence waiting for me. It is awkward and stunted, but it is a complete thought. And there, batting itself flirtatiously, is the cursor. 

[Back so soon?] it asks, perhaps genuinely surprised. [It’s beautiful outside, you know?] 

“Just get the first draft finished,” I tell myself, ignoring the comment. “That’s what Professor Brown would say.” 

Revision is just a stall. I need to stop stalling and just finish my thoughts. Then – and only then – can I once more don the guise of the Mad Proofreader, the persona of myself who enjoys marking up his classmates’ and his own short stories with comments, edits, and suggestions so much that it has become a cathartic high. But revision is a completely divorced mindset from the writing process, a separate idea entirely. It is the child of the story, the one who cares for its parent in its old age, making the final decisions on healthcare and managing finances because the parent no longer can do those things for itself. 

This is what I’ve learned in class today. 

I begin to type. 

[Good,] the cursor says, like it is the technological incarnation of Obi Wan Kenobi, come to remind me to use the Force in my writing. [You’re telling our story.] 

“My story,” I growl. 

In all, finishing my thought takes me less than an hour. Writing involves merely the sequential pounding of keys, the squinting of the eyes, and a tunnel–vision concentration of the mind. Of course it always sounds better in the writers’ mind – that’s why he must revise and revise and revise. But before that can happen, an idea must be completed. Otherwise, it becomes something that it was not meant to be, a separate thought entirely. 

I stop typing and pop my knuckles to ease the cramping sensation that has come over them. For a moment, I stare at the final line I have transcribed. And then, I scroll slowly back to the beginning of the document, reading what I’ve written with a critical eye. 

The cursor is finally silent, blinking approvingly, flanking my last sentence like an emotionless guard at Buckingham. 

I laugh aloud, shake my head, and lean back on the bench, putting my back against the wall once more. Either this is a really creative, thoughtful idea I’ve developed, or it is something else entirely – maybe a vain cry for attention, maybe just written evidence of my insanity. My autobiography in 1500 words or less. 

Still smiling, I lean forward once more and type these words:

They say writer’s block exists only in the mind, but it can certainly paralyze the fingers. 

Forcing them to move anyway produces something like this.

END

Quickening

Another piece from my forthcoming short story collection.  Shameless plug: more of my fiction is online at Fictionpress.

~*~

Quickening

Rain patters softly on the windshield, sparkling in the waning sunlight.  The silver Aerostar, our problem–prone minivan, hums resolutely.  Dusk has come, and Mom turns on the headlights.

“Mommy, is God crying?” my brother inquires.  He is his usual journalistic self despite on–setting sleepiness.  He twirls the tuft of hair that sprouts like crabgrass from the top of his skull.

In the rearview mirror, I see Mom's smiling eyes looking back at us.  Perhaps she is preparing a “mom answer”.  But twin yellow orbs are coming the other way, drifting, pointing, hunting –

The world shatters with a bam, a gunshot, a single staccato note of catastrophe.  I am thrown into my brother as the wall of the van rushes in at me.  We are all screaming, but I no longer hear anything.  The world dips sharply downhill before us, seconds before the heavy crunch of metal announces the rude introduction of our hood to the telephone pole.  There is no accenting crash of glass, no explosive puff of airbags, no grand finale.  Just a final, heavy hiss as our faithful yet temperamental mule heaves its last breath.

Numbly, I remove the safety belt as Mom wrenches open the sliding door, utilizing the strength leant her by necessity.  She could have lifted the entire van at that moment.  Together, we free my brother from the confines of his carseat and stumble up the grassy embankment to the road.  Our would–be–assassin has come to a halt on our side of the yellow lines, some hundred or more feet away.  The hood has been flattened considerably.

My brother is crying in Mom's arms, but I am not, and neither is Mom.  She gathers us close, asking again and again if we are okay.  Somehow, I think we are both too scared to cry, too shaken to feel much of anything.  But suddenly, God is really crying, weeping.  Huge tears splatter in our hair, hiss against the asphalt.

I look up at the clouds weighing heavily on the sky.  A low moan of thunder evidences divine grief.  We are alive and a passerby has stopped to call 911.

Why, God? I wonder.  Why are you so sad today?

The door of our nemesis swings open abruptly, drawing my attention.  I imagine a big man – mean, ugly,  covered in hellish tattoos.

One leg emerges, then two: thin and hairless, with the complexion of old fruit.  The rest of the young woman follows, curled protectively around her swollen belly.  She stands hesitantly, struggles to balance on those fleshy stilts.  A moment later, she collapses, clutching her bulging stomach with one hand and stabilizing herself with the other, vomiting pitifully on the blacktop.

Mom is shoving my brother into my arms and running to help, as is the stranger on the cell phone.  There is an urgency in their motion that startles me.  I hold my wailing brother tightly, swaying in that place of limbo, that fear which exists indeterminately between understanding and knowing.

END

The Other Half

The following is a short story from the collection I'm attempting to publish.  More longer works are also online at Fictionpress.

~*~

The Other Half

One last glance at the clock before I descended the steps to the cold street had told me all I needed to know about how tired I’d be in the morning.  Sleep had become something of a luxury over the past few months, not as a direct result of late closing times, but as a concurrent circumstance which only aided and abetted my restlessness.  I spent many late nights on the narrow balcony outside our 3rd floor apartment, besieged by the anxiety demons which I suppose prey upon all small business owners.

Traffic on 9th Street ran one way, north and south, and was only just wide enough that it couldn't be classified as an alley.  Yet contrasted with the streets which ran perpendicular, and judging by the quality of the refuse left to blacken the broken sidewalks, it was certainly less than a major highway.  The view may have had something to do with the cheap rent, because a dirty street and a shabby, antiquated loft can't be considered prime real estate.

However, regardless of the unseemly appearance, I'd seen some type of potential in the old warehouse – enough, at any rate, to move in and renovate.  The bar had been up and running for six or seven months now, and its clientele had begun to increase both in terms of spectrum and frequency.  I was pleased with the investment, regardless of the fact that I wasn't close to breaking even and wouldn’t be for some time.  A tremendous amount of personal stake had gone into the construction of the bar too.  I wasn’t looking for a miracle, obviously – I’m no dreamer – but I’d signed on the dotted line with the intention of seeing something more than financial profit come from the decision.

The chill hit me before I'd even opened the door to the outside.  December was just a day away, marching steadily and promising to take no prisoners.  Shivering, I stepped outside and locked the door behind me, before turning to face the westernmost wall of the department store across the street.

The couple which met me there, before I'd even had the chance to take two steps, were immediately identifiable.  They seemed buoyed by the cold, riding it like a carnival attraction.  Both were young and idealistic, colorful, concerned more with the perfect gifts they would soon purchase for their loved ones than the ambush of bills which would soon follow.  He had his arm around her, probably using the cold as an excuse to keep her close.  The fog streaming from their lips was intrinsic to their laughter, locomotive puffs carrying their joy and vanishing into the night.

They came to stand before me in the salted street, looking up expectantly.  “Is the bar closed?” the boy asked.

I showed him the keys.

His expression crumpled slightly, but he didn't seem perturbed.  “Oh.  Okay.  I was hoping we could get a quick drink.”  He gave the girl a quick squeeze, which drew the twinkle out in her eyes.  “A friend of mine recommended you.  I guess we'll try somewhere else.”

I opened my mouth to suggest a place, but then hesitated.  It had been a slow night – a Tuesday – so I'd put up the glasses and swept 20 minutes earlier than usual, but it was already half–past ten.  I thought of Sam, probably sitting on the ratty couch with her knees curled up to her chest, wearing the only blanket we owned like a shawl.  She was probably waiting up for me so we could resume the halfhearted argument we'd begun that morning.

Offering a short sigh, I turned back to the door and inserted the key once more into the lock.

“Oh no – you don't have to,” the boy protested.

Frustration crinkled the corners of my generosity.  “Get inside before I change my mind,” I returned.

I took them up the narrow staircase to the penthouse.  The black and white tile floor gleamed mutely beneath the dim fluorescents, and the recent application of Pine Sol left a faint citrus twinge in the back of my throat.  The half–circle of square tables skirted the edge of the tile before the carpet began, the residence of the trio of pool tables.

I preceded them around the bar, and met them face–to–face as they seated themselves on the stools.  “What'll it be?” I asked, unbuttoning my heavy coat, but not removing it.

“Something simple,” she said immediately.

The boy said, “Scotch, one ice cube, and a Jack and Coke.”

I turned to the shelf behind the counter, reaching for the bottles.

“We really appreciate this,” the girl said, desperate to reconcile their advance with my obvious displeasure.  “We're sorry to be inconvenient.”

I shrugged.  “It's no trouble.”

“We don't normally take advantage like this,” she continued breathlessly, unbuttoning her heavy coat to reveal the emerald green dress she was wearing.  “We wanted to celebrate.  We just got engaged tonight.”

A strange desire to laugh burbled up in my throat, but I swallowed it forcefully.  Setting their glasses on the mica, I said, “Congratulations.”

“It's been an eventful night,” the boy admitted with disbelief, taking the Scotch for himself.

I pressed my palms against the bartop, resting all my weight there.  “When's the wedding?”

“Six months,” he replied proudly.  “Going to call and book a church tomorrow.”

“Congratulations,” I said again, for good measure.

“Are you married?” the girl asked, taking up the torch of conversation.  The dress, I noticed, was more of a spring gown than one intended for late autumn.  It was cut low, but tastefully, and hung off her shoulders in slitted, wispy sleeves.

I did laugh this time, wryly, pressing more heavily upon the countertop.  “No.”

“Haven't found the right girl yet?” she persisted, either ignoring or missing the disgust that was surely bleeding onto my face.  Sam always said I could never hide my feelings, even if I never wanted to talk about them.  I didn't so much wear them on my sleeve as my breast pocket.

I cleared my throat.  “Let's just say she hasn't found me.”

The girl blushed suddenly.  “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry.”  She sipped apologetically at the drink.

“We're just excited,” the boy offered, putting his arm around his fiancé again.

“I understand,” I said.  Excitement dilutes the thinking process after all.  “That'll be eight-fifty.”

He pulled a ten out of his wallet and told me to keep the change.  Then, we were silent – two lovers and a barkeep, sharing the awkward patronage of strangerhood.  I wondered if this was how the pastor would feel during the first session of their premarital counseling, trying to identify the finer details of their relationship before consecrating the holy union.

“What do you think of us?” the girl asked abruptly.  The smile on her face was intoxicating, and I could see easily what had driven her fellow to take out the loan for the respectable diamond on her left hand.  She was certainly pretty and had an undeniable figure, but more importantly, she was alive.  “You probably think we’re crazy.  And too young.”

“Do you think we're ready for marriage?” the boy asked, surprisingly inquisitive – surprisingly open.  Sometimes intimacy breeds quickly.  Or maybe the Scotch was doing the talking.

I blanched momentarily, then asked, “Is anyone?”

The girl laughed.  “I suppose not.  But what about us?  What do we need to do this?”

“Like I'm the one to ask,” I said, partly defensive, partly amused.  “I don't even know you.”

“Does anyone?” the boy countered, raising an eyebrow.

“Everyone has pearls of wisdom to offer,” the girl said, then took another sip.

I regarded her face closely, the narrow cheekbones dusted with freckles, framed by light red hair which fell to her shoulders, and the green, piercing eyes, full of laughter.  The boy's arms were folded on the bartop, with her right hand tucked beneath his left.  There was something unusual about their positioning.  Typically, one can sense the relational possession on one party's part – either the woman pulls the chain or the man bullies the girl.  But these two sat easily, comfortably, together.  There was no fear in their stance.  There was no worry about the quality of their relationship, no fear of losing the other.  There was… no pain.

My palms were beginning to lose feeling.  I straightened, almost reluctantly.  “I think it's never what you expect,” I said finally.  “Everyone's always disappointed, because they never get what they thought.”

They were quiet, pondering my words.  The girl's face had lost none of its eager innocence, though her eyes had narrowed slightly.  The boy too was unperturbed.  His eternal demeanor seemed to be an unshakeable serenity.

He sipped his Scotch, then set it back on the mica.  “So the issue then is not so much with the institution but the mentality.”

I smiled thinly.  “Sure.  Bad people make bad decisions which ruin good things.”

“Too bad there are no good people,” he returned.  “We can only do our best, right?”

It sounded religious, but not judgmental.  I had him pegged as one who carried tracts in his pocket, another traveling philosopher with a disciple in tow.  Despite my reservations, something in me was genuinely piqued at their openness.  Sure, I conversed with my customers, but not like this.   People like to feel good about themselves, so they ask leading questions to get the answers they want, molding a facade of intimacy with which I was much more familiar.  Heartache, anger, self–loathing – those were more my forte.  Not this genuine self–evaluation.

“Why do you want to get married?” I asked hesitantly.  “What is it about each other that makes you want to be together?”

Their eyes met.  For a moment, I could see the nonverbal communication between the pair, not so much secretive as sacred.  They had their very own language, something no one else could truly understand – not without some Rosetta Stone of relationships to translate.

“There's a laundry list of reasons.”  He swirled the contents of his glass, clinking the ice gently, thoughtfully.  “Character traits, tastes...”  As he studied his fiancé’s face, the smile in his eyes carried significantly more weight than the slight curve of his lips.  “There are a hundred things about her that I love.  But it's not really about that, you know?  People talk about compatibility and opposites attracting and feelings, but those things are only the siding on the house, not the foundation.”

She was watching him in respectful silence, allowing him the time to think.  I thought about interjecting, but held my tongue.  Somehow, anything I might have added felt detrimental.  

“I want to marry her because I want to marry her,” he said abruptly, after a moment of silence, and punctuated the statement with a decisive laugh.  “Love might be expressed in action, but the action has a source.  And that's desire.”

“Then, of course, it comes back to what you define as love,” I returned.

The boy smiled.  “Is there more than one definition?  Really?”

“Unless you believe in absolute truth, yeah, there is.”  Irritation tightened the corners of my eyes.  So he was a tract–toter.

“I do,” he said, confirming the suspicion.  “But I think even if you don't, your variant definition of love is just another expression of the same core principles – just skewed in favor of what you think is most important.  Emotion's the big one.  Feelings.  People place lots of emphasis on how a person makes them feel and call it love.  But they miss everything else.”

“Or do they just emphasize feeling over commitment?”  I’d begun leaning on the counter again without even realizing it.  “Real people don't typically think of love without a backbone.  They just think the feeling should come before that.  Commitment without desire is just emptiness.”

Neither of them said anything, but I wasn’t looking at them.

“Generalizing isn’t fair.  Sure, everyone’s selfish, but people do try to give up themselves for the ones they love.”  I licked my lips, trying to ignore the black hole that was expanding in my guts, a vast singularity filling me with emptiness.  “And sometimes…  Sometimes things happen.  Things that eat away at your resolve.”

The statement hung in the air, lurking in the shadows of the bar, expanding with uncertainty.  I looked down at my hands, knuckles whitening beneath the pressure, so feeble against the stationary bartop.  

After a long moment, the boy nodded slowly.  “You’re absolutely right,” he said softly, twisting his lips pensively.  “It’s the most challenging battle you’ll ever fight.”  He studied the whiskey at the bottom of the glass, then looked up at me again, smiling warmly.  “But I believe it’s also the most rewarding.”

I watched him upend the tumbler and swallow.  The lazy bob of his Adam's apple evidenced the slow burn of the alcohol down his throat as he let it slide into his belly.  His dark eyes remained fixated on the ceiling, where the steel girders were draped with shadows and secrets.  The girl was still holding his hand, nursing her drink with the other.  Both lovers were lost in thought now, though it seemed less a challenged sort of reflection than an intrigued curiosity.

“Talk is cheap, though,” the boy said finally, breaching the silence.  “None of this means anything without action to prove it.”

“You're young,” I told him.  “You have plenty of time to grow together.”

And, I thought, because the pessimist within me couldn't let the remark go without a passing shot, plenty of time to grow apart.

“It's all about the experience,” the boy said, smiling as he agreed.  He squeezed the girl's hand visibly.  “Mistakes, success, failures – it's all growth.”

I nodded slowly, sifting through the dregs in my mind.  His words were churning therein, slowly unearthing something which had taken years to bury.  Surprisingly, it wasn't nearly as painful as I'd always feared it would be – more like the revitalizing pins and needles piercing a numb limb than a punch to the gut.  In fact, it seemed to arouse some semblance of longing in my guts, a sleepy passion which I'd not felt in nearly three years.

The boy was lost in thought once more, brow furrowed as he contemplated the bartop.  Absently, he stroked the girl's hand with the fingertips of one hand, and turned his glass slowly on the mica with the other, leaving an unbroken ring of condensation beneath.

It made me sad to think that it could have been me.  In fact, it should have been me, if only I’d been able to carry on the same rhythmic motions, the same patient labor.  It seems the universal curse of humankind is that the thing we want is only what we want until it’s ours.  That and our despicable American sense of entitlement.  The fruit of discontentment can only be dissatisfaction, anger, hatred.  The progression is inevitable, unforeseeable.  You never expect the worm to eat so completely through your heart, like the melting core of a rotten apple.

The girl had finished her drink.  “I hope she finds you,” she said, sliding the empty tumbler across the bartop toward me.

My hands were beginning to tremble beneath the weight I was putting on them.  I said nothing to acknowledge the remark and instead took the glass, turning to the sink so that my back was to her – so that she couldn’t see the remembrance burning in my eyes.

“Thanks again for waiting on us,” the boy said, behind me.  Over the running water, I heard him get to his feet.  “And for listening.”

Listening.  Something I’d never been good at doing before.

As I turned back to face them, he was helping the girl back into her coat, blanketing her grace against the cold.  The tenderness in his actions was familiar, like the shadow of a person I’d once known, a familiar face in a crowd of thousands.  She laughed as her thumb caught inside her sleeve and leaned back against him to pull it free, knowing he’d be there to hold her up, a pillar comprised of sterner stuff than marble or concrete.

With my throat tightening like a valve, I showed them to the door and we descended the narrow staircase in single–file.  The temperature dropped with each step, but the laughter behind me remained warm and constant.  Outside, the wind was howling through the empty street, creating a wind tunnel between the warehouse and the department store.  The city was fully illuminated, but fully vacant.

I locked the door again behind our exit, waving away their thanks.  “It’s nothing.”

The boy extended his hand, and I took it after a moment of hesitation.  “Well, we appreciate it.  It means a lot to us.”

“Thanks again,” the girl said, smiling brilliantly.  As she took my hand, her eyes were searching mine, perhaps looking for that tiny corner her earlier words had begun to peel away.

Something inside me scurried away from that light, squealing in terror.  I withdrew my hand and took a step back, inclining my head.  “Good luck to you both.”

They smiled, thanked me one more time, and turned to go.  The wind stole the sounds of their footfalls on the concrete and carried them along like they weren’t really there.  Isolated, with nothing tying them to this dirty place, they were apparitions taking steps in a world to which they did not belong.

Swallowing hard, I turned away and headed in the opposite direction toward home.

As I shivered in the wind, I couldn't help but choke on the memories, like bones splintering in my throat.  Somewhere, somehow, Sam and I had missed each other.  We were together, but alone.  Close, but separated by miles and more.

Not like those two.

Something about them had captured the loose threads of my confidence, my sense of control, and was deliberately fraying my resolution.  It had nothing to do with the boy's philosophy, nor with his uncommon ability to rationalize and compartmentalize the more elusive definitions of life.  Regardless of his eloquence, he hadn't said anything I hadn't heard before in some form – nothing groundbreaking or terribly convicting.  Knowing and understanding something is only half the battle.  It's preparatory.

But the other half...

Unconsciously, I reached into my pocket, deep into the farthest, darkest part, and wrapped my hand around the ringbox.  The velvet covering, worn thin and peeling at the corners, seemed to catch each ridge of my fingerprints and stick in the infinitely small valleys between.  Despite the quality of the diamond inside, it seemed somehow inadequate – a mere token cheapened by doubt and neglect.

Violently, I scuffed my heel on a patch of ice.  The void in my belly was still growing, consuming all the excuses and all the lies I’d told myself, shredding the barricades I’d erected against being hurt again – walls I’d once thought impregnable.  Romantic pangs were something I could tolerate.  My selfishness had to nettle Sam as badly as hers cut me, but those were forgivable faults, mere scabs compared to the open wound we both still bore.  That pain was still fresh, even two years later, keeping us both awake at night.  We sensed the fragility of our existence, were afraid to breathe too deeply or speak too loudly, lest something else break as a result.

It felt a lot like the loss of innocence, and maybe that was what had happened.  Something had been taken away from Sam and me, something so precious and pure that we couldn’t help but feel grimy and used, like refuse left on the curb.  We couldn’t hold onto anything anymore – not love, not friendship, not even the company of one another.  The bar was the only stable thing left in my life, and even I knew that I was using it like a crutch, just to regain my footing.  Maybe, eventually, I would reach the point where I was strong enough to stand on my own again.

Suddenly, I was furious with the two lovers, enraged by their naivety.  How dare they parade their love so confidently, like it was something rare and unusual?  They had no clue what lurked beyond the rosy glow of the marriage bed, past the deceptively quaint doorway into the horrors of middle age and beyond.  It was an unforeseeable war zone.  Lovers’ quarrels were nothing – cake, compared to everything else they would face.  Loyalty to one another would falter and eventually collapse entirely as the relentless force of the human existence dumped its full payload of sorrow upon them, the way it had done to me and Sammie.

The tears obscuring my vision were in no way caused by the frigid gusts scouring my face.  In fact, the wind was a blessing.  If I’d believed in prayer, I would have called out to the heavens for the gale to intensify, to peel away the flesh and release the swarm within me.  It would have been such a relief to release all the unkempt fury without having to speak a word and walk away, unburdened by the banal and the macabre, untaxed and finally able to heal.

The wind stopped.  A laugh escaped my lips and I dashed the moisture from my eyes with a sleeve.

Ten minutes later, I’d entered the apartment building and taken the elevator to the 3rd floor.  The long corridor was dim and blessedly empty as I trudged down the east hall to number eighteen and let myself inside.

Everything was as I’d left it, but nothing was the same.  Numbly, I passed through the dark kitchen, looking for Sam.  It was cold inside, as though the heat hadn’t run all day.  In fact, as I passed the narrow window in the short hallway which led to the bedroom, I could see the faint vapor of my breath, a ghostly apparition that didn’t belong.

The floorboards creaked as I approached the bedroom.  The door was partially ajar, but all was blackness in the space between, absent of the usual blue flicker of television.  Usually Sam stayed up late waiting for me, watching reruns of Happy Days or whatever other oldies were being played, but I knew she’d been getting just as little sleep as I’d been recently.  It would be good for her to finally get some rest.

The door groaned as I opened it, and faint gray light filtered onto the floor.  Like the kitchen, the bedroom smelled of neglect.  The bed was unmade, and there was no sign of Sam anywhere.  One of her pink slippers was in the middle of the floor, and her bathrobe hung dejectedly from the desk chair.

Somehow, I wasn’t concerned by her absence.  I sank onto the bed, staring blankly at the wall painted in indecisive shadows.  I could make out the shape of the skeletal tree which aged outside the balcony, casting its swaying silhouette on the wall in front of me.  I watched the shadows of its naked branches move, heard the wind blister the face of the city outside, and as I sat, pieces of the old arguments floated in my mind, fragmented strings of angry dialogue like ill–formed pearls scattering on linoleum.

The bar was an investment.  I’m doing it for you.

How does that benefit us?

We need the money.  And we both need time.

When can we try again?  It’s been almost two years.

What do you want from me, Sam?

My hand was still gripping the ringbox like a stress ball, further grinding the weary velvet soiled with pocket lint and regret.  It was part of another life, it seemed – a past existence which had been so much simpler, so much happier, so much fuller.  Now, I wondered if it had really ever been there at all.

How far we’d fallen.

The bedroom door groaned again, and I heard Sam’s footsteps on the thin carpet.  I could smell her almost immediately, the mixture of her perfume and the ash of late autumn.

Everything inside me wanted to rise, go to her, collapse into her chest and cry out my regrets like a little boy.  I longed to be close to her the way we’d once been, carefree and intimate in more ways than purely physical.  But I couldn’t move.  I couldn’t tear my eyes from the mournful puppet show cast in black and white on the bedroom wall.

I felt her sit down on the bed, an arm’s length removed from me, causing the mattress to sigh in penitence.  I heard her breathing, a plaintive sound that seemed to echo the gale outside the bedroom window.  We were still joined by something, threads of a substance with incredible elasticity, keeping us connected and yet so far away.  It made me think of the Twilight Zone, like we were people living in alternate dimensions, in the same house, at the same time, but unable to interact, unable to see each other or feel anything.

Finally, I looked over at her.

In the darkness, her eyes were glassy, dry, and opaque.  I honestly wondered if she had any tears left to cry, because she’d spent so many in the last year–and–a–half alone.  Her hair was windswept, her face a splotchy crimson, evidencing a recent trek through the streets.  She was wearing a blue dress, a nice dress, and I vaguely recognized it as the one she’d worn to the Montaine Grille on the night of our 1st anniversary – a month or two before we’d moved in together.

The candlelit room had been warm and intimate, unforgettable.  There had been Chardonnay and Shiraz, gentle conversation and murmured promises.  I’d rented an entire dining room for the evening and we’d cuddled in a booth, feeding each other olives and cheese hors d'oeuvres, sharing laughter and memories in private while we waited for the entrées.

I should have given her the ring that night, like I’d intended.  I should have gotten down on one knee and promised her my life the way I’d practiced in my head.  But something had kept me from doing so – that same something that would return again and again, at every opportunity thereafter, each time with increasing fervor and dissuading evidence.

And then... two years ago...

My heart clenched.

I released the ring in my pocket and extended my hand to her invitingly.

She studied my face carefully, as if searching for false intent.  Finally, she slid over to me, allowing me to put my arm around her shoulders.  Before I even made contact with her skin, I felt the chill emanating from her body and knew she’d been outside for hours.  Choking on the swell rising in my throat, I gently pressed her to me, resting my cheek on the crown of her head.  At first she resisted, perhaps due in part to the stiffness in her bones, but slowly she melted into my embrace.

And so we sat in silence – me in my heavy coat, her in her thin dress.  Shielded and naked, that was us.  Despite the fact that I’d ambiguously told the girl in the bar that it was Sam’s fault we’d never tied the knot, I knew it was just as much mine – just as much my guarded temper as her fluid transparence.  We’d started down the destructive path of see–saw living long before the cataclysmic event which had damaged the both of us so permanently.

Sam said something, but her voice was so quiet I lost the words.  Outside, the wind howled, causing the shadows to move on the wall, crawling like fragmented serpents.

I used a finger to tip her face upward, toward mine.  She looked into my eyes bleakly, and finally repeated what she’d said.  “I went out looking for you.”

Apologies immediately came to my lips, trampled by explanations, excuses, frustrations.  With effort, I corralled them all.  “Why, Sammie?  You know I come home late sometimes.  Didn’t you wear a coat?”

She was looking into my eyes still, past them.  “I thought I could find you.  I thought I could bring you home.”

I studied her frozen gaze, the shellacked irises and tiny capillaries like delicate tributaries extending from the ocean of her heart.  At that moment, as I sank into those miniature currents, the girl’s words from our conversation in the bar came back to me.  Her parting wish had been so much more than sympathetic encouragement.  It had been a prayer.  Sammie hadn’t just gone looking for me.  She had found me.  She’d crossed time zones and generations, realms and epochs, reached the very edge of the cliff and taken that final bold step into the unknown.

Who were these prophets that had visited me, a man of unclean lips?  What angels had I entertained unaware?

“I’m home, Sammie,” I gasped.  And then I was sobbing, and doing all I could to breathe.  “I’m home.”

There was something in her eyes, something I could barely see past my tears.  It was just a glimmer, just a flicker, but it only takes the smallest of sparks to start a fire.  The warmth would take a while to grow, but I could already feel it spreading as Sammie took my hand.  Gently, she pulled it to her belly, to that hollow space beneath her heart which had been so violently stripped of its treasure.

“I’m ready,” she whispered, locking our fingers together tightly over her womb.  The tears were rising in her eyes, riverbanks overflowing at the conclusion of the cold season and the hopes of the renaissance of spring.  “It’s time to move on.  We have to start again.”

“We never move on,” I corrected immediately, firmly.  It felt good to shrug off the ice and feel something again.  Pain is always connected with joy.  Sorrow is intrinsic to hope.  It felt good.  “Loved ones never truly leave, Sammie.  He’s still with us.”

Sam nodded and closed her eyes.  “This is addition.”  As the tears flooded down her cheeks, she squeezed my hand with all the strength left in her fingers.  “Please, we have to start again.”

I removed my arm from her shoulders and thrusting my hand back into my coat pocket.  “But first things first.”

On the wall, behind me now as I knelt, the shadows grew still.

They rejoiced.

END