beautiful monsters

aspire right

I’ve been reading Jennifer Weiner’s advise for aspiring writers;

“The big joke in the publishing community is that smart editors shouldn't waste their time at lunches or conferences, but should instead proceed directly to the local elementary schools. There, they will carefully note the boys picked last in gym class, the girls sitting alone in the cafeteria - all of the outcasts, misfits, geeks, dweebs and weirdos - and give them some kind of small identifying tag (much like wildlife services will tag animals to follow their progress through the years). Twenty years later, the editors should track down the kids they've tagged, now hopefully grown to more successful adulthood, and say, ‘Okay, where's the book?’”

Right now my writing aspirations revolve around finishing the homework before my workshop on Friday. We have to write a vignette about a teenager who is searching for something, and they come into contact with an adult. We have to use a combination of narrative and dialogue, conveying sense of the teenagers reaction to the adult, etc, thinking about point of view, tense, tone, cadence, language, bah blah, physical surroundings, ambience…

Here’s my first draft, really not sure what to do with it. Any suggestions and comments appreciated.

Daz

At night the stained glass windows come alive from inside. In the carpark Daz looked up at the dark skeleton of the church, light bursting from between the ribs, colour spilling over into the darkness where he stood. Daz felt a faint shiver ripple through hid body, though the night was not cold. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, and shuffled through the door.

Inside it was warm. Not just the temperature, but the tone, the quality of the light. There were electric lamps around the edges of the room, but in the space at the front of the church there was a huge candelabrum, like a tree bearing fruit of wax and flame. There were about twenty people gathered in a rough circle, and someone was softly strumming a guitar. Daz hesitated in the shadows near the entrance. He wasn’t sure any more, that he belonged, that he wanted to be here. Then he noticed her, she was kneeling with her back to him but her long black curls were unmistakable. Lola.

“Damien.” It was Mr Richardson. “I’m glad you could make it. Come on in, we don’t bite. Much.” Daz grinned back, uncertainly, and followed Mr Richardson down the aisle.

The first hour passed Daz in a blur. He sat between Mr Richardson, and a varsity student who introduced herself as Tracy. Whenever everyone bowed their heads to pray, Daz found himself peeking through his lashes at Lola, dark curls tumbling like a waterfall around her face. Sometimes everyone started speaking at once, in low droning voices, and Daz stared at his feet and moved his lips silently.

The guitarist was joined by a girl playing hand drums, and people started singing. Daz closed his eyes, and felt the light and the music throbbing around him. He felt awkward, but at the same time, on a deeper level he felt peaceful. Voices murmured around him, rising and falling like waves.

Then someone offered him a plate of bread, and he reached out his hand. Suddenly Mr Richardson leaned towards him and whispered, “You should only take communion if you’re a catholic.” Daz snatched back his hand, and felt his cheeks burning. When a cup was passed around he shuffled out of the circle, not wanting to touch it in case he did something wrong. The warm peaceful feeling was gone, and he felt confused and angry.

Mr Richardson apologised to him after the circle began to break apart. “I should have explained to you about communion. I’m so used to being around people who are part of the church, I forget that not everyone has been brought up with these traditions.” Daz shrugged and looked away. Lola had slipped out the door before he’d had a chance to talk to her.

“We’re getting together for a shared supper,” Mr Richardson went on. “We can have a chat if you want, over coffee and biscuits.”

“Sure.” Daz hovered in the corner of the lounge while Mr Richardson went to get some drinks. The varsity student, Tracey, was talking to a couple of guys. No, not talking, arguing. Daz kept his eyes lowered, but listened to what they were saying. They were talking about some guy who had shot an abortion doctor in the States.

“But by killing one doctor, he prevented the killing of hundreds of innocent lives,” one of the guys was saying.

“Are you saying that he was justified in murdering the doctor?” Tracey cut in.

“I’m saying that what he did was no worse than what the doctor was doing every day. Maybe he was braver than most of us. He took action based on his Christian beliefs.”

“But he murdered someone! Nothing can justify that.” Everyone turned and stared at Daz. He felt himself blushing again, he hadn’t meant to speak so loud.

“Damien is right.” Mr Richardson was back with two mugs of coffee. “The doctor was murdered, and the church condemns that act.” Daz looked up in surprise, just in time to catch Tracey smiling at him.

Daz followed Mr Richardson to a seat, and sat with his fingers wrapped around the hot mug. For a few minutes he stared into the hot steam.

Posted by Fionnaigh at July 15, 2003 01:06 AM