I've just finished part two, and I figured I'd post it along with the first, since I've made considerable changes to it. I'm not happy with the creative writing class scene, so any suggestions with regard to that part would be greatly appreciated.
LEAP OF FAITH
I decide to call Scott first, not because he’s easiest to talk to, but because he’s the one I’m least worried about.
You may consider ending the sentence aafter talk to. If yoiu remove but, you'll have more of an internal narration. Scott had always been able to deal with things by not taking them seriously, or, when the situation required it, drowning them in alcohol. I haven’t seen him in three years, but from what I’ve heard, he’s been trying to find some happy medium, or if not a happy one, at least one he could live with.
If I may : I've not seen him in three years, but I imagine he's been doing whatever makes him happy, or, failing that, whatever gives him reason to live. I just hope that on this particular night, the combination he’s trying is more laid-back than shitfaced.
What lovely diction. Bravo. It’s still pretty early, and when he answers the phone he’s coherent, almost articulate.
By early, and him being a drunk, he'd probably be incoherent in the morning or thereabouts. It’s as good as I’m going to get. We go through the requisite conversational starters-- yes I’m doing fine, no I haven’t been spending the last three years writing angst-y poetry and listening to bright eyes-
Angsty- remove the hyphen, it' okay to use. and
You should say But. the contrast. when we run out of things to say to each other, Scott changes his tone.
“You know what, E? What’s say we cut the bullshit?”
'What say we..."
His immediate reaction would probably be huh, or heavy breathing as blood goes into his veins, faster...
I’m not sure what to make of this. Maybe he’s serious, maybe he’s had a few beers already, or maybe he’s just fucking with me. No way to know for sure, but my inclination is that it’s some combination of the first two.
“Alright, sure.”
“What the fuck do you want?”
Oh, shit. Heretofore, the prose has been explicative. Not Oh shit. Its a poor way to surprise the reader.
“What do you mean?”
"What the fuck do I want? What?"
“You must take me for a complete fucking idiot, Ethan. You expect me to believe that you’re calling me to catch up? It’s been too long for that. You want something.”
Fuck. A duck? Lose this, or expound. Let the conversation tell the story.
“Alright, fine, Scott. I’m moving to LA in a few days.”
Maybe he'd not say Alright fine scott?
“Yeah, I heard about that. Big fucking screenwriter now, huh E?”
“It’s just an indie movie.”
No, it's just a damn indie." Your fellow's a touch apathetic...
“Yeah,
just an indie movie. Got you out of this place, didn’t it?”
He’s got a point there.
Does he now? How would I know that?
“For a while anyway.”
“A while away from here is an eternity. You ought to know that better than anyone.”
Allow me: "You know if you get out of here just once, you're gone forever."
Silence falls between us—that same type of awkward pause I should be used to by now, but aren’t. Sometimes I wish I was deaf—an all-encompassing silence has to be better than these innumerable short ones.
Lose the description, so far, you've let the story pretty much tell itself. Don't go the way of the painter... You don't need the silence falls between us.
Pissed or not pissed,
This doesn't work well. May I : Pissed off or not... Scott doesn’t find it easy to keep quiet, and it’s only a few seconds before his voice comes through the earpiece.
Doesn't find it easy? I don't much care, bowever, i may find it better if : Scott's troubles stem from his noise and his drink, and it's a little of both I hear next...
“So, what’s the movie about, mister-fucking-hollywood.”
“Well, it’s about us. About what happened after Danny died, how we all dealt with it. You’re in it.”
Ok....
“There it is. So, you want my permission, right? You want me to tell you it’s ok?”
I should have known better than to think this would be easy.
“Look, Scott, I can write you out of the fucking movie if you’d rather have it that way. I don’t need your permission, I just wouldn’t feel right about doing this if I didn’t.”
I, I, I. That make III in roman Numerals. Too many?
“Well then I’m going to make this real easy for you, E. You want my permission? Fine. But don’t expect more than that from me. As far as I’m concerned, when Danny died, you died with him.”
Or: do whatever the fuck you want with your story, you died when danny did.
“Scott, I’m sorr—“
Ugh. Don't end it like that.
“Yeah, I know you’re sorry. We all are. Doesn’t change much, though, does it? Danny’s still dead, you’re still gone, and I’m still fucked up.”
Preach it, brother.
The line goes quiet, and for a moment I think Scott’s walked away from the phone without hanging it up. Then I hear the faint ring of a doorbell, and suddenly Scott’s voice comes back to life.
“Look, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you in another three years.”
God, I hope not.
“Take care of yourself, Scott.”
"No... hey, take care of..."
“I would, but it goes against every instinct I have. Good luck your movie, Hollywood.”
The line goes dead, and as I hang up it occurs to me just how hard this is going to be.
I fucked up worse than I thought.
*****
Saturday mornings, I go to a creative writing class taught by a former teacher of mine. The class, run by the local parks and rec department and held in a dimly lit room in the basement of city hall, consists mostly of affected young men and women, a few forty-something housewives, and one elderly widow. It’s an assembly of people that, were it not for a love of writing, would never be seen together in the same room—a veritable microcosm of suburbia.
I’ve been coming here for a few years now, and am one of three people who have stayed in the class for that length of time. Besides me, there’s Beatrice, and old women
should be woman who writes short stories about the death of her husband, Rick, who
the sentence has too many people, too many who's bled to death twenty feet from his house when he was run over by his own lawnmower. The other regular is John, an eighteen year old self-proclaimed anarchist who writes dark poetry about the wrong-doings
surely, there's a better alternative than wrong doings? of the American government. John is about 5’3’’, making him easily the shortest anarchist I’ve ever seen or heard of. He’s a walking juxtaposition—a mind trapped in the wrong body.
A laugh, good. However, I'm not sure if it belongs here. it paints a nice picture, but its like a dorian grey with an inkstain...
The rest of the class is normal enough, and their writing varies from almost tolerable to utterly awful. There was a time when, in my youthful naivety
naivet`e, I came here for criticism. But after spending a few hours answering questions like
add a comma? “Why should I care about this character?” and “Did you earn this cliché?”
What? I stopped giving a shit what these people think. Now I just come here for material.
Today’s class begins like all the others, with Mr. Ryan, a balding, morbidly obese man in his early sixties, moderating what
who? calls a “group critique.” Some time ago I stopped writing for the class, and for the most part I throw something together an hour before the class meets. Then I watch the imagined superiority build up in each of my peers as they tear my work to shreds. Besides people-watching
I stumbled a touch with this, and i shouldn't have at the Laundromat, this has been my main source of entertainment for two years.
This time, group critique satisfies my need for rejection—a smug twenty year old coffee house leech named Michael says my writing lacks depth, and John remarks that he wasn’t emotionally invested in the story. Not my best day here, but not bad either. When group critique is over, Mr. Ryan usually tries to address a common problem we’re having, but today he decides to throw the proverbial curveball.
Lose the proverbial curveball. I do feel for this guy, though. I've heard - It lacks depth, your writing is drivel...
“Ladies and gentleman,” he announces loudly, “we have a professional writer in our ranks.”
Oh, no.
The class glances around at each other wildly as I groan and bury my face in my hands. Mr. Ryan, oblivious to my anxiety, continues.
“Ethan here will be traveling to Los Angeles, California, where a movie will be made based on one of his stories. Now, in light of this information, I’m throwing a party in his honor. If any of you would like to attend, I have flyers with information for you on your way out. How about a round of applause?!”
The class claps politely while I stare at the floor. I can feel their stares, can see their faces wide-eyed with surprise in my mind’s eye. When the clapping ends and I hear chairs scraping the floor, I stand up and make my way to the door. Just as I’m at the threshold of anonymity again, Mr. Ryan pulls me aside.
“I hope you don’t mind, Ethan.”
His eyes convey a level of sympathy, as though he’s realized too late that I might not have wanted fifteen minutes of fame.
Lose the as though, you can tell thus far he didn't mean to embaress the guy.
“I just thought it would be nice.”
“How did you find out?”
“Your mother called me. She’s very proud.”
I’m not sure what to say to this, so I just stare at him for a moment before turning back towards the door.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Ethan.”
I stop in the middle of the doorway, causing a pileup behind me.
“Not yet it isn’t.”
Outside, Beatrice and John approach me together as I search my pockets for my car keys. They look ridiculous—an eighteen-year-old anarchist and a white-haired widow walking side by side, wearing identical looks of envy and neediness. After a few hollow congratulations, they hand me copies of “their best work” and make me promise to read them and show them around. I tell them I’ll do what I can. When they’ve each gone their separate ways and I’m a few blocks away, I rip each piece in quarters and throw them out the window.
Spunky bastard, i like...
*****
The second I get out of the car, Sara appears in the window of her house. I can see the smug look on her face from the curb, and by the time I get to her door, it’s grown into full-fledged grin.
Hmm. Try going a tad more simple?
“I was wondering when you’d show up.”
“How’d you know I was coming?”
“Scott. He got drunk last night and called everyone trying to get us all to file a lawsuit against you.”
Ain't it pretty.... good line.
“Jesus Christ. Seriously?”
“Yeah. You were crazy to talk to him first.”
Tell me something I don’t know. Good thing he doesn’t follow through on anything.
“Well you don’t seem to be jumping behind his cause.”
She opens the door and beckons me inside with a wave of her hand.
“I’m reserving judgment.”
*****
whoa whoa whoa.... thus far, i had thought these guys were together. ABSOLUTELY make it clear they're just friends.
Danny and I had known Sara most of our lives. She lived down the street from both of us, went to school with us, graduated with us. When we were in high school, we’d fought over her—a fight Danny would ultimately win when I met someone else. Of all the people I abandoned for three years after Danny died, Sara was the one I missed talking to the most. She had a way of making you feel completely at ease, no matter the situation—a talent I was grateful for as she led me into the kitchen.
“So, Ethan--how long’s it been?”
The smile on her face told me she was joking.
“Not long enough.”
She laughs, pours me a drink, and sits down in the chair across from me. The sun pours in through the window over the sink, illuminating her face as she smiles that same warm smile I remember.
"...as she smiles. I remember that smile. A comfort."
“You’re glowing.”
“I can’t help it. It’s good to see you, E.”
“You’re not mad at all?”
“Of course not. Well, not anymore. You knew Danny better than anyone. Better than me, even. When he died, I knew it was going to be hard for you. Granted, I didn’t think you’d do what you did at the funeral, or that you’d walk away for three years, but I knew you’d never be the same again.”
This is what you were thinking, not what he'd say.
“I’m sorry, Sara. I should have been there for you.”
“It’s alright. Besides, I’m not the one who needed you the most.”
“Alissa?”
“Yeah. She was a mess, E. Did you know she tried to kill herself?”
She wasn’t the only one. Poor storytelling. I'd tell if I killed myself less subtle. Hell, I have.
“Yeah
comma? I know.”
“Losing Danny was enough, but then you disappeared, and she just lost it.”
A familiar twinge of guilt hits me, and, like always, I quickly push it aside.
“Sara, can we not talk about her, please? I’m already scared shitless about seeing her again, and I’ve spent the last three years living with my guilt.”
“Alright, I’m sorry. Well why don’t we talk about your movie?”
“What about it.”
A question.
“Well, you want my permission, right?”
“Of course.”
“You’ve got it. But you have to do something for me first.”
“And that is?”
“You have to play hot hands with me.”
A sigh of relief passes over my lips as I offer her my palms.
“One hand, or two?”
“Two.”
I feel no emotion thus far into this scene.
She puts her hands in mine, and I quickly turn my mine over and hit nothing but air.
“You’ve gotten better at this.”
“Amazing, isn’t it? Who’d have thought I’d be able to pull away faster than Ethan, the incredible disappearing man?”
Oh snap.
*****
For the next few hours, I forget about movies and writing and my pain as Sara and I catch up.
I get it, but it's not parallell. Lose the MY in PAIN. She tells me she’s engaged now, the weddings
wedding's in a few months, and she’d love for me to be there. I tell her I’m happy for her and that I’ll fly back for the occasion.
He she I. Use too many pronouns.... She asks me about the movie, and I offer to send her a copy of the script, she says no thanks she’ll wait for the movie.
You know that isn't right. We talk about better times, back when we were young and hopeful and happy. She pulls out a picture album, and we flip through it together. On the last page, there’s a picture of Danny and I at our graduation—the last time I saw him. She pulls it out of the sleeve and puts it in front of me.
Try to tell what danny looks like. Would I want to date him?
“Here, you should have this.”
“Thanks, Sara. When he died, I threw away everything that reminded me of him. I’d see his picture, and it would just hurt too much. But I don’t feel that now.”
“Good thing I’m an emotional packrat, then. You know, I used to tell everyone that together, you and Danny were the perfect man. Looking back, I think I fell in love with both of you, not just Danny.”
Neither of us speaks as we both look at the picture in my hand.
“I miss him, Ethan. Every second of every day.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
I'm fond of the name Danny. i miss him, too.
*****
Sara and I walk to my car, ready to say our goodbyes. The sky is darker now, threatening rain.
“It’s
It was good to see you again, Ethan.”
“You too. I wish I had done this sooner.”
“Better late than never. Promise me you’ll call me when you get to LA. I can’t wait another three years for my next Ethan installment.”
ah, tacky. Either make it humorous, as she might try to do so, or make it somber.
I start to say I promise her
"I promise her?"before an idea pops into my head.
“Maybe I can do you one better.”
“Oh yeah?”
“How’d you like to go to a party with the guest of honor?”
“Fine, but he’d better be good looking.”
*****
I make plans to pick up Sara tomorrow night before the party, and as I get into my car, the sky opens up. Halfway between my car and her house, Sara shrieks and runs to the safety of her porch. She waves goodbye, and I pull my car around the corner where I can stop without worrying about her seeing me, and, reaching into my pocket, pull out the picture she gave me. He looks happy, but I can’t help but wonder if he already knew. I can’t help but wonder if he’d already decided to kill himself.
