Phoenix Crossing - Writers Forum

Crash_Tomas · 02-15-2008, 08:34 PM

____

Looking through my home-office window, I searched for some kind of inspiration. Sitting alone in my desk chair, hoping that something would come to mind that would spark the next best American Novel. I swiveled the chair around to face my computer screen. A blank Microsoft Word file was open; the file name was saved as “to be titled.” The cursor blinked as I stared at it. Somewhere inside of me, I hoped that the words would write themselves and I’d be done sitting there. If only it worked that way….

My thoughts wandered and I swiveled again to face out the window. I closed my eyes and listened to the rain hit the roof and drip down the gutters. It almost sounded like it was popping and clanking. I could hear the phone wires whip around outside of my window and focused on the sound of the oak tree in the backyard. The branches leant with the gusts and made a howling sound, like a wolf.

The faint smell of coffee lingered in the air and I spun around in my chair. I opened my eyes and watched the room blur into a chaotic vision. Hatred meshed with love, darkness with light, and life with death. The chair slowed and oppositely, the room spun faster. I stood up from the chair, letting the moment envelope me and looked up at the ceiling to watch the fan spin around, even though it wasn’t turned on.

As my state of bliss ended, I sat back down and faced the computer screen again. The cursor continued to blink, as if winking and antagonizing me to fill up the white page. I grimaced and closed my eyes, remembering the haziness of the room as I spun in my chair. A river formed and a steamboat appeared. It was headed down-current. I zeroed in on the boat and saw a crew of three men.

“Keep starboard!” one of the crew yelled to the man behind at the helm.

“Aye-aye, Captain!” the man yelled back and turned the wooden wheel slightly.

“No!” I yelled, shaking off the vision. “That is a horrible idea.”

I fell silent for a few minutes, leaning back in my desk chair, staring across the room at the bookshelf. It was full of old novels that I’d collected over the years, along with mementos of my travels around the world. I’d been to France multiple times, England once, Germany twice, and spent two months in Stockholm, Sweden. Somehow I’d always leave every place I went with something I found on a beach, on the street, or something someone gave me.

In Normandy, France, I took an empty glass bottle and filled it with the sand from the beach that the American’s invaded on June 6th, 1944. That bottle sat comfortably on the top shelf, near my own published novels. I focused in on the name inscribed in white on each of them. “Charlie T. Bourque.”

“Damn it, Charlie,” I said to myself. “See what you used to write? Why can’t you do something like that again?”

I shrugged off the thought and moved along the shelf. A signed baseball sat in a glass case, signed by the entire 2004 World Series champions, the Boston Red Sox. My uncle used to work for the organization and he left it for me in his will. An image flashed before me again and my imagination began to whirl.

“Strike two!” an umpire yelled, holding two fingers up. A baseball park appeared with nine players in the field.

A little boy stood in the batter’s box, the number 4 on his back. The uniform was blue and held the word, “Bears” in white letters on the front. He stepped back out of the box, and looked desperately at his coach. Distinct fear spread across his face and into his blue eyes. I saw a little of myself in him, but then my eyes are green.

His coach gave him the signal to swing away and the boy nodded in acceptance. He had to hit the ball. The game depended on it with a man on second and third in the last inning with two outs. The boy took a deep breath and took his place back in the batter’s box. He looked up at the pitcher, held his own bat up and prepared himself. Thousands of thoughts ran through his head, enough to cloud his primary goal. He notices this and shakes everything out of his head.

“Me and the ball,” he whispered to himself. The pitcher winds up and throws the ball. The boy watches it come in, seeing the seams spin. “Change-up,” he thinks to himself and waits a slight millisecond longer and swings his bat. Keeping his eye on it the entire time, he sees the end of the bat collide with the ball.

The crowd roared as the ball shot through the sky and into shallow center field. The boy had done his job. All of his fear was extinguished in that instant and joy overtook him. He ran to first, his arms held high. The game had been won.

“That won’t work…” I said, breathing in heavily. “I need something original.” I released the breath and closed my eyes to clear my own head. “Think, Charlie…Think,” I whispered.

Maybe a realistic fiction, I thought. I need something that would be recognized as a quality work of my skills and not just another meaningless story that would collect dust in bookstores. My last attempt did just that and I only sold the little I did because of my name. Charlie T. Bourque: former New York Times bestselling author and proud member of the Writer’s Guild of America. What happened to me?

I found myself averting my gaze from the bookshelf and focusing back out the window and into the rain. Without realizing it, I stood up and walked towards the window, putting my face up against the glass. The coldness on my face was comforting and a smile formed as I let out a breath and watched a thin layer of moisture accumulate on the surface. I listened to the rain as it pattered the window, focusing in on every drop.

In some ways, the sound resembled a clock. “Tick Tock, Tick Tock.” I allowed the sound to drown out everything else until all I could hear was the rain. There was no wind that I could hear, no shuffling of leaves or footsteps in the hallway just outside of my door. My wife knocked and entered, but I didn’t notice. Her hand touched my shoulder and sent me back into reality.

“You okay?” her smooth voice asked. I turned to face her, taking in her beauty. “What were you doing?” I barely heard the question. Her mesmerizing blue eyes made everything else fade away.

“Nothing,” I said, distantly. She had her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and wore a pair of blue jeans and a sweater that she bought herself for Christmas (with my money, of course.)

“Did you find something to write?” Her hand took mine. I stood with my back to the window now, almost leaning on it.

“Not yet,” I replied.

“You will, Charlie.” She smiled and kissed me on the cheek. “You always do.”

She must have sensed my despair because she let go of my hand and exited the room, closing the door behind her. I wished she would have kissed me again, but I didn’t go after her. I don’t rightly know why.

“Back to work, Charlie,” I said to myself, sitting back down in my chair. I swiveled it to face the computer screen and that intimidating blinking cursor. “You’re an evil thing, you know that?” I spoke to it.

Remembering the sound of the rain, I closed my eyes again and focused in on the drops. An image twirled in the blackness of my eyelids. It formed into a forest in the midst of a giant thunderstorm. A man in a black hooded sweatshirt ran along a dirt trail under the cover of oak and dogwood trees. He wore gray sweatpants and had a music player in his ears. His head bobbed with the music within as his feet hit the ground with each of his strides.

“So, you think it is easy being me,” he whispered in tune with the music. “There is no such thing as misery. No one man can hold the world in the palm of his hand. It just isn’t possible.”

A pair of sunglasses sat comfortably around his neck, bouncing with his momentum. The red sox cap on his head was slowly getting soaked and his breath could be seen in the cold air. Why was he running? Did it calm him? Did he do it for fun? The metaphorical wheels in my brain turned and I instantly began to write what I was seeing. Suddenly, the blinking cursor wasn’t intimidating at all. I finished a lengthy paragraph and stopped to reread. I knew that this was something great that I could make into my next novel. I needed to plan.

Pushing myself on the chair, I slid to the end of the desk and took a pencil and my leather-bound notebook. I opened to a clear page and let all of my plans out. It was an amazing feeling. That night, I planned and wrote all that I could until I fell asleep in the chair. I woke to the voice of my wife. She had her hands on my shoulders and her head was upside-down looking at me.

“What time is it?” I asked with a smile.

“8:30 in the morning,” she answered. “What did you write?” she asked, taking a look at the now word-filled document.

“The first chapter, I think.”

“Do you know what the title is yet?”

“I think so,” I replied, “Phoenix Crossing.”

“Interesting.”

“You’ll have to wait until it’s ready for you.”

She laughed and kissed my forehead. “I told you that you always find something.”

“Yeah….” I smiled. She squeezed my shoulders one last time and left the room. “Breakfast is ready, by the way,” she called from the hallway.

“I’ll be down in a minute.”

I took the mouse, clicked save, and then closed the program. With a satisfied sigh, I smiled and closed my notebook. Standing up from my chair, I walked to the door and looked back at my computer.

“You’re going to be one hell of a story,” I said and switched the light off.

The End.

nia mora · 02-16-2008, 05:22 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Crash_Tomas

____

Looking through my home-office window, I searched for some kind of inspiration. Sitting alone in my desk chair, hoping that something would come to mind that would spark the next best American Novel. I swiveled the chair around to face my computer screen. A blank Microsoft Word file was open; the file name was saved as “to be titled.” The cursor blinked as I stared at it. Somewhere inside of me, I hoped that the words would write themselves and I’d be done sitting there. If only it worked that way….

My thoughts wandered and I swiveled again to face out the window. I closed my eyes and listened to the rain hit the roof and drip down the gutters. It almost sounded like it was popping and clanking. I could hear the phone wires whip around outside of my window and focused on the sound of the oak tree in the backyard. The branches leant with the gusts and made a howling sound, like a wolf. (Perhaps: "The branches howled for the moon that was nowhere to be seen.")

The faint smell of coffee lingered in the air and I spun around in my chair. I opened my eyes and watched the room blur into a chaotic vision. Hatred meshed with love, darkness with light, and life with death. The chair slowed and oppositely, the room spun faster. I stood up from the chair, letting the moment envelope me and looked up at the ceiling to watch the fan spin around, even though it wasn’t turned on.

As my state of bliss ended, I sat back down and faced the computer screen again. The cursor continued to blink, as if winking and antagonizing me to fill up the white page. I grimaced and closed my eyes, remembering the haziness of the room as I spun in my chair. A river formed and a steamboat appeared. It was headed down-current. I zeroed in on the boat and saw a crew of three men.

“Keep starboard!” one of the crew yelled to the man behind at the helm.

“Aye-aye, Captain!” the man yelled back and turned the wooden wheel slightly.

“No!” I yelled, shaking off the vision. “That is a horrible idea.”

I fell silent for a few minutes, leaning back in my desk chair, staring across the room at the bookshelf. It was full of old novels that I’d collected over the years, along with mementos of my travels around the world. I’d been to France multiple times, England once, Germany twice, and spent two months in Stockholm, Sweden. Somehow I’d always leave every place I went with something I found on a beach, on the street, or something someone gave me.

In Normandy, France, I took an empty glass bottle and filled it with the sand from the beach that the American’s invaded on June 6th, 1944. That bottle sat comfortably on the top shelf, near my own published novels. I focused in on the name inscribed in white on each of them. “Charlie T. Bourque.”

“Damn it, Charlie,” I said to myself. “See what you used to write? Why can’t you do something like that again?”

I shrugged off the thought and moved along the shelf. A signed baseball sat in a glass case, signed by the entire 2004 World Series champions, the Boston Red Sox. My uncle used to work for the organization and he left it for me in his will. An image flashed before me again and my imagination began to whirl.

“Strike two!” an umpire yelled, holding two fingers up. A baseball park appeared with nine players in the field.

A little boy stood in the batter’s box, the number 4 on his back. The uniform was blue and held the word, “Bears” in white letters on the front. He stepped back out of the box, and looked desperately at his coach. Distinct fear spread across his face and into his blue eyes. I saw a little of myself in him, but then my eyes are green.

His coach gave him the signal to swing away and the boy nodded in acceptance. He had to hit the ball. The game depended on it with a man on second and third in the last inning with two outs. The boy took a deep breath and took his place back in the batter’s box. He looked up at the pitcher, held his own bat up and prepared himself. Thousands of thoughts ran through his head, enough to cloud his primary goal. He notices this and shakes everything out of his head.

“Me and the ball,” he whispered to himself. The pitcher winds up and throws the ball. The boy watches it come in, seeing the seams spin. “Change-up,” he thinks to himself and waits a slight millisecond longer and swings his bat. Keeping his eye on it the entire time, he sees the end of the bat collide with the ball.

The crowd roared as the ball shot through the sky and into shallow center field. The boy had done his job. All of his fear was extinguished in that instant and joy overtook him. He ran to first, his arms held high. The game had been won.

“That won’t work…” I said, breathing in heavily. “I need something original.” I released the breath and closed my eyes to clear my own head. “Think, Charlie…Think,” I whispered.

Maybe a realistic fiction, I thought. I need something that would be recognized as a quality work of my skills and not just another meaningless story that would collect dust in bookstores. My last attempt did just that and I only sold the little I did because of my name. Charlie T. Bourque: former New York Times bestselling author and proud member of the Writer’s Guild of America. What happened to me?

I found myself averting my gaze from the bookshelf and focusing back out the window and into the rain. Without realizing it, I stood up and walked towards the window, putting my face up against the glass. The coldness on my face was comforting and a smile formed as I let out a breath and watched a thin layer of moisture accumulate on the surface. I listened to the rain as it pattered the window, focusing in on every drop. (This created a really nice picture in my mind)

In some ways, the sound resembled a clock. “Tick Tock, Tick Tock.” I allowed the sound to drown out everything else until all I could hear was the rain. There was no wind that I could hear, no shuffling of leaves or footsteps in the hallway just outside of my door. My wife knocked and entered, but I didn’t notice. Her hand touched my shoulder and sent me back into reality.

“You okay?” her smooth voice asked. I turned to face her, taking in her beauty. “What were you doing?” I barely heard the question. Her mesmerizing blue eyes made everything else fade away.

“Nothing,” I said, distantly. She had her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and wore a pair of blue jeans and a sweater that she bought herself for Christmas (with my money, of course.)

“Did you find something to write?” Her hand took mine. I stood with my back to the window now, almost leaning on it.

“Not yet,” I replied.

“You will, Charlie.” She smiled and kissed me on the cheek. “You always do.”

She must have sensed my despair because she let go of my hand and exited the room, closing the door behind her. I wished she would have kissed me again, but I didn’t go after her. I don’t rightly know why.

“Back to work, Charlie,” I said to myself, sitting back down in my chair. I swiveled it to face the computer screen and that intimidating blinking cursor. “You’re an evil thing, you know that?” I spoke to it.

Remembering the sound of the rain, I closed my eyes again and focused in on the drops. An image twirled in the blackness of my eyelids. It formed into a forest in the midst of a giant thunderstorm. A man in a black hooded sweatshirt ran along a dirt trail under the cover of oak and dogwood trees. He wore gray sweatpants and had a music player in his ears. His head bobbed with the music within as his feet hit the ground with each of his strides.

“So, you think it is easy being me,” he whispered in tune with the music. “There is no such thing as misery. No one man can hold the world in the palm of his hand. It just isn’t possible.”

A pair of sunglasses sat comfortably around his neck, bouncing with his momentum. The red sox cap on his head was slowly getting soaked and his breath could be seen in the cold air. Why was he running? Did it calm him? Did he do it for fun? The metaphorical wheels in my brain turned and I instantly began to write what I was seeing. Suddenly, the blinking cursor wasn’t intimidating at all. I finished a lengthy paragraph and stopped to reread. I knew that this was something great that I could make into my next novel. I needed to plan.

Pushing myself on the chair, I slid to the end of the desk and took a pencil and my leather-bound notebook. I opened to a clear page and let all of my plans out. It was an amazing feeling. That night, I planned and wrote all that I could until I fell asleep in the chair. I woke to the voice of my wife. She had her hands on my shoulders and her head was upside-down looking at me.

“What time is it?” I asked with a smile.

“8:30 in the morning,” she answered. “What did you write?” she asked, taking a look at the now word-filled document.

“The first chapter, I think.”

“Do you know what the title is yet?”

“I think so,” I replied, “Phoenix Crossing.”

“Interesting.”

“You’ll have to wait until it’s ready for you.”

She laughed and kissed my forehead. “I told you that you always find something.”

“Yeah….” I smiled. She squeezed my shoulders one last time and left the room. “Breakfast is ready, by the way,” she called from the hallway.

“I’ll be down in a minute.”

I took the mouse, clicked save, and then closed the program. With a satisfied sigh, I smiled and closed my notebook. Standing up from my chair, I walked to the door and looked back at my computer.

“You’re going to be one hell of a story,” I said and switched the light off.

The End.

I don't really see anything you need to improve here, just the one part about personification. It hits a lot stronger than a simile.

All in all, LOVE IT!

Crash_Tomas · 02-16-2008, 08:08 PM

Thanks, I see what you mean by the personification. I wasn't really sure how trees would howl, but ok. That's why I had wolves. cos they actually do, lol.

but, I'll fix it in my own doc.

thanks again.

nia mora · 02-16-2008, 11:21 PM

They'd howl because of the wind, like a wolf. We're just saying it in a different way. Its just a personal idea of my own. You can use it if you like, but I'm not forcing, of course.

Crash_Tomas · 02-17-2008, 11:00 AM

ohh, I see now, where it didn't make sense at least! I changed it on my copy, so no worries, the branches howl like in massive wind and rain storms. yay!

Crash_Tomas · 02-20-2008, 03:40 PM

any comments are welcome. tell me I suck, or anything like that. I need some feed back so I can know if I am doing something right or wrong.

thanks...

Crash_Tomas · 02-24-2008, 08:57 PM

Reilly Roark Larson · 02-26-2008, 03:08 PM

If you're really looking for criticism, Ive got a few ideas or better yet, I'll ask a few questions.

I think it's well put together and has a great flow. I really like the idea that writing comes from somewhere inside, i.e. all the external input from sights and sounds around you didn't bring about anything you liked, but when you closed your eyes and just let your mind wonder, you found an image to start with.

My first question is where does this piece go? Is it just a character exploration? Is it the start of a larger story? This may be my own dense nature, but is there a deeper meaning? Why are you annoyed with your wife? (i.e. "with my money, of course" which seems like annoyance to me, or when you doesn't know why you don't go after her) Especially here, when some many of us probably go through the same exact thing, why is this a story to be told?

I don't think you suck as you suggested we tell you. I quite like what I've read from you. I just ask these questions because you wanted some input and they are the best I have to offer.

Blackmirth · 02-26-2008, 04:43 PM

I think that you've mixed up tenses a bit.
Beginning with the boy batting (" Thousands of thoughts ran through his head, enough to cloud his primary goal. He notices this and shakes everything out of his head.") You begin in past tense, but switch to present in some sentences.

Crash_Tomas · 02-26-2008, 04:57 PM

Reilly: Thanks, those questions do help. My reason for the money comment was sarcastic in a way. The one where he doesn't know why he didn't follow was because he was too focused and didn't want to leave his work. On an internal level.

as for the meaning, I think that's for each person to decide for themselves. I tried to explore my mind and see what I do and just added that. I'm trying a new thing where I write about the progress of thought and the mind. It's mostly experimental stuff. But, I also like the stories with a clear meaning. I just wanted this to be a self-exploration piece, I guess...I don't really know what each person will take from this, I just had fun and enjoyed writing it.

Black:Thanks, I see the tense mix-up. Fixed it on my copy.

writeforfun · 02-28-2008, 11:06 AM

Ummm...this is a scene that all writers probably relate too, though I'm not sure it would at all interest non-writers -- you've limited your audience immediately as others will simply not read on about the boring struggles of coming up with good ideas to write.

Your story really begins with this line: Charlie T. Bourque: former New York Times bestselling author and proud member of the Writer’s Guild of America. What happened to me?

Now this would hook writers and non writers alike. Cut everything above and focus on developing this into something.

Regards!

alirat17 · 03-04-2008, 03:47 PM

I really liked the beginning bit, it got me glued to the scene!
I liked all the discription words, and the way you were using it use the writer telling the story of writing a novel.. I thought it was a brilliant idea!

Crash_Tomas · 03-04-2008, 05:49 PM

writeforfun: the point was for anyone could relate to. Not just a writer. But, anybody who has ever tried writing anything. Like an essay or whatever. We're all writer's at heart, in my opinion. Just some are better at it than others.

alirat17: thanks., gload you liked it.

But anyway, thanks for commenting. And the criticism. I thought about doing the actual story of phoenix crossing, cos I have a pretty good idea of what it'd be about. But, am completely unsure.