Six-Sentence-Sunday 4/29

Good Sunday, my fellow Bloggers and Bloggerines, it's another round of the Six-Sentence-Sunday!! Today I chose an extract from a short story I wrote, but never finished. *Sighs* 

The protagonist is a mentally ill woman, having a conversation with her deceased husband Raymond. The story as well is called Raymond.

Can you imagine, that Grumpy Mac Smith, the lady from upstairs, she even talked to me today?

 

In 15 years, she never uttered a single word, not even once did a polite little hello pass those puckered lips. 

 

And today she finally spoke to me, in front of the house.

 

"Hello, Miss, can I help you?" and she sounded so serious, I had to restrain myself from laughing, as I saw her looking down at my socks. 

 

In one single day, the color had turned from eggshell to dark brown and it was such a mess, no wonder she was concerned. 

 

"No," I said, "but thank you, I can wash those myself."

 

 

For Antonio - My First Love Letter

I must have been 6 years old that summer before I enrolled in school. It was the very same year my parents had become the proud owners of a new house, and at the time, we were in the process of moving in. There was a lot of construction work going on in and around our freshly built suburbia, as well as other young families flooding the brand-new residential estates.

One day, as I was exploring the soon-to-be garden - at that point still only mounds of earth and small bushes - I spotted him, a construction worker two gardens down the lane, tirelessly carrying boxes out of a van and into a house. He must have been around 20 to 25 years old, with a mop of curly hair, and as far as I could see, the most dreamy brown eyes. His hair, and tone of skin added to the picture of the perfect Mediterranean prince. He was a little on the short side, but I didn't mind, because so was I, and I felt confident that we (meaning my 10 year older fantasy-self and him) would make an excellent couple.

I was impressed. He had strong arms, yet he wasn't too scary manly, more of a boyish nature. I hid behind the bushes and watched him for a while. Soon after, I asked my mother for any information she had on him. Antonio. That was all she knew about him. His name. My little heart melted. Antonio.

With time, my secret passion became less of a secret, as I confided in my mother about this interest I had in Antonio. I think I might have played it down a little, which must have been especially suspicious on my part. It always is.

I don't know how exactly it happened, but my mother and I quickly became companions in crime. At that point, I wanted to tell Antonio, how I felt, but of course, I needed a safe approach, in case he rejected me. In case. I wanted to write him a letter, but since I didn't know how to write, I convinced my Mum to do it for me. I honestly don't know why she supported this, I have to ask her one day.

Anyways, I dictated a lengthy letter verbalizing my admiration in detail and she wrote it down for me, without, of course, revealing who, and more importantly, how old I was. I signed it with my name though, and I at least wanted to add a personal touch by "sprucing" it, so I drew some stuff on it, after she was finished writing it. It never occurred to me, that drawings would very well give my age (or mental status) away, so I prettified it to my heart's content, with hearts, birds and flowers next to and around the title.
I seriously wanted to impress him with my artsy expertise!
For Antonio. That was the title, and that is all I remember of the exact wording.

I should have let it go then, but of course, I didn't. I was too involved and curious and I wanted to give the letter to my heart's desire, dearest Antonio. During his lunch break, I strolled around the neighbor's property, keeping a low profile, carrying the letter deep in my back pocket. I had folded it umpteen times, until nothing else showed except one thing, the title. For Antonio.

Over where he was working, there were knee-high wooden poles sticking out of the ground, and I put the letter up on one of the poles next to the walkway. And then I ran. I ran and hid in my usual hiding spot, behind the bushes. I didn't have to wait long.

There he came.
There he was picking up the shovel by the pole.
There he was, noticing something on the pole.
There he was, taking my letter, unfolding it.

At that moment it hit me. Cold fear creeping up my throat. Was I completely insane? I wanted to take back the words as he read them, but I couldn't. It was all there, in cold print. As I lay there motionless, in utter regret, I watched him read the letter, and I wanted to bolt. I was too afraid to think about love any longer, but I felt a sudden sickness coming from within my stomach.

So I ran into our house. I found my mother in the kitchen. I was sure he would be coming for me, sooner or later, wanting to confront the foolish little girl who had left her name in writing and blurted out love. I was sure, he would have a good laugh with his co-workers about some letter he got by this crazy person. I had never even thought about the aftermath of the reveal.

I then thought about denying everything. Her handwriting, my insanity, everything. I instructed my mother, to tell him, I wasn't there, just in case he came over. I stayed in my room the rest of the afternoon, and I cringed whenever I heard the door bell ring. He never came. Not this day, nor the next.


I didn't see him again, but I wonder if he kept the letter. I'd like to think he put it in a shoe box, on a par with other love letters he got over the years. It sure would be excellent company for hearts, birds and flowers.

Six-Sentence-Sunday 4/22

*I think I messed up on the timeline a bit, meaning that I was supposed to get my six lines ready earlier - AM EST wise. Well, there is no excuse, except me, yelling filthy oathbreaker at the bathroom mirror.

Anyways, here they are, my Sunday's Six from my fantasy novel, a WIP. While you're here, check out the other Sunday Sixers :)*

As Kaley and Nian came closer, the Mage muttered something incoherent, and although Kaley didn't understand the exact words, she had no trouble deciphering the insulting connotation they carried. 

"What's this?" he barked at Morgen, while pointing a tremoring index finger at both of them. 

"These are Kaley and Nian, Guardian and Mage," Morgen said, reaching out her arms between them as though trying to mediate "and this is Storm." 

"It's what they call me," Storm added after a silent pause. Maybe it wasn't his real name, but he sure looked like a Storm, Kaley thought, studying his drawn features suspiciously. 

There was something deeply unsettling about his face, half-hidden beneath the cowl, and wild, grey strands of hair, emerging in untaimed tufts from within the blue cloth.

Six-Sentence-Sunday

*Random choice of six sentences from my Work-In-Progress*

She came to realize that Nian and his friends truly were the voiceless of this world, dispossessed and completely stripped of their rights 

as human beings. 

As she thought about the inequity of the very system she was about to become a part of, her strides turned into furious stomps. 

They reached the little grove at noon and found a shady and cool site amidst the trees where Kaley leaned against a mighty stem to rest for a while. 

Her feet were sore, and she felt the bark clinging to her from behind, which provided some much needed relief to her back. 

Nian sat down across from her, huddling up against a bulky stub of a tree. 

He didn't look tired at all, he was just as hungry as he always was, and once again Kaley marvelled at his resiliance against physical strain. 

The Art of Having Ideas

There is tons of material out there on the art of writing, techniques, how-to guides, such as the beloved Elements of Style to study for emerging talent. We find ourselves amongst countless highly successful contemporary authors, true masters of the pen, capable of crafting narratives structures, with a well thought-out progression and a flawless dramatic curve.

What I noticed as a common thread while trying to catch up to the Greats is, that oftentimes, a well narrated story alone doesn't necessarily suffice to draw you in, or keep your mind occupied after having closed the cover.

It all begins with an idea. A story needs an idea, something fresh and new, a prospect to hold out to the reader, so even the pickiest of audiences won't lose interest halfway through. Ideally, you come up with something unheard of, a new spin on the art of telling stories, or a re-vamped take on a stale stereotype.

As far as I'm concerned, the business of getting ideas is the one I primarily need to understand, before I even start typing. As a writer, you may rethink your plot and polish it, puzzle over the edges and pitfalls, but if you don't have ideas to start with, you're in trouble. Splitting your head on the keyboard is one option. Stealing from the Greats or consulting random idea generators yet another. I'd strongly advise against those, however.

I tried out a good many things, and I found several methods to be quite helpful as to come up with ideas (all by myself):

Con-tem-pla-tion (Contemplation now begins)

Creating an atmosphere of serenity may lead to a mental state of meditation. Music, a candle, a cup of tea, whatever it needs to drown out the noise of self-judgment and open the door to your inner chakra. Ha, I do sound like a crazy guru, don't I? But it really helps!

When your mind finally goes blank, and the resonant circuits close, there will be something else there. Relaxation. Creating an atmosphere helps cleansing you from all those nasty ulterior motives (wanting to please an audience, making money) you may not even be aware of, standing in the way of you and your idea. First, you have to make room for ideas to get in. I am serious!

The Hunger Games

For me, a person who barely keeps motivation levels high enough to get dressed every morning, one way to actually come up with something is some kind of imaginary outside force. I don't have anyone nagging me to write, except myself, and it does get hard sometimes.

So what I do is, I use my imaginative powers to create an imaginary kick in the ass. An editor, telling me to write faster, to finish another page until sundown. I even forced my husband to play the role of the patron of the arts once. But he seriously cracked me up when he told me to "finish this or I will leave you" with a fictitious stern face. The best way to create pressure on a lazy behind is to set a deadline for yourself. You have to take it seriously though. No extensions allowed, otherwise there have to be consequences.

Finishing the story until Christmas was a good start for me, but of course, I didn't finish, and I didn't inflict a punishment for having violated the term either, except eating massive amounts of cookies. Harsh penalty. But I managed to finalize chapters One to Nine before Christmas, including the prologue. So I guess, it helped me a little, after all.

Story-Gluttonous Columbo

I try to experience as many stories as I can, in books, movies, video games, everywhere, whenever I have the time. A welcome side effect of gulping them down like candy is me, increasingly understanding stories. Certain patterns get more and more apparent to my reader's eye, which eventually translates to my writer's eye. Kudos to Teresa, for coming up with the vivid concept - a really good idea!

Oftentimes, I can predict how a story will end, by correctly identifying the intentions of the author. This can get really annoying, especially when, at an early stage, the punch line is predictable and uninspired. The nagging feeling of Oh no, I think I know where this is going, can be quite frustrating. The more I absorb, the more difficult it gets to satisfy my standards. More often than not, stories leave me hanging.

I've realized though, that extrapolating my expectations for a story can get my own creative juices flowing. I get ideas when I see other people having ideas or, more importantly, lacking ideas. It does sound snobbish and cruel, but like in any other area, humans are problem-solving maniacs.

Sometimes I try to solve other people's story problems, and it helps me get started for my own projects. It's how they do it over there, at the Google company! Review as much as you can and you'll broaden your area of expertise story-wise for sure.

Sensory Shower

Let's get physical! Being overwhelmed by a physical sensation, my mind wanders off quite naturally. A shower can do that, and thus far, I had some good ideas while scrubbing my feet with a firm brush. I think the seclusion in the cubicle further helps summoning the effect.

But also, doing the dishes somehow makes me quite receptive. I can't say why, except that it's a completely unconscious activity I do with my hands, and it doesn't seem to waste any brain-space. I never get any ideas when I am concentrating on something work-related. Maybe it's the multitasking myth, that makes us hope we have ideas around the clock, no matter what we do. In my experience, it needs a little effort and free brain storage units.

Whatever we do to generate ideas, it's important to realize, they are not perfect creations when we first give birth to them. The difficulty is noticing them. They may seem too obvious (which we shouldn't be afraid of), not clever or innovative enough, maybe they are just a mere hunch, which we sense could be something worthwhile. What really helps to process those hunches, is to allow them to enter and let them sit there a little in our minds, and if there is something to them, they will flourish and find us in turn, quite naturally.

The Morning Train

Traveling by train is time well spent. I like nothing better than watching the world move by, or actually me, moving by the world. I love train rides, they are one of those luxuries, especially for aimless mind-wanderings, that may very well lead to great ideas, most of the times though, they lead nowhere.
Fun, nonetheless!

I imagine, I must look stupid when I space out like that, with my mouth half-opened, and empty-eyed sockets. I'm working, people, what did you expect! Anyways, back to my train of thought.

I am noticing an elderly man and his dog getting on the train, slowly, they move to a similar tune, and I find myself wondering, how long these two have been friends. I imagine them living together in an apartment with two rooms, lowered shutters and floral textiles everywhere. Too much of a cliché, I know.

It's apparent however, how much they like and depend on each other, how could they not. The old man with the cane, he's not looking grumpy at all, quite a rare sight for a morning train, with everyone looking displeased. The dog, the epitome of serenity, a brownish-colored collie mix, with those trustful dog eyes sits down beside him. He sticks his tongue out at me. They must have known each other for a very long time. There isn't one without the other. It will be sad, the inevitable day when one of them...beep..beeep.

The train comes to a stop. The opening sound of the door shrills through the coach, a teenage girl comes in with a large basket. She's carrying food for at least four people, the typical Munich brunch with large pretzels, Obazda, and some sort of trendy healthy fruit. She slumps herself into the seat across from me. She looks sad, disappointed even, with a slight hint of anger somewhere in between her brows. Immediately, my wheels start turning. Why is she carrying all this stuff? Is she on her way to a picnic date?

She grabs a large piece of the jumbo pretzel, dips it into the Obazda bowl, then eats it, munches. The nice decor of napkin against pretzel, it is gone. She destroys it on purpose. Maybe she comes from a date. A blind date. They didn't even get as far as the eating part, because it was awful, and they parted ways shortly after saying "hello".

Or maybe the nice basket is a parting gift from the firm that just fired her.

I would have loved to find out the truth. The things that happen, daily, worldwide, to every single person out there, they amaze me. Everyone moves towards something. How is this even possible, so much room for so many stories, one for each person, and squared egos, broken, and rebuilt several times over the course of a lifetime. Every train holds a library, a truckload of people, and all of their thoughts and memories are on board. It must be heavy. So very heavy in fact, that no one can lift the damn thing.

 München nähe Hackerbrücke; Oil painting by Susanne Kiesewetter