OPENING REWRITE

2007-09-27T19:30:00.000-07:00

A few posts ago, I posted the opening to a short story that I wrote in high school. I didn't receive much feedback on how it struck you (the reader), so maybe it didn't! :)

But here's a reworked opening that I hope is more powerful and engaging.

******

I woke. My body lay motionless, but my brain jolted. The room was dim, so the sun must have set or pulled the clouds back into place. I heard the back door open as my son entered the house.

Alarms resonated in my skull. He didn't slam the door as was his habit, but closed it with a 'click,' instead. The sound of the latch catching in the lock seemed to echo across the house. There was no skip in the slight footsteps scuffling across the tile floor.

He rounded the corner into the room where I lay. My mind raced. All was still. Even a giant horsefly buzzing around the room seemed to have trouble staying in the air and careened wildly from side to side.

"Father," he cleared his throat. "Look what I found."

Some Openings

2007-09-19T16:41:00.000-07:00

I've been really busy at work, but I did set aside some time to complete an exercise from the book I'd mentioned in the previous post. The author asked the reader to write several openings that evoked emotion and caused the reader to ask questions. The key for the writer (in this case, me) is to stop before reaching the point of the action that starts the story.

Here are some that I came up with. The situations won't be clear, since they are just the beginning of several stories (real and imagined) in my life.

Are they engaging? Are they "powerful" openings?

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Opening 1:

Trapped! There was no way out. If I had only been a split-second sooner or a split-second later, I would have been spared the inevitable. My eyes met his and I knew it, but the reality was that there would be no escape now.

Opening 2:

Where am I?

There was noise all around. A loud banging, clanging, rattling sound. Then he realized he was moving. Or was it the room? He felt nauseated. He squeezed his eyes shut to keep from vomiting. That seemed to do the trick. He exhaled slowly.

When the nausea passed, he opened his eyes to peer at his surroundings. My leg, he thought. It had been casted from ankle to thigh. But why? Why couldn't he focus? If only he had been alert the night before.

Opening 3:

Applause and bright lights. I stumbled forward into the lightness because I knew it was expected. My cheek muscles tightened into what appeared to be a comfortable grin, but the shaking of my hands belied my facade of control. My heart raced at double or triple time the cadence of my leather soles tap, tap, tapping against the maple floor.

START WITH A POWERFUL OPENING

2007-09-06T17:27:00.001-07:00

I recently read a book called The Power to Write. It had some real good advice and some basic exercises for improving seven "keys" that they author identified to "discover the writer within."
The first "key" is to start with a Powerful Opening. I'm going to use a short story that I originally wrote in high school and work on it following the author's "keys."

I invite you to follow me on this process. Below is the original opening. I haven't edited it since a major re-write several years ago. Over the next week or so, I'll be working on re-writing it to make it more engaging and powerful.

Please comment on your thoughts. What did you like? What didn't you like? What worked? What didn't work for you? What questions do you have from the opening that you hope will be answered in the story? What do you think I could do to make the opening more powerful?

You can comment by e-mail or on the blog...If you comment anonymously, please put your name so I know who you are.

******
(Excerpt from Untitled Short Story)

That day brought the first sunshine the city had seen all week. Giant sheets of rain swept through the city streets like a brigade of soldiers marching on parade. The rhythmic whoosh against the pavement created an unsettling cadence. At the first sign of a halt in the assault, my seven-year-old son escaped the prison house to entertain himself with the adventures of a child in the great out doors.

My spirits should have lifted when the sun peeled the clouds away. I was glad that the boy could get out into the fresh air, but the break in weather brought no break from the storm that ravaged my mind, heart and soul.

I'd once grilled a steak that had been flash-frozen. It was hard like a stone. It was the color of beef, yet had none of its qualities. There were ridges where the meat had sagged at the exact moment of freezing. That was my heart—frozen solid, unfeeling.

There had been so many sleepless nights that I finally collapsed onto the sofa. Even that was a reminder of the times that she had lain beside me there as we snuggled watching a movie. Today, the humidity was my only companion, as I slipped into a restless sleep.

"I BELIEVE I CAN FLY"

2007-09-04T12:40:00.000-07:00

Have you ever wanted something so badly that the desire consumed you? Was it something you wanted as a child or as an adult? What was it that you wanted?

When I was a kid, I would spend several weeks at my grandparents' house in the Black Hills of South Dakota. I have so many fond memories from those small-town, summer days: marching in a local parade, tasting buffalo for the first time, taking in the Fourth of July Festival events, and watching numerous softball games up behind the high school, which sits high on the hill across town.

But for me, one memory sticks out more than all the others. It was the year that I discovered the Flying Nun. It was the summer that I was about eight years old. In the evenings, we would watch reruns of old shows like Leave it to Beaver, Father Knows Best, and I Love Lucy on the Nickelodeon channel's Nick-At-Nite programming.

The flying nun, played by Sally Field, wore a unique habit that allowed her to fly--upright like Marry Poppins! When I saw that, something internally sprang to life. My heart would jump whenever the Sister Bertrille placed her small hand atop her head and lifted off the ground. I wanted to fly--but not in an airplane. I wanted to free-fly, just like Sister Bertrille. I wanted it so badly, I could almost feel what it would be like. I remember climbing some steps on the back of the house and jumping from the stoop to the ground, pretending that I could fly. I just knew that somehow it was possible and that someday, I would make it happen.

My grandmother noticed how obsessed I had become with this desire, and so she made a powerful suggestion that changed my life. "Whenever there is something that I want really badly, sometimes it helps to sit down and write about it." I took my Abuela's advice, and I sat down and began to write. I don't remember what I wrote, but I remember that it worked.

She took my story and submitted it to a small periodical that she subscribed to, called Capper's. It was printed in a feature called the "Kids' Corner". I felt so proud. My desire had been validated. It was that simple act that lead me from a futile (and potentially dangerous) effort of trying to fly from the back porch and directed my creativity and imagination into a more rewarding endeavor--writing.

There is something about writing out my opinions and feelings that brings clarity to my thinking. And that is why I write. Will I ever fly upright? I doubt it. But I still believe I can fly. Crafting thoughts, ideas and imaginations into words and sentences, I can soar through imaginary lands or unfamiliar circumstances. I can have a hundred careers and meet a thousand fascinating and unique people. Perhaps it's still a fragment of that feeling I had as a child that drives my desire to write and the experience the freedom of expression that writing offers to me. And I suspect it is that same anticipation that keeps me riveted to the television when David Blaine or Criss Angel levitate and float across the sky.

THE VERY FIRST NOTES -- DO, RE, MI

2007-09-02T15:18:00.000-07:00

Learning to write effectively is like learning to sing properly. The basics come first, then the technique, then the communication and interpretation. After the basics have become natural and a learned skill is no longer practiced but easily produced, performance becomes art. Art is the tactile, aural and visual way in which we as human spirits connect and commune.

I created this blog as a living record of my development as a writer. It is my journey. The journey will start close to home with basic and rudimentary practices. As I develop my skills, I will always strive to bring something that is entertaining, inspiring and to which others can relate. As the basics are developed, I plan to work on developing specific technical skills.

These skills will become my "tools of the trade." One of the tools that I am taking on this journey with me is the habit of writing something every day. No matter if the document is short or long, my goal is to write something daily. I will post some of these stories and essays on this blog.

Somewhere between the development of new habits and new techniques, I hope that art begins to occur. I am excited about this process but you, the Reader, are vital to it. I need your comments on the posts. Please let me know what you felt. Tell me what worked for you and what didn't. Your feedback and critique is like my rear view mirror on this literary road trip. Without it, I am perpetually traveling with a wide blind spot.

I feel like a singer who's training his voice. So, these first entries will be much like warm-ups. This is my literary Do, Re, Mi. But with determination, discipline and practice, I hope to present you with an aria of words that speak to your heart and spirit.