Red and Marienne are the characters of Alex’s book. I thought that it was sufficient to just say that Alex was looking to write his story, so he is imagining his characters and his story. do you have a suggestion as to how I could convey this better? Perhaps I can have Samantha mention something about them, therefore allowing the reader to tie it back to his story?
In the situation Samantha is in (dealing with an uncooperative author who is obviously a big profit-bringer for the company she works for)I don’t think she’s too over the top. Plus, most editors and agents I’ve talked to are at least that high-strung, and at least as bitchy. Can you think of a way I could’ve gotten across better that her behavior is not out of place?
The idea is that Beatrix is not necessarily one of Alex’s characters. Depending on how you look at it, she is a hallucination, another personality, if you will, consuming his mind and thoughts as he fights back, until the end of course, or you could read her as a spirit of some sort, but i didn’t want to get the aspect of “ghost story” in there; it’s intended as a man drifting and then dropping into his insanity. So, it is important to the story that this is Beatrix’s story, because it is symbolizing that he has finally completely succombed to her, that he is not in control anymore.
I agree, the ending is awful. I knew I wanted to end with that last paragraph, but I couldn’t figure out how to transition to it from Beatrix’s story. I had attempted at one point to fill out between the two. and it explained that now Beatrix had consumed his mind, there was no going back, it was just time for him to end it, just like she had ended hers.
Is there another way or anything additional to the part in between Beatrix’s story and the final paragraph that you think would work better? What would make the reader understand better what I am intending?
Thanks so much for the review and suggestions!
lu.
Short Story / Writer's Block
Ecce Deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi.
[Behold, a deity stronger than I; who coming, shall rule over me.]
-Dante Alighieri’s Vita Nuova
Snatching the Sunday post from its newsstand cage, Alex ruffled through the articles, landing decidedly on the Entertainment section:
Alexander P. Kale, Shatters All Pre-Release Sale Records
Alex had never quite known how to receive good news. He tossed a quarter on to the worn counter and continued to count the cracks in the sidewalk on the way to his apartment.
Diminutive cement lions snarled at Alex as he narrowly escaped up the front stairs of his building. Stepping onto the third floor, he questioned why he chose a building with no elevator. The paneled door of 320 opened to reveal his answer. Sunlight streamed in from the large old windows and reflected onto the cherry-wood floors, filling the open space with warm light. The smell of cinnamon bagels and cheap coffee still lingering from his early breakfast wafted its way into his nose. Graciously welcoming his free fall, his leather sofa allowed him time to relax. Determined to foil Alex’s plan, the obnoxious ring of his telephone split his skull.
“Yes?”
“Alex, I presume you picked up the paper already,” Samantha Bell is always straight to business.
“Yes ma’am, ‘saw the headline and everything.”
“Good. You’ll understand why the deadline for your next book has been moved up, then.”
“Moved up? Moved up how much?” Alex bit his tongue to hide his irritation.
“Let’s see what you’ve got for me in a week, and we’ll go from there.”
“A week?” Alex’s tongue began to throb.
“A week it is then; I’ll see you in my office next Sunday.”
“Wait, Miss Bell, I,” the dial tone halted Alex’s feeble attempt to negotiate.
Ripping the telephone cord from the wall outlet, Alex fought the scream crawling up his esophagus from his lungs. A mug of coffee from his percolator gentled the scream to a whimper. Another mug of coffee, this time with a splash of whiskey and cream, calmed his nerves.
Drawing deeply from his first cigarette of the day, Alex felt the familiar pull towards his typewriter. Across the room, he succumbed to its magnetism, swiveling in his olive desk chair. A stack of hand-written pages outlining his entire series sat on his desk. ‘This outline took me two sleepless days; a week is absolutely manageable,’ he struggled not to recognize his own forced optimism, fanning through the pages with his forefinger. In an effort to stir his creativity, Alex typed out the first sentence of his outline:
Red and Marienne rendezvous, as promised, in a thatched hut located in the jungles of the Yucatan peninsula. peninsula. peninsula. peninsula. peninsula.
A professor had once told Alex to retype the last word before writer’s block hit. The advice was a dud. Alex snatched the sheet from the grasp of the typewriter and tossed it into the basket at his feet.
The morning warmth grew into an afternoon heat that assaulted the city apartment. Some years ago, Alex received three throw covers as a birthday gift from his late mother. These throw covers, Alex decided, would appease the rising temperature once tacked over the formidable windows. His make-shift drapes suffered the same as the advice. Alex opened the panes in an effort for breeze; it wasn’t enough. ‘This apartment isn’t conducive to creativity,’ he reached for his notebook and a pencil.
Keeping his destination in mind, Alex quickened his pace through the shaded walkways of the park. Scattered lifeless beneath the thickest shade trees, the neighborhood kids had no havoc for today. The metal door of the city zoo’s open-air atrium seared his palm. What better place in the city to connect the dots of his newest novel than in this caged jungle? The tiny diamonds of the atrium let through a deceptive breeze as Alex meandered along the suspended walkway. Finding a bench, he faded into the Yucatan as the croaking of banana-beaked toucans melded with the prattle of flamingos.
Leaning against a canistel tree, Alex was startled by a quick-approaching sound. He took refuge in the branches and peered through the glossy leaves. Red whacked at the thick jungle foliage with an aging machete, arriving at an over-grown Mayan pyramid. Learning that canistel trees do not provide a stealthful dismount, Alex trotted along Red’s trail. Red disappeared on the other side of the monument; Alex pursued. An exposed root caused Alex to take a tumble. Sprawled at the boots of his target, Alex anticipated the splintered machete severing his head from his body. Instead, the boots finished their rest and then carried on their trek, as if Red had walked straight through Alex. ‘Of course! I’m not part of this,” Alex’s body was renewed. His tree-climbing scrapes no longer ached; his thirst faded to the back of his throat until it was no more. Remembering the task at hand, Alex made his strides with confidence, still on the hunt. He caught a glimpse of Red’s faded linen shirt round a crevice of the architecture. Clutching the crumbling stone, he positioned his body the same as he last saw Red’s. Alex flung himself around the corner, his stomach in his throat. “Alex?” the two figures turned simultaneously. This was not right. There was Red, still gripping his machete. And there was Marienne; he knew from the tell-tale scar on her lower left thigh. But neither Marienne’s nor Red’s face gazed back at him. Rather, the two figures shared matching faces. Though the face felt familiar, it was of a young woman Alex had never before encountered. “You can see me? How did… who are you?” the pain from his fall came throbbing back. The mirroring faces glanced at one another, then back at Alex. A Cheshire grin spread across their lips simultaneously.
Alex regained reality with a jolt. The birds had begun to shriek in a frenzy. He cringed at the shrill orchestra and found himself back on the shaded park walkways. Losing track of his walk, he found himself back at apartment 320. The open windows had succeeded in making it feel less stuffy, but the heat persisted. Alex spun his notebook onto his desk, nicking his hip against the corner as he turned for his bathroom. As Alex waited for a cool bath to fill the tub, he stripped away his sticky clothing and lay against the cool bathroom tile. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The young woman’s face stared back from the inside of his eyelids. Alex heard a giggle from the sidewalk below; the inside of his eyelids giggled along. He could not help but to stare back, inspecting his dream-woman. Finally prying his eyes open, he was relieved to see the bath almost full. Goosebumps spread from his legs to his neck as he submerged.
Sheathed in his towel, Alex felt his brainwaves steady. In the corner of his eye, his desk reminded him of the task at hand. ‘Day one is almost done, and the book is no where near,’ he cringed at the thought of missing Samantha Bell’s timeline, ‘Time to actually get some work done.’
Adjusting in his desk chair, Alex noticed the sheet of paper draped over his typewriter, still in the roller. He glanced at the basket; the sheet discarded this morning was still there. ‘Perhaps this is a sign; the good Lord Himself is telling me I need to get to work.’ Rolling the new sheet back to typing position, Alex readied to once again begin. However, it looked as someone had begun for him:
Bubbles escaped from under the hood of the car as Beatrix dreamed of her childhood summers at the lake. “Father was right; this really is a beautiful way to go,” Beatrix announced to herself as she prepared for the finale of her gentle descent.
He was conscious of each vein, each capillary, each blood vessel swelling and compressing at a phenomenal rate. A frantic scan of the room revealed no author. His fingers and toes began to numb; extremities soon followed. All attempts to rise from his seat failed. There was only one thing to do:
In the moments before, they say your mind flies through your entire existence.
There had been a wall-papered apartment with a fireplace in the sitting room.
Just as Beatrix’s lips closed around Alex’s mind to consume it, a loud but decisive rap at the door pulled him from his trance. Rising from his desk chair, Alex stumbled for his robe. The peephole exaggerated Samantha Bell’s sharp nose and the horn-rimmed glasses that sat upon it.
“Just one moment, Miss Bell,” Alex called as he unlatched the door.
“I’ve been trying to reach you since noon,” the floor creaked and bowed in submission as Samantha Bell’s pumps announced her aggravation.
“My apologies, I unplugged the phone so the ringer wouldn’t disturb my work,” Alex lied as he quietly admired Samantha’s slender ankles
Samantha seemed mildly satisfied with his excuse. “I don’t usually make house calls, you know, but you can understand the company’s heavy interest in this. That said, let’s see where you’re at.” She helped herself to his desk, relieving the typewriter of Beatrix’s sheet. Alex felt his fingertips begin to numb again. “This is what you unplugged your phone for? This is your ‘work’? Is this all you’ve done today, Alex?!” Samantha’s normally steady voice became more hysterical with each question, “Alex? Alex!”
“No. No, that’s from…before. I haven’t been using my typewriter today. The atrium seemed a good place to work, I just wrote in my journal,” a believable lie had never before come to him so easily. Alex prayed his blank notebook remained undiscovered.
“What?! How do you expect to complete a novel by hand in a week? And how, pray tell, am I supposed to read your chicken scratch?” Samantha’s infuriation caused her red freckles to show from under her powder.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Bell. I’ll type it all out tonight; the typewriter will be my only medium from here on out. It was not my intention to upset you,” Alex rambled off apologies and promises without hesitation. What he said was not important; the desperation for her to leave had began to show on his face.
“Finish it. I’ll be by at seven a.m. sharp. You might think about wearing some clothes this time,” the visit’s end was confirmed as Samantha escorted herself out the door with a decisive slam.
The reverberation of the loud slam smacked Alex across the mouth, knocking him to the floor. Discarded next to him was Beatrix’s tale, unfinished. Picking himself and Beatrix up, he scuttled to the kitchen to pour a glass of whiskey and water. Sipping would not be sufficient this time; he gulped the drink down and poured another. As he expected, the fresh drink didn’t change reality: there was no writing his novel. Taking a sip from his rocks glass, Alex winked back at Beatrix’s face, gazing at him from an ice cube.
Alex pulled a fresh sheet of paper and reeled it into typing position. He closed his eyes. From the back of his eyelids, Beatrix radiated as she finally had his full attention:
Bubbles escaped from under the hood of the car as Beatrix dreamed of her childhood summers at the lake. “Father was right; this really is a beautiful way to go,” she announced to herself as she prepared for the finale of her gentle descent. In the moments before, they say your mind flies through your entire existence.
There had been a wall-papered apartment with a fireplace in the sitting room. On the coldest nights, Beatrix would sit in her nightgown, cocoa in hand, and warm her cheeks by the fire. Encasing her bedroom, her bookcases had always been full of an ever-circulating mix of literature. Mother did not approve, but Daddy couldn’t say no.
There had been a summer cabin on a lake in Minnesota. The water was cold and clean and bit at Beatrix’s skin. When a warm rain came through, she and her sister ran to place buckets where the roof leaked.
There were lecture halls filled with the wisdom of the industry’s finest writers, editors, scholars. From winter holiday writer’s conferences to spring breaks at symposium, Beatrix packed every waking hour of her University-days with improving, absorbing, and revising.
There were scattered stacks of rejection letters around her office. At first, having an office, albeit tiny and pushed to a corner of the campus with the other graduate student offices, made Beatrix feel she had a career. The novelty wore off in just a few short months. It was then that the office tried furiously to crush her hopes and box her into a teaching career. She left the University not long after.
There was his casket, adorned and open on a pedestal. Its absence of color was all the more emphasized by the surrounding poppies, roses, lilies, and marigolds. As the organ played on, shadows of figures with faces she’d seen blurred together. They shook to the same moaning refrain as Beatrix’s own body had trembled out the conduction. Closing the casket, she discarded all of her journals, all of her writings, with the only one who had respected them.
And now, now the windshield bowed at the increasing pressure. Now, her feet were numb in the ankle-deep icy water. Beatrix clenched a stack of her favorite rejection letters as the water reached her chest. Making one last human attempt, she held her breath in her coffin full of dancing, weightless, bleeding pages.
Alex opened his eyes.
Bubbles escaped from under the hood of the car as Alex dreamed of Miss Bell’s visit to his empty apartment. “Beatrix was right; this really is a beautiful way to go,” Alex announced to himself as he prepared for the finale of his gentle decent.
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I think there is a lot here but I feel it is a bit wordy. It seems to me that you like to write with a maximum of words instead of a concise telling of the story. This is not a problem if you can achieve this without the words getting in the way of what you are trying to say. I rather like the story and how it ends but I do feel you could just simplify the language in places just so that it is not so very arduous to read. At times I felt like each sentence was just too much to get through. Try having certain sentences really stand out with the flowery prose among some that are more simply stated. This might result in a story that is easier to read and really is able to capture the reader. Good luck with this piece, I felt it was well-written if not a bit “over-written”. Simplify and it will be brilliant.
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-Overuse of adverbs. “Decidedly,” “narrowly” (Besides. How to you narrowly escape lions that are cement?) They don’t really fit in where you have them, either. The two that I mentioned could be taken out and the story would have the same impact.
-320 = three-twenty.
-No apostrophe before ‘saw’
-Obviously Alex knows who Red is, mind introducing him to the rest of us? Just a blurb as he sees Red would suffice.
-Interesting premise as far as the hallucination with Alex and his characters. The segueway was undetectable and it spiced up the story.
-I know that agents can get cranky, but Samantha seems like she’s a bit over the top.
-The slam of a door was powerful enough to knock him on his back? Either that’s an exaggeration or one large door.
-All right. I assume that Alex was drowning, or his car was sinking or something like that. If that’s the ending, then how did he know what was going on with Samantha? I can see the rest, because it’s a writer’s imagination. But, the story seems to jump around from hallucination to reality to hallucination and it doesn’t really separate at all. Maybe instead of Beatrix’s story, have it as his story idea. It should still get the same point across.
Good luck and thanks for sharing.
There were two things I really liked about this: One, the descriptions were quite vivid. I could see, and smell, and feel the scenes. Two, I liked the back and forth between the “real” world and Alex’s characters’ world and the slight overlap between them. That was interesting.
A couple of minor points:
I don’t think the esophagus connects to the lungs.
Do flamingos prattle? I encountered one once and it said nothing.
Less minor:
Why doesn’t Alex get an air conditioner? Is this supposed to be taking place a long time ago? Come to think of it I guess it must be as Alex is typing on a TYPEWRITER. What is the time period? That is not clear, nor why this needs to be taking place in a past era instead of the present.
Why does Alex call his editor “Miss Bell”? Surely they are both adults?
Personal opinion: I didn’t like the ending. Why would Alex commit suicide when his writing seems to be getting more creative by the minute?
The beginning was slow, almost stilted. That is because you hadn’t found your voice. It was like you were trying to sound like a writer and not being a writer. The good thing is that you eventually did find your voice/style and it flowed well from that point on. So the first fix is to trash the beginning and either re-write it in your natural voice or start at the phone call. That is where the tale really begins anyway.
Another major issue with your story is that your character Alex is paper thin. Considering the ending, this is a not a good thing. Sam can be paper-thin, but Alex cannot. You need to add depth to his character. Show us why he writes, flashback to the professor telling him how to defeat writer’s block and the feelings and reactions between them. Show us why the writer’s block manifest itself as another’s tale and how it slowly takes over Alex. As it is, there is no suspense. You go from one day to the last day of the week with no transition. And what about the dream of Red and Marianne? What was that about? How did you go from that to Beatrix? That also needs clarification.
Good luck.
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