Very encouraging and helpful review, thank you. I hope you’ll read more when I post it :)
Novel Treatments / Ordinary Carolina Chapter 1
Carolina Beaumont was conceived in the back seat of a Volvo in 1976. When Sylvia Beaumont told Dwayne, her loyal boyfriend of 6 months, what had occurred, he skipped town so fast and so completely that his own mother didn’t hear from him for almost two years and when she did he had changed his name to Carlos. Sylvia was swayed very little by anything, and when “Carlos” skipped town she simply moved out of her dorm, back into her mom and dad’s house and took to wearing shirts that would leave bare the full girth of her ever expanding belly. Carolina’s mother was a seemingly insurmountable force; fiercely intelligent with a wit so sharp she could use it to split a hair. The prying eyes in the grocery store did nothing to ruffle her feathers as she watched them shift uneasily from her rounded form to her bandless finger. She would smile and give them a coy wink, leaving every woman to wonder if her own husband could be involved, and each man to fear he was forgetting a single night of debauchery. Her cheeky reaction horrified her mother, who skirted the giggling Sylvia away and whispered sharply that should her father ever find out… It was not an empty threat, it was a stern warning; one that Sylvia had ignored on more than one occasion.
She watched her burgeoning form change every day, and laughed as Carolina thrust her limbs around inside her, demanding to be given more room to move. She smiled at her child’s strength of will, and cooed loving words of life and freedom. The pregnancy was coming to its end and the nursery next door to Sylvia’s room was hung with colors of green and yellow and the crib lay in wait. She sat in the chair in the far corner and rocked as her contractions begun, smiling gently that the process was at its start and reading Peter Rabbit aloud as she stroked her belly, now full for its last day. Tomorrow her stomach would not be round and the skin would not be stretched taut. Tomorrow everything would be changed.
Only when it came time to push forth the life within her did Sylvia finally come to grips with what was happening. Only then did something deep inside her cause her eyes to widen and her to blurt out, “I can’t do this!” The nurse, believing she was overwhelmed by pain, simply shushed her and coached her forward. Some part of Sylvia tried to make her stop thinking this way, it seemed an affront to the tenacity of her optimism, and she was able to bear down and continue with the birth of her child. Still, somewhere in the dark recesses of Sylvia’s heart, doubt lie, and it could only grow there, like a mold. It seeped out black thoughts as steel tools glinted beneath the glaring lights of the birthing room and drops of blood fell onto a pristine white floor. Some very real part of Sylvia Beaumont knew that she was laboring toward the beginning of one life’s freedom, and the ending of her own.
Carolina Beaumont was born on the seventh of July in 1977, in a sterile hospital room. It was the most normal thing that ever happened in her life.
Carolina’s first memories were of living with her mother and her grandparents, a situation that had its highs and its lows and very little ground in between. Her grandfather, Hank, was a veteran of the Second World War. He had the posture of a flagpole and the gut of a man who had been sitting in an armchair and drinking beer for the better part of a decade. Not a hair on his head was out of place; his pants were neatly pressed and his shirt was tucked tight as a snare drum under his waistband. Most of Carolina’s memories of Hank involved him just as he was now, glowering at her from his recliner and mumbling that the overalls Sylvia always had her wearing made her look like a goddam farmer.
“Sylvia! What in the hell do you have this girl wearing?”
“God, Dad, they’re just overalls!” she called from the kitchen, where she was busy stewing up the barley soup he hated so much. He grumbled again that she was always trying to feed him soy or lentils or anything else with no taste at all. He would take ten more heart attacks like the last one if it meant he could have a nice slab of red meat once in a while. He looked at Carolina again, closer, his eyes squinting as if trying to bring her into focus. Her grandfather was a tall, formidable man. His teeth were yellowed from smoking and his breath produced a pungent gust of whiskey each time he spoke. The war had taken its toll on his body, but he never shared his stories. Carolina propped herself in his lap, as she did whenever she felt he was in a receptive mood and ran her fingers over the ridges of scar tissue on his hand. Most of his fingers were missing from his left one, and since she had known her grandfather to have this particular feature her whole life, it never occurred to her to shy away from it. Sometimes as she did he would say, “does old stumpy scare ya’?” and shake the mangled digits in her face, but it only caused her to giggle. Then he would say, “What about this?” and would wriggle his dentures loose from his gums and clatter them around in his mouth like castanets. It was one of her favorite games. Today he wasn’t in the mood for a game.
“You look like a farmer. Congratulations. You have a mother who dresses you up in a goddam Halloween costume on a regular Wednesday in the middle of spring.” He shook his head as he stood up, lowering her to the floor, and walked away muttering. Something about Hank’s demeanor often caused Carolina to stay out of his way; he gave her the feeling of always being underfoot. Her grandmother was her savior in that respect, always skirting her to the side and tucking her into a corner with a picture book and a glass of chocolate milk.
Claire Beaumont had passed very little of herself onto Sylvia, other than her dark hair and unshakable placidity. She had known Hank since high school, and married him upon his returning from the war. He never spoke of his time overseas, or what battle may have claimed so much of his heart and body. She knew the man he was when he left, and that the experience had caused him to be a bit askew, but she could do nothing but move forward in her young, naïve hopes to bring him back to what he once was. She had believed, as many young women do, that if she could coordinate just perfectly the loveliness of her appearance, the gentility of her touch, and the fierceness of her loyalty, that she could breathe life back into the ghost that Europe had returned to her. She genuinely loved him.
With all the faith she had in the man she loved, she was also acutely aware of his many flaws. He was an intimidating person, and not afraid to crush someone with the blunt nature of his conversation. She bore well under the weight of his irrepressible need for an orderly house with a repetitive schedule. Wednesday was pork chop night and he had a certain pair of shoes for checking the mail. Bedtime was nine o’clock, and if your wedding was running a bit late, well they were sorry but they’d have to pass on the invitation.
Although the obstinate wall of her husband often clashed with the free spirited defiance of their daughter, she had seen how his demeanor had changed when Sylvia had left for college. They had only just begun to adapt to the new life in the empty nest when Sylvia had returned home with life inside her. The changes were too often and too many, and he became overwhelmed. There was little Claire could do to calm him. The subsequent series of explosions within her husband were almost unbearable, and when they rumbled to the surface of him they often weighed too heavy on their home.
“Dave Bellman was down at Pete’s tonight and asked how Syl was doing,” he said out of nowhere at dinner one evening, “I couldn’t tell him about the state she was in. It was too embarrassing.”
“Dad!” Sylvia just stared at him, eyes wide. Claire took a bite of pork chop. It was Wednesday.
“What? Would you want to tell your friends all about how your daughter got knocked up?”
“For God’s sake, Dad! Carolina is almost two now, I’m a little passed knocked up, don’t you think?”
“It doesn’t make me any less ashamed.”
“How can you talk about her like that? She’s right in front of you, and she’s your granddaughter!”
“She’s almost two, and she can’t even talk yet! What am I supposed to be more proud of? The fact she’s a bastard, or that she’s retarded!”
“Hank!” Claire blurted finally.
“Fine, sorry,” he said, and stood, “I’m just going to go to bed.” And tossing his napkin down on his almost full plate, he walked away.
The women of the Beaumont house all sat quietly for a moment, listening to the sound of Hank heading to his room. They knew it wouldn’t end this simply. After the sound of Hank putting his good fist through the drywall and breaking a lamp against his headboard the house again settled and they finished eating and wordlessly cleared away the dinner dishes.
Carolina found refuge in her grandmother by sitting in her lap, cushioned by the soft pillow of her chest and would fall asleep to the sound of Claire’s heartbeat, sucking her thumb and smelling her grandmother’s perfume. Claire found solace in her granddaughter as well; enjoying great peace in the familiar, supple texture of baby skin and the hypnotic state reached as she rocked with her and patted her diapered bottom as the child fell asleep curled to her breast.
It would take less than two years for Carolina to forget what her grandparents looked like, or the sound of their voices, after the falling out that finally, perhaps inevitably, shook their home. She wouldn’t remember the fight that Hank and Sylvia had over her, or that the dinner burned on the stove as they shouted. She wouldn’t remember her grandmother trying to intervene against all hope, or the sound of her grandfather’s half-closed fist smacking Sylvia across her mouth and knocking her to the floor. She wouldn’t remember that it wasn’t the first time Sylvia had fallen at the hand of her father, or that she fell asleep in fear behind the living room sofa, where she slumbered through the night with an empty belly.
She would only remember sitting in the car on the day they left, looking in through the window where her grandmother stood in the dark. She could see nothing beyond the reflection of the sky against the pane of glass except her grandmother’s hanker-chief and the pale hand that clasped it in her grief.
Just one day later, they were in Seattle living with a girl named Maggie who had a glass eye. Her hair was short and she wore so many black and white checkerboard patterns that it hurt to look at her.
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najah reviewed Version 1 -
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Allow me to comiserate with you, I’m in a funk about yesterday’s rejection letter. You definitely have a way with words. Metaphors like ‘a wit so sharp she could use it to split a hair’ and the aliteration in ‘produced a pungent gust of whiskey’ lend texture to this piece. The character development is good, but so far the character who stands out most is Hank, and he’s left behind. As it is now this is a good short story but there’s nothing here to make me want to read more. Develop Sylvia further; use more instances where her devil-may-care unconventional personality can shine through. What’s her dream? Her ambitions? Her secret desires? Give us a hint of this and we’ll be hooked.
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LettersToYou reviewed Version 1 -
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I honestly can’t see anything weak in this. Maybe the first sentence didn’t capture me intirely, but the first paragraph did. Its not commen for me to WANT to read a whole chapter of some of the work on here, but not only did I, but I really enjoyed it. The charactor descriptions were dead-on and the diversity makes them easy to tell apart and to relate to.
The language was great also. Things like:
“wit so sharp she could use it to split a hair”
and
“posture of a flagpole”—paint quite vivid pictures in the mind.
And I can honestly say that I want to read more. Good luck with this, I think you have something here.
rrjs reviewed Version 1 -
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Greetings
Get rid of everything before “Carolina Beaumont was born on the seventh of July in 1977, in a sterile hospital room. It was the most normal thing that ever happened in her life.” or fit it into the story later. If I had your 2nd chapter here I might say the same thing about everything you have written here since nothing all that interesting has occurred yet. It has only been alluded to by the sentence I suggested you start with. Let me know what it is that will be so interesting to me. Character development can wait.
JillianChan reviewed Version 1 -
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March 28, 2007
Deleted User
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I like you story and i felt the saddnes of how Sylvia was treated being seen from the childs eyes. i am a little confused though, in the begining of the first paragrah you say she Caroliner was born in the back seat of a 1977 Volvo, then in another part of your story you say that she was born in a sterile hospital room, which is ti?
campb26593 reviewed Version 1 -
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The back story begins this piece too passively. I recommend that the first paragraph begin with Carolina’s dialog explaining her past to someone, like a minister, relative, or another sort of confidant. And, maybe that confidant is revealing some of the past TO Carolina.
They can poke fun and mock Carlos’ name.
Or, I recommend that you consider rewriting this in first-person from Carolina’s point of view. That would make the passive narrative seem more personal.
The story is touching and kept my attention. I was especially interested when Carolina forgot her grandparents and felt that could have gotten a little more play.
Good work.
Lisa_M reviewed Version 1 -
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you said ” her loyal boyfriend of 6 months,” how loyal can one be after only six months? How about leaving out the loyal or if you need something (i think the sentence would work without it) then say her loving boyfriend
You said “The pregnancy was coming to its end and the nursery next door to Sylvia’s room was hung with colors of green and yellow and the crib lay in wait.” seems too wordy. Shorten it by saying something like, the room next to her’s was done up in greens and yellows, with the waiting to be filled. it may not be all that shorter but it flows along better.
The thing I got out of this was that it’s choppy and needs to flow better. Going back and trying to shorten up sentences, changing things around will make them flow.
It’s not that I don’t think the story is good, I just don’t think it can hold the reader at this point due to the lack of flow. And, I’m not really feeling the characters, they don’t seem to have a voice of thier own, sort of generic. Need to bring them to life and add some 3-D to them, make us love them or hate them.
Helmling reviewed Version 1 -
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Pulling off so much straight exposition is tricky and sometimes it can be off-putting for some readers. I think you have a lot of flair to your story-telling and descriptions and that helps.
You could try focusing on the dialogue from later and revealing the back story more incrementally.
Or maybe you could try showing this early information from Carolina’s point of view, but that would be much more involved.
I’m assuming that we’re going to find out more about this Maggie in the next chapter as she seems a pretty offbeat character to just stick in for a line at the end.
sottovoce reviewed Version 1 -
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First of all, I believe more precise punctuation and grammar would help me better relate to the characters. I know you asked that this not be mentioned, but the run-ons and truncated thoughts and other syntactically challenged sentences are distracting. Punctuation helps characterization by highlighting important phrases, indicating semantic connectivity and setting an emotional pace within the narration. I did not feel particularly engaged with the narrative until after Carolina’s birth: the beginning is a bit rushed and many of the details just didn’t seem believable. I suggest beginning with Carolina’s birth: ” Carolina Beaumont was born …It was the most normal thing that ever happened in her life.” makes for a great opening to the story. You could flash back to the present opening paragraphs later, when Sylvia’s return from college is mentioned, for example: not that I mean to hijack your work, of course. The story’s dialogue is excellent; I wish there were more of it because it builds up your characters in a more graceful manner than the narration, which tends to over-explain aspects of character. I believe I would read more, but the story will have to pick up a bit because, as it stands, this is a typical independent-woman-in-a-harsh-world plotline. There is nothing wrong with that, it’s just that there are a lot of these stories, so yours must stand out somehow. Again, the dialogue is wonderful, work more into the story if possible, and trim the narration: let the characters’ actions speak more than the third-person omniscient ghost over their shoulder.
out_of_words reviewed Version 1 -
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having not read any versions before this i can’t make any comparisons for better or worse, but i will say that i like this first chapter. i feel you have a unique voice and definetly would read more if you posted it. i felt like your dialog flowed well and seemed realistic, which i think is difficult for amateurs to acheive. one question though, what age range (if any) are you aiming to write for?
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