or Connect
Mothering › Mothering Forums › Archives › Miscellaneous › Mothers' Writing Group › W.I.P. November
New Posts  All Forums:Forum Nav:

W.I.P. November - Page 2

post #21 of 24
Thanks Emey,

I really appreciate that you took the time to read my essay, and thanks for your feedback. I agree, Brain, Child seems like the right place to submit. Just to see what would happen, I went through the entire essay yesterday and this morning trimming as much fat as I could (even though it pained me to do so - the fat is often the most delicious part!) and managed to get the essay below 7.500 words. Still not enough for a 4,500 word limit, but a worthwhile exercise, anyway. Next task will be a completely new version. I just have to decide what part of the story to let go of for now.

thanks again-

post #22 of 24
I hope that this is okay to post, here is a revised draft of the story I posted earlier in the month. Enjoy and please any feedback at all - especially specific feedback regarding tense and the shift from present to memory - if that makes any sense. Thanks! Emey

You Ana were tall and grew smiles on your face. At home in laughter, settled in and comfortable. I remember how you would invite me in to sit for a while.

Then one day we found you beneath the shattered, sharp like picture glass lake. Your body was gone three days to the water and the smallest of smiles graced your lips. Or maybe that was my imagination.

Suddenly, I couldn't remember what it was like to breathe, and I still can’t. I can remember what it is not like but not what it is like. Sound got stuck in my throat with every breath and I got lost in the maze of my own thoughts. No promises, no guarantees. Nothing stays the same for long. Even you Ana. I can see now how living over time becomes too real to be withstood.

And I remember the nightmare time. I remember the days after you died, Ana. The way the rain pulled itself down from the sky. I remember, I remember, I remember and I chant the phrase over and over again and lose myself in the confusion of over and over again words that stumble and trip on one another. And there is never enough, like the covers on the bed in winter, which you’ve pulled up over your frozen nose leaving your toes to fend for themselves.

God, I thought that things would be different for us Ana.

I can still see you running through the backfield the grasses tall to your hips. The glory of the fir trees rise in the distance and a clear blue sky sings overhead.

I don’t remember things I’ve never known about you, though I’m learning now, your writing still draws me in Ana and I am finding that there was so much I never knew.

And I remember the clots of people so tight in our house after the service that I couldn’t breathe. The kind words with hands outstretched and warm voices sucked the breath from my lungs and I found myself gasping and crying. No surprise I guess to the people who surrounded me. No one noticed. That’s what a widow is supposed to do right? Fall to pieces. I cry and scream in my silence about how unfair it is the water has you instead of me, that you are free and I am still here tethered. So no one was surprised to see me decompose before them. And I grew to suspect they had seen it all before. My breakdown was one more entry in a litany of grief.

And I don’t remember you Ana. I don’t remember you anymore. I remember your body pale in death. I remember your stiff face and that smile.
I hate you for that smile.

I hate you for the way your smile taunts me, follows me through this life I am not living. I refuse. I refuse to go on.

I refuse to talk and eat and breathe as though I were a person in this world instead of a shadow. Those first few months our friends called me at night when the darkness huddled in close and I was shut up in our house. And the cat finally settled in my lap after years of preferring yours.

The month after you died Ana I was sitting in the living room having the usual conversation with you in my head, telling you I’d taken time off from work and perhaps I’d not go back, when I remembered I’d left the lights on.

Shit. I thought. Janna is here with Sally and they are knocking hard on the door. They knew that I was home and I couldn’t hide, I knew they were on their way to music and probably dancing.

I opened the door that night and there they were, the lamplight making a circle out of the darkness and me standing with a blanket trailing behind me.

Standing in the cold the yellow of the light brought out the lines of life, worry and too little sleep on all the faces framed by the door. I couldn’t meet their eyes. I looked down at the ground and said, “Hey.”

Janna replies trying to catch my eye wit the gentleness of hers, reaching her hand out to grasp my shoulder, “Hey you,” she says softly. Sally pulls me into a billowy hug, her down jacket like a pillow surrounding her and then me. I can feel her strength somewhere beneath the comfort of softness.

I crumpled to the ground and the cold of the cement step reached up through the thin cloth of my pajamas. Sally and Janna followed me to the ground, their arms still around me though I couldn’t feel much other that the cold of the porch. I knew their arms were around me, I could almost feel them and I know Sally and Janna.

I’ve known them longer that you Ana and will still I suppose. I hate you for that. I hate you for being gone. I hate you for the way you left.

Between the two of them that night on the porch they gathered me up and I found myself on the couch by the fire instead of the cold porch step. I wished I could still feel the cold. The cold is what keeps me separate from you and connected Ana. You don’t feel the cold, you have become the cold, but you don’t feel it.

The smooth heat of a mug was thrust into my hands and somehow I managed to hold on.

I realized finally seeing the worry toss about long enough in the stormy pools of Janna’s eyes that I must have been speaking aloud. Talking to you Ana. She must have truly thought me crazy. The fog had come in thick like spring when there is only room for a hint of warmth in the air. Exhaustion covered me as if I’d been wandering for a decade or more and haven’t found my way through. And in the fog I kept reaching for what I thought was a sound, an echo, some hint of how to pull up to the surface. The problem was that I had become the fog. Not that I needed to escape somehow, but rather that I had become fog, which is as you know hardly anything at all. Fog holds no substance and neither did I. Each time I tried to gather myself together I slipped and fell through like sand and fingers. As fog my only hope was holding on tight to the ground. And so the cold becomes my salvation.

I knew the way you know things in dreams, that I would not be free unless the cold could reach in and turn me to frost. Frost, anchored solid and secure to the earth. Frost is so much more tangible that fog. Fog is nothing. Fog was the feeling that I didn’t exist, if I could become frost I could become real.

I sat back inside making an effort working to look ‘fine’. Sally and Janna weren’t fooled easily. They sat and waited with me. I could hear them in the kitchen ‘discussing’ what was to be done about me. My mouth couldn’t no matter how hard I tried make the words dance, play echo in the way they needed to in order to convince these friends that, ‘really I was going to be okay.’

Time passed at least according to the clock on the mantel and finally Sally and Janna slept. I crept from room to room then, my slippers abandoned at the foot of my chair my feet didn’t feel the cold. The cold of the ground didn’t seem to anchor me anymore. And I was floating away.

I felt my robe flying behind me as I ran through the backfield and the moonlight streamed from above. In my mind the robe wasn’t a robe but a great tail of fog.

This was the same field, the same field that held the grasses high as your waist Ana. And even in the darkness I could almost see the line of firs like sentries guarding the drive.

No one was guarding the lake. No well-meaning friends. No stand of tall firs. No Ana.

I remember stepping barefooted onto the edge of the frozen shore where the water and the land met in ice. I felt nothing, I didn’t exist. That feeling of heavy fog was the feeling that nothing mattered anymore, that I never existed anyway. You tore through my world Ana. You with that smile that is all you left me. I realized then that I was screaming and pounding the ice in protest with my feet.

I needed the cold. I needed the ice. That is all I really had left of you Ana.

The tears that were flowing down my cheeks, turned icy as they fell. As I slipped to the ice all I remember is how smooth the lake was in winter. Covered over with what I needed most. Why wouldn’t the lake give me what I needed, what it held in such abundance?

I even dreamed that night as I cried myself to delirious sleep on the ice. I dreamed I was walking through the desert on my knees. The heat bore through me, every ray of sun a nail driven hard and fast. I lay in the sand, which radiated wave after wave of heat I felt every cell in my body screaming in protest. Each cell protesting it’s own existence. Each petitioning for freedom to become pieces of sand intermingled with sand. And I lay dying. The wind began to blow and the mountains of sand took mere seconds to overtake me. As I moved forward my hand touched something smooth and cool through the grit. A strong surge like the turning of the tide ripped through me and with aching heavy limbs I dug through the sand until my fingers grazed again the coolness. I pulled a tiny metal box out of the sand and knew the way one does in dreams what I would find inside. The lid creaked and inside was a folded piece of paper from one of those yellow legal pads Ana used the take notes. I didn’t want to then open the note even though I could see Ana’s writing through the wrong side.

In Ana’s scrawl I read squinting against the blowing sand:

‘Dear Grace, Hate me, but live. You have all of my love. Ana’

I screamed then with an ache that reached past everything and I threw the note sweat soaked and crumpled to the wind.

My eyes were open then and I was on the ice near where we found you Ana. Looking toward the house I could see Sally and Janna running across the field that same field again, an odd assortment of clothes flapping about them as they ran.

The ache stayed put at a point of no return in my gut and I retched with the force of a torrent of held back tears. Sally and Janna reached the lake and held me close.

The cold beneath me became an unbearable burning and the air frozen in my chest like knives. I could see the sky again though the fog clung to the edges of my vision the rest became the frost that covered the ground. I felt the smallest of all smiles twist at my lips, Ana’s smile. All I had left.
post #23 of 24
machepap - Your writing moves along with a nice rhythm, conversational but not too informal. I definitely think this piece has publishing potential. For suggestions on how to find a place to publish and where to do so, I recommend The Practical Writer, which has an essay on getting essays and stories published.

A few suggestions: you may want to cut the second paragraph, or move it to the end. Start with the pointed first paragraph and then immediately take us back, make us wonder how you will return to the miscarriage and how you feel about it.

I found the part about Sarah and the return to Carlos something of a distraction from the story of your relationship to motherhood.

I felt that your portrayal of motherhood is right on, an astute observation from one with no children. Nice work, and a key to good writing.

Keep at it, this piece is great.
post #24 of 24
clea danaan,

wow. thanks for your feedback, and thanks for taking the time to read this. I look forward to sitting down with the essay again and really taking in what you have to say. I'll look for The Practical Writer.

thanks again,
New Posts  All Forums:Forum Nav:
  Return Home
  Back to Forum: Mothers' Writing Group
Mothering › Mothering Forums › Archives › Miscellaneous › Mothers' Writing Group › W.I.P. November