Flash Fiction - Quiet Time

Anabelle The Human, by DeviantArtist Kyendo

Quiet Time

My back began to itch.  I stretched to the right, arching my back, and rubbed it against the smooth bark.  It felt strangely comforting when I realized my eyes were closed.  Snapping them open I found myself sitting at the base of a large Madrone, small reddish berries lay strewn about on and under a thick carpet of leaves that defined the canopy of the tree to belie its evergreen status.  How did I come to be in this place? 

I drew in a breath of the moist mist obscuring the light and let it out as I clawed my way up the tree.  Strips of the thin red bark peeled away revealing the yellowish meat of the tree.  My knees felt stiff.  How long was I sitting here?  Once on my feet, I could smell the light pungent odor of the decaying debris from the trees composting the soil for next Springs renewal of life.   Most people think this is a miserable time of year when the trees drop their leaves, and their knurled branches protrude for the inspection of all.    I find the forest at this time of year curiously interesting.   The mist and cooling temperature with each passing minute told me it was mid-evening and the ground cover was beginning to give up its heat to the feral elements of the sky.

I had to smile as my disorientation faded and I realized that the Sun was just past its apex when I strode the path to this spot and sat at the base of the Madrone to soak up the quiet and reflect.  Reflection was short-lived as I had slipped into a deep slumber.   Could I have slept the whole afternoon away?  It seems so.  I hadn’t felt tired when I came out here.  Even so, I still feel drained, why is that?

“I’m sorry, Sharon.”  A familiar voice came to my mind.  I had forgotten her for the moment.

“Raven?”   Where was she?  “Raven, what are you doing?”  I looked around and found Raven floating up the path through the trees.  She blended in with the mist.  Her long tendrils of white hair flowed freely from her angelic features partially covering her bare torso terminating beyond her long slender feet.  She never had a fear of tripping as she never touched the ground.   She had told me before her exquisite body, flawless complexion and sparkling diamond eyes were a reflection of my own.  I have to admit when I look in the mirror after a bath that I am well apportioned, but otherwise, I don’t see it.  

“Raven, you left me.  That’s why I slumbered so thoroughly.”

“Yes, you were so quiet just sitting I thought I would explore.  You’re not angry with me, are you?”

“Oh no, that’s fine,” I assured her.  I knew there would be a few more days we could come out again before the snow fell.   “Do you want to join now?” 

“No.  I see the forest reaching for us.  They sense our departure and don’t want us to go.  So, few people extend caring for them the way we do this time of year.  They would hold us in place were they able.”

“It’s getting cold, and Mother will worry if we don’t go now.”

Raven extended her hand, and I took it.  I felt nothing although my hand gripped firmness and stopped before closing. 

“Hold my hand and fly me to the forest edge before we combine.  There is no wind today, and I love the caress of the air over my body.” 

I nodded.  I knew Raven would ask.  She always asks.  I squeezed her hand and took off running down the path with her in tow.   I sensed the forlorn forest reaching for us.   It knows we’ll be back. 

In 1978...My first Novel's journey

In 1978 I took a creative writing class at the local Junior College and wrote a short story.  The instructor, Jackson Connelly, wanted me to do more with it, but I wasn't interested.  Honestly, I really didn't know what more to do with it. 

Fast forward thirty-eight years and I still have that story in my drawer.  Looking for something to fill the void between remodeling the house, dropping hundred foot trees in the yard and babysitting grandchildren I decided to join a writing group or two in my area, here in Washington state.  

I presented my short story to the groups.  Low and behold, they suggested that I do something more with it after blooding it with red ink in critiques.  Another two years has passed and I no longer have a short story.  I have a novel of 80K words.  Month after month chapters still got bloodied with critiques.  I have say, less red ink than in the beginning.

Funny thing is writing a coming-of-age story set in the mid-thirties was about the last thing I thought I would do as my reading preference is Sci-fi and fantasy.  Go figure.   Nevertheless I learned a lot.  Here are some of the things I figured out.

1. I can write about anything.  Now, with that said, it doesn't mean what I write is accurate or interesting  But it is to me.  If I want my writing to be accurate that's where research comes into play.  One thing about research I found is I cannot rely completely on memory.  Many of the components in my book stem from what I observed of my parents and grandparents that lived in the period.  I can tell you my recollection is faulty with facts, but not feelings.  As far as interesting goes, that is subjective.  You will like my story, or parts of it, or not.  That is the artistic side of me coupled with skill to project a story that isn't full of all the goofs that put the reader off.
2. I find there are as many ways to construct a book as there are people writing them.  Some plot and lay out every minutia of the story in outlines, spreadsheets and other story generating software.  Some write to perfection each paragraph before moving to the next.  Some write out of order, I suppose as inspiration hits them; then they stitch it all together in the edit.   You get the idea.  Here is what I did.
1. I had a short story to prime the pump, so to speak. 
2. I wrote the story in order.  Only once I shifted a later chapter to an earlier point to remove it from its flashback status and reworked it to real time.
3. I invented characters as they appeared in the story.  The side-kick and mentor to the protagonist appeared.  After writing the first encounter, I broke off and spent a couple days developing the side-kicks backstory.  With that in place I could develop depth to his character as the story developed.  I did that with every character in the book, and to a lesser extent the flat/minor players.
4. I had an end in mind.  There were times I wondered if I was going to reach that end.  But I did, even though the climax or the event everyone was looking forward too came much earlier than the finish.  
5. I had an underlying message or theme that acted as the compass to the development of the story.  In this case, it was positive, hopeful and that not all things are as they seem. 
6. I found that even though I wrote myself into a corner I had only to wait for the paint to dry to write my way out of it.  That took me about six weeks to figure out how to avoid a premature climax.  During that time, I hardly wrote anything other than a few flash fiction pieces for fun.
7. Breaks help.  Beside what I wrote in f. above, I took a month off to vacation across the U.S. and didn't write anything during that time.  When I settled down at the keyboard I was able to pound out another 30K  in the following month and finish the book.
8. I'm not good enough to write in a vacuum.  I need feedback, critiques, and the encouragement I get from the two writing groups I attend each month.  Some authors in the groups present perfect prose most the time.  I strive to do the same and fall short every time.  Yet, with them setting the bar so high I have had to stretch.  That has improved my writing leaps and bounds.
3. Finish.  At least the first draft from the opening sentence to 'The End'.  Several people in my writing groups are on second and third books.  Others, fizzle.  That's okay.   We all lose interest in something our heart really isn't in.  So, write something else.  There have been skilled story mentors in the group, that their sage advice has merit and has improved my storytelling when I've taken it.  Yet, they have never finished anything - in years.

There, that is where I am at the present.  In the editing mode.  Starting to send feelers out to agents.  I know it's a long haul.  I don't attend conferences.  My efforts are part time, because of things I mentioned earlier; that means my results will be protracted or never come to fruition.  The last I hope to avoid.

I have three more chapters to present to the groups for critique.  Then I'll be nearly done.  The beta-reading phase is needed where I can get feedback from skilled eyes on the whole work, not just chapter by chapter over a couple years.  Although the grammar isn't too bad, it needs a going over by an editor for that, content and readability.  I know I’m too close to it.  There has been to many times when I thought I was presenting some of my best writing only to get slapped severely about the head and shoulders by the ruthless gang of critiquers.   I simply need help.

Thanks for dropping by.

E.J. Hall