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Week 1 Writing Assignment - Conflict Between Two Characters

“I don’t want you doing it anymore,” she said, not taking her eyes off the road.

“Doing what?” he asked. He was still exhausted. Even though he had slept until noon, he only had five hours of sleep. Just before he got off work, a repeat client had come in and wanted a limo ride.

“I think you should get another job.”

“Sweetie, I’m making more money here than anything else I could be doing. Besides, the economy isn’t exactly kind to web programmers right now.”

“But it’s consuming you.”

“No it’s not. It’s just a job.”

“Well, then, I don’t want you doing limo rides anymore.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You can say, ‘no.’ Leaving the club is not part of the job. That’s what you told me when you first started. You said you weren’t going to do that stuff.”

“But that’s where you make the money. One limo ride and I can make three times what I can in a night just at the club.”

She knew this. In fact, she didn’t mind the money brought in. She never thought they’d be able to afford the kind of wedding she dreamed of, but now it was in sight. But since he started doing the limo rides, he was coming home later and later, and that bothered her.

“I just think it opens you up,” she said.

“To what?”

“To risk. How do you know what’s going to happen? You don’t know these people. I worry for your safety.”

“There’s a driver, and they go on a defined route.”

She knew that. Truth is she was fairly certain there wasn’t much danger. That wasn’t the main concern on her wandering mind. She wasn’t sure what to worry about, but she worried. “Besides,” she asked, “what do you do in a limo that you can’t do at the club?”

He stared out the window. Rain had started dropping from the overcast sky. He didn’t want to answer her question. He knew she’d be upset, and he was ultimately afraid she might tell his mother. His mother thought he was a bartender, which already bothered her since she cashed in her life insurance to send him to college.

“So? I asked a question.”

“It’s not that. It’s just that some of the guys like your undivided attention. They pay top dollar for.”

“I understand that, but I don’t see why you can’t do that at the club. And I don’t understand why you don’t get home until the sun is coming up.”

“Time runs over with a client.”

“Three hours? The club closes at four.”

“I hang out with the guys. It’s no different when you go have drinks with the office girls.”

“Yes it is, that’s in the evening. Where do you go with these guys?”

“Nowhere. We just hang out at the club. Have a few beers. Shoot the breeze. Shoot pool.”

“I thought you said it was just a job.”

“It is just a job, dear, but I actually like the people I work with. I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal over this. What’s wrong with having a few beers after work? If we worked nine-to-five, I’d be home by eight. But I don’t. You said you were going to be supportive. But this isn’t very supportive.”

“That was different. You were getting home right after the club closed, and you weren’t riding with clients in the limo. And you didn’t spend your days sleeping or at the gym. And you were looking for a job.”

“This is my job.”

“Is it?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Oh, whatever. Like I’d do that.”

“Do what?”

“What you’re implying.”

“Was I implying something?”

“Honey,” he said, grabbing her hand. “I love you. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. This is just a job. And it pays well. When we’ve got enough money for the wedding, I’ll start looking for a job again.”

“Promise?”

“Yes. For you.”

From Charlotte

A quote from Joseph Campbell.

When you follow your bliss,
doors will open where you
would not have thought
there would be doors, and
where there wouldn't be a
door for anyone else.

From DogPoet

"It's been hard to write lately, very hard. I've learned not to rely on inspiration. I mean, yeah, she's great, but inspiration is a flakey bitch who shows up late and takes all the credit. Some of the best writing I've managed this year has been the result of sitting my thick-skulled, defiant self at the keyboard and forcing myself, in fits and starts, to pound something out. All the writers I admire give the same advice: write. So I've tried."

Birthing Myself as a Writing Thespian

Yesterday, I birthed myself to the on-line writing class I’ve started by publishing to the class a biographical statement, our first assignment. I had no examples to go off of other than the instructor’s esoteric ramblings, but felt it had to be interesting and story like. After all, it is a fiction writing class, and to simply list facts did not seem very interesting. I wanted to raise eyebrows, turn heads, and set myself apart from the crowd.

I stewed on it all morning yesterday, and finally put something together. However, by day’s end, it was clearly obvious, I had over-achieved. Some of my favorite outtakes from my classmates:

“I loved to read. I have a profound respect for books. I have so many characters in my head just waiting to be born.”

“Gosh. Write a biography about myself. Is it possible to already be…blocked? Stuck. Blocked. Having difficulties moving forward. This would describe my current status as a writer. Of fiction, I mean. I seem to do fine when it comes to (shudder) advertising.”

“And slowing my mind down in order to actually describe, say, the consistency of the hairs growing from a man’s earlobe would be a refreshing change from my normal routine.”

“I live a Betty Crocker life in an antiballistic nylon world.”

“Over the last several years I've kept a (mostly) daily journal. Spiral notebooks filled with stuff that could only be interesting to me. (Except that I did catch my ‘studio’ landlord sneaking a peak at one of my art journals. Sorry; no nudes there. Only the babblings of a woman attending the cannibalistic bongo dancers in the back of her head so that they would calm down and allow her to properly attend to the art work at hand.) I've also taken up knitting with something of a passion (before it became ‘the new yoga’ - whew! who comes up with these terms?), and more recently, weaving.”

And of course, there were many that simply did not stand out, and are not worth repeating. So many statements of the obvious. So many overstatements of the obvious. I had thought, naively, I guess, that the price of the course would separate the serious from the bored housewives. But, no. It’s like a collection of community theatre.thespians who don’t know good from bad. Even if it hit them square in the face. What matters to them is not the actual performance, rather it is the effort. It’s effort, not talent or ability, that separates the audience from the performers.

Non-the-less, I’m excited. I think I’m going to get a lot out of this class, and it’s going to strengthen what I already know: as long as there are housewives, you will have bored, frustrated housewives.

So, you wonder, what did I write? Here is my interpretation of the Biographical Statement.

Timothy State

I’m an avid list keeper. I think it came from my Grandmother. A blizzard hit just as we were dropping her into the ground, and we all rushed back to her house. Twenty-seven of my relatives, a Roman Catholic Nun and a toy dog named Herkie were snowed in for the night with one toilet. With these conditions, it wasn’t long before we were collectively over her death, and my Father, his brother and two sisters realized they had three days together to empty out the house.

“Anything you want—just take it,” my uncle announced to the twelve grandchildren and we took off running, rummaging through drawers we had been through many times – secretly. This time, though, it was sanctioned. Everything in the house had been labeled: year acquired, where it came from, price paid—if applicable. That’s when I realized my propensity to document the details of life as it unfolds—in lists, in date books, on cocktail napkins—is simply genetic.

I offer up a summary list of details of my life:

Born: 1971 in Coos Bay, Oregon in a building that was a former county jail. My father takes merciless photos of my ill mother. I was labeled State B. My twin brother, born a quarter of an hour earlier, was labeled State A. 2 years later, he succumbed to meningitis.

Preschool: My mother dropped me off for my first day of Preschool, and then skipped work. She couldn’t go because she couldn’t stop crying. She claims, “It was at that moment I realized you weren’t like any of the other children.”

Kindergarten: I met my first boyfriend. His name was Scott, and he had red hair. We were inseparable until we entered Junior High.

Second Grade: I ask my teacher, “If God created the world, then who created God?” She promptly told me to go home and ask my mother, destroying my image that teachers are all-knowing. I steal my Mother’s camera for a field trip; she scolds my be instructing, “If you ever take that many pictures again, you’re paying to have them developed!”

Third Grade: Scott and I get busted for making our own books during class. She thought it was porn – we thought it was erotica.

Fifth Grade: My teacher, a former Roman Catholic Nun (Really, I don’t have anything against them; they just seem to be a recurring theme in my life.) who ran off with a Priest is now dating someone new—another fifth grade teacher. Because of her distraction, I learn about dating fashion, courtship, and miss out on history, geography and all the other important stuff you’re supposed to learn in fifth grade.

Seventh Grade: Scott and I are busted for publishing, distributing and selling an underground student newspaper, “Gossip Prone.”

Eighth Grade: My bid for Student Council President fails miserably, and can most likely be attributed my campaign slogan: “Don’t be Dim! Vote for Tim!” The same year, I steal my Father’s camera from him and begin exploring 35-mm photography. Running into two boys in the locker room after school – I’m perplexed, confused, and excited still today.

Ninth Grade: We’ve moved to Beaverton, Oregon. I attend a Junior High, where all my classmates have been together for three years. I have no friends. On the first day I bring a friend home, towards the end of the school year, my mother serves leftovers.

Tenth Grade: I start at Sunset High School. Looking back, I am ashamed of the purple pants. And the yellow pants. I know it was the 80s, but still, I am ashamed.

College: I attend Lake Forest College just outside of Chicago. As a sociology and anthropology major, I am less concerned with the social injustices my peers are, and more concerned with how an individual interacts with and influences a group. I participate in many activities, but working towards Editor of the student newspaper takes most of my time.

Post-College: After rejection from the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile Program, the only job opportunity is making $5.25/hour as a shopping mall mascot, Ogden the Slipasaurus. I made more at McDonald’s after my freshman year, but I’m loving my job. There are no pictures or notes from this part of my life. I was too poor, overworked and stressed to record.

1995: My job as mall mascot comes to an end, and I’m offered a position in Atlanta, Georgia, working for a Shopping Center Marketing firm. I begin my marketing campaign to get my new boyfriend, Tony, to move to Atlanta with me.

1996: My marketing campaign a success, we purchase our first house. Not wanting to buy, we quickly understood that things are different in the South, and Gerald O’Hara was right: “Land is all that matters. It’s all that lasts.” With land, we become socialites overnight, assisted by our website: BarnesPlace.com.

1997: I start with a small graphic design and advertising firm as project manager.

2000: Tony and I create an unconventional family, defined on our terms, by our own selves: Four men, two homes, four dogs, a cat, and a tank of fish.

2002: I start writing regularly for a neighborhood newspaper. A small gig, it re-ignites the fire I discovered during my college days.

And the list goes on…

Meditation

Such inspiring words today.

Volunteering for Trouble

It’s been hard to focus on anything this weekend, with thoughts of what Cole might do next constantly on my mind. It’s disabling to think that he might want to sue me next. While I sit and ponder, I have no reason why, but know that he can find a reason why.

He’s done nothing by attack the Association. And the Association must defend itself, which is my role as President. I begin to personify the Association.

It’s an ugly spot we’re in when you can’t volunteer to work for the community without the fear of being sued.

Presidential Ways

We went to A.E.N. last night to hear Dr. Howard Dean, former Governor of Vermont, speak. He is now running for President. It was amazing and reaffirming for me, because the same attitude I've been preaching to my community about inclusion, diversity, defining a vision so you can achieve it--he was tooting, too.

Writing Away

I've signed up for a fiction writing class conducted on-line. It's a ten-week course, so I'm looking forward to having forced structure around my writing. I've started getting into the habit of getting up at 6:30 a.m. to write for an hour, and it's been working so far. I think it will help me to post more regularly.

Siezing the Past

I couldn't agree more. So many moments. Shameful moments. Embarrasing moments. Hurtful moments. Regretful moments. Why revisit them?

But while reading DogPoet's thoughts on revisiting the past, it occured to me the moment could be empowering. Put those moments in black and white, get them in the open, and claim them as your own to be avoided and never relived again. Maybe then, I'll be able to live with those moments.

A Kirkwood Dream

The Kirkwoods were living in an apartment. It had a large living and dining area with a kitchen off to the side. With no bathroom or bedrooms (only doors), it was the perfect sitcom setup.

I had just walked in the door, past the dying Christmas tree, after a day at the office. Ernie was sitting at the table, having a bowl of corn flakes for dinner. As the only black man living with the Kirkwoods, his sole purpose in our lives was to be the token black, setting up comedic tension and providing comic relief. I was a bit surprised that Ernie was the only one home, and Ernie must have picked up on my perplexed look.

“Dan’s at the police station,” Ernie said. “He’s been home, but then he left. Who knows where Tony and Sean are.”

“Police station?” I asked.

“Yeah. Seems there is an unclaimed baby hanging out at the station,” Ernie said, eating his cornflakes. “And Dan wanted it, so he went to go claim it.”

“He can’t just claim a baby,” I said…

Merry Christmas from the Waffle House has been published in this week's The Story.