Do any of the character exercises below. (If you have time, you can do more than one exercise and then turn in the one you like best.)#1. (From Robin Hemley's Turning Life into Fiction)
Recall someone you know well -a friend, a relative- preferably someone with a strong personality. Identify two or three of those personality traits and list them at the top of the page. Now create a scene that shows these personality traits in your friend or relative - but never mention these personality traits. Try to convey them with dialogue, action and salient detail. So, if your Uncle Lou is childlike, forgetful and generous, show him as such in the scene. But try to avoid easy stereotypes of generosity, forgetfulness etc.
#2. (From Janet Burrowway's Writing Fiction)
Think of a scene from your own life in which a discovery led to a quick decision. Write the scene, but change the character to someone significantly different from yourself.
#3. Create a character of your choosing, and put him/her in a situation that (1) is difficult of stressful in some way, and (2) in which he/she needs to interact with at least one other character
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I've decided not to submit this for assignment two. I wrote another story based on option #1. This story is based on option #3. I'll submit this one here to see if anyone likes it or if anyone wants to give me feedback.
Drowning in Her Own Air
“Maggie,” Grady exclaimed, “if I could clone you I’d have a whole office full of workers like you.” and as he passed he smiled though she somehow sensed it as vapid and tainted.
“Thanks.” she said feeling pity for the imaginary clones who would be as unhappy with their plot as she was now.
It was now close to lunch and Maggie was still reeling with rage from the online ad she read earlier in the morning. “Help Wanted” it boldly taunted. “Need someone to do what Maggie does with a twenty percent higher starting salary and with no experience required.” She knew the ad was for her job and she knew that she would have the unfortunate task of training the new drone. She was the top performer in the office. Statistically she performed at nearly double the efficiency as her peers. Up until now she was happy with the praise, took pride in her work, and the encouraging comments and available overtime was enough of a reward. But dealing with Mike, Amy, Gerard, and the others on her team who were the most indolent beings she ever worked with while knowing that one or two of them were making slightly more than her solely based on seniority had soured her company loyalty. The ad asking for a rookie, someone without a nanosecond of company seniority, and offering to pay this person twenty-percent more than her was the last straw. She broke.
She stormed into Grady’s office. The open door policy was about to be abused to its fullest. Grady looked at her, again with a smile as reptilian as a used car salesman’s.
“What’s on your mind, Superstar?” he said with his usual glib tone.
“Cut the crap , Grady! If I’m your best damn employee then what is this all about?” she handed him the ad and he could see the words “No experience required” highlighted and circled in ink again and again till the oval began to tear.
“Margaret...Maggie...,” he spoke with a voice used to console a child. “This is not for your job. It’s a totally different position with higher levels of responsibilities. It’s a class C5 not a C4.”
“Grady, I’m tired...I’m exhausted, and I’ve had my fill of the office politics and bullshit. I want a raise now or today is my last day!” she threw out her demand with the posture of a lion and she felt vindicated by her past and assured that Grady was in between a rock and a hard place.
“Raise? Raises are only given annually, you know that. Besides you are near the top of your pay grade based on your seniority. Come the end of the fiscal year you know your raise will be excellent. You’re my best worker.”
The condescending voice was still there and she knew he was trying to calm her down, but three years of bottled up frustrations had finally exploded in his office, present and now, and they would not be pacified.
“Screw your seniority! Hire the new person; pay them more for less than what I do now. I quit!” she threw down the gauntlet and expected him to cave.
His face soured. The ridiculous smile was gone and his “let’s be friends in the office” manner went straight to Hell. He leapt from his leather bound chair and the rush of blood to his head filled the dilated capillaries of his head till his whole face looked like a crimson deluge.
“You can’t quit! This job is you. It’s what you do best and it’s what makes you.
Your pay is fair and I give you all the overtime you want. Your performance is decent but it’s not...”
“Stop right there, you asshole! Don’t dare criticize my performance. Anything you say would be the most transparent lie and...” she briefly paused long enough to allow him to interrupt.
“You’ll drown Maggie,” his voice lowered. “If you quit here, you’ll drown out there. Your skills with our software are not portable and your resume is not going to be sufficient and you can guarantee that a recommendation from me...I mean with you just quitting spur of the moment leaving me hanging...why you don’t deserve...trust me you’ll drown.”
She smiled and empowered with freedom she never knew presented him with the universal one finger salute.
The road sign read 55 miles to El Paso. She was on her way to California and she noticed how the air had changed. She took in a deep breath, held it, and then exhaled. It was still as humid as a regular Texas day but there was something perceptibly different about it.
On Mason's story:
It looks like something straight out of a novel :)
I like how the pace is steady, and the dialogue is real.
This Maggie sounds hard-working, motivated, and forgiving of other people taking her for granted (at least in her casual day).
One thing to note is that she is portrayed here in an exceptional situation that brings out an unusual side of her. This sort of distracted me from getting to know her normal self.
Grabe Lacking
It had only been one week since Grabe took up computer programming and he was brimming with new jargon and terminology that only those who studied it would understand. I considered it just another skill like log cabin building, or surfing, and such. Grabe considered it a disaffiliation between him and the imbecilic masses who didn’t know the binary equivalent of a hundred twenty-eight. He had just started learning it seven days ago yet he acted as if it were embedded in his DNA.
“So, this new guy at work...man, I tell ya’...I don’t know what Cracker Jack school this guy graduated from but he tells me the other day that his brother is a Cobalt programmer. Cobalt?” he nudged the sharpest point of his elbow into my ribs and was trying to contain a nasally snort of laughter. “What a freakin’ retard, he doesn’t even know how to pronounce Cobol correctly!” he said with an air of smugness.
I didn’t bother to tell him that there was in fact a Cobalt programming language, in addition to Cobol, which he could add to the History Of Programming encyclopedia I knew he must have been working on during his first full week of research. I figured I’d let him embarrass himself sometime in the future.
“Well, Grabe...” I began to reason. “Isn’t this new guy working in HR? I mean why would a guy in HR have to know anything about anything in programming?” I said fully confident that logic would prove me right and levelheaded.
Without addressing my question of the HR programming non-correlation he rambled on, “Nah man, you don’t understand. This guy went to school on his daddy’s dime. He’s just a rich spoiled brat who partied all through school and didn’t learn a damn thing. Trust me I know.”
“Hey Grabe, you should check out the new Mansallon CD I got. It’s pretty cool.
They say that they’ve sold ten million copies of this latest album,” I enthusiastically said hoping he didn’t realize how I covertly changed the subject.
“Man, Mansallon is gay! I don’t know why everyone likes them. Their guitarist can’t play worth a shit and I could write lyrics better than the crap in their songs,” he chided me.
“That’s funny, last year you were the one who told me to check them out. You liked them last year before they became popular. Now everyone likes them and you don’t? Grabe, it’s O.K. to like what other people like.” I said trying to stay smooth against the abrasiveness of his every statement.
“Man, I liked them before they sucked. That’s all. You’re starting to sound like one of those tools on MTV. In fact, you’re starting to rag like Shelley. Now you know why I dumped her,” he said with such an unconvincing tone that even he knew the transparency of that twisted truth.
“I really liked Shelley,” I said immediately regretting that I didn’t let her name pass right through my mind like the faint memory of a childhood embarrassment.
I could hear Grabe grinding his teeth. Every word I spoke was like a fuse, which led to a time bomb in his skull. I could imagine him carrying on a one-sided conversation with the Walls of Jericho. All would be calm until the moment the walls echoed back and then he would surely berate them into dust.
We cut through the FastOne parking lot and parked across two lined spots was a glistening ruby-hued sports car; one of those foreign models that you had to contort your tongue and nearly spit to pronounce.
“Wow, someday I’m going to get one of those!” I exclaimed with a lusty appreciation.
“Nah, those things suck!” he began to rant. “Besides people like you and me weren’t born lucky. The only reason the guy who owns this has it is because he got lucky. He was in the right place at the right time and just caught a break. That’s all. But that kinda’ luck never happens to little guys like us,” he faithfully said as if he worshipped and was beholden to his own pessimism.
“Luck?” I began to set him straight but knew it would be a hopeless endeavor so I just let the conversation die and we walked home in silence.
I never talked to Grabe again after that Summer. I went to college in the Fall, worked two part-time jobs through all four years, and three years after graduating I bought one of those foreign numbers he hated so much.
Of course
“Then what happened grandpa?”
He looked back at me, and then carefully folded the newspaper; I had successfully interrupted his news reading ceremony. He laid the newspaper, double folded, at right angles with the table corner. The reading glasses came off. He folded the arms and slowly laid them on top of the newspaper, so that their axis lay parallel to the news headlines. It seemed like a laser-precision arrangement for such ordinary objects.
“Nothing, I just kept pacing straight towards them.”
“But they had guns, didn’t they?”
“Uzis.”
“And it was wartime, wasn’t it?”
He smiled, stared nowhere as if taken back in time a little. He had that thing about his gaze that made you wonder; it was never clear what his eyes were focused on.
“Not one, but two wars. There was one around the village and another one further to the East. The one to the East we only heard about on the radio. The one around the village was more real. The smoke and fire came out of familiar houses. The casualties scattered on the streets had familiar faces.”
“But grandpa, those soldiers down the street could’ve killed you!”
Now his smile was bigger, wiser, the kind you throw at a grandson who is decidedly too naïve to realize the grand scheme of things. It made me feel that even his smiles were as carefully measured as his hand gestures.
“No they couldn’t have. You see, it wasn’t my time.”
Now even for a six year old the gaping hole in this logic was noticeable. We know now it wasn’t his time, but, back then…
“But how did you know grandpa?”
“I didn’t know for sure. My palms were sweaty so I hid them in my pockets. My throat felt dry so I swallowed silently. But deep down inside, I knew it wasn’t my time to die just yet. God had always promised me a long life. During prayer I could see myself an old man with white hair and wrinkly skin, just like now.
His hair wasn’t shy about being white either. No grey, no salt-and-pepper. Every last hair was shiny white. Grandpa always kept his hair in check. Every hair fell in place with military discipline, so that his haircut looked too perfect to be real.
“God had also promised me more sons, and a daughter, your mother. You see, she wasn’t born yet, so how could I have died just yet? Sometimes you just know these things. Now back to the story…”
But I had lost interest in the story already. I had heard him tell it many times before anyway, and I wasn’t particularly interested in the details this time: How he passed the soldiers casually in spite of a strongly enforced nightly curfew. How he crossed an active war zone unarmed, reached the all-but-destroyed old house, made his way through the shaky rubble, snatched the box of medicine, and brought it back to grandma just in time. Such courage was typical of someone like grandpa, but what I didn’t expect, is the clairvoyance. It fascinated me, the thought of knowing one’s destiny.
“Is it your time now grandpa?” I interrupted.
His smile was now too wide, a little silly.
“One can never know these things for sure. But I have a feeling that I am going to live to see you a grown man, with strong arms and a thick mustache, just like mine!”
His wasn’t that thick really. Well groomed, and shiny white, but not thick. It was a distant dream to me, being a grown man. It seemed so far away, one of those things you talk about freely because you know a vast expanse of time keeps them at a safe distance. Next was one of the very few times when grandpa looked me deep in the eyes.
“If God Almighty grace me with life, I’m going to witness you grow up into a great man. And when my time comes, you’re going to help your uncles carry my body and walk my funeral. Won’t you?”
Strangely enough, this last bit sounded a little like a request. And was that weakness in his tone? Surely not from a man like grandpa! It seemed inconceivable, the thought of a creature of such charisma succumbing to death. But if the unfathomable were to happen, then I couldn’t imagine why on earth I would not…
“Of course grandpa.”
The End Was Near
Michael Katz
Character: father--- Abraham Katz
Character traits: fiercely proud, extremely private, guarded, kind-hearted
As he awoke from the surgical daze of having both feet amputated, , Abe Katz did not yet know he would soon make the most fateful decision of his 60 year old life. His mind drifted constantly—first back to playing with his younger brother Manny in their two story house on Garfield Street. He felt a tear well up in his left eye as he remembered standing at Manny’s short walnut-hewn casket at the Agudas Achim cemetery on Tower Avenue; Manny was only nine when he died of diabetes; and here he was, Abraham Irving Katz, at Pratt Medical Center in Boston, 100 hundred miles from home—his diabetes turned into gangrene in both feet, now surgically removed, bandages up to his calves.
Abe felt his rib cage; he could feel the bones under the skin; how much weight had he lost in the past three weeks, weeks spent agonizing over whether he really wanted to live as an amputee. His mind raced back and forth over the choice—to live or to die. What would his wife Ida do without him? They would not get to celebrate their twenty-fifth anniversary in June if he decided not to live. And what about Michael, his 22 year old son? —yes, beloved Michael—but Michael was 3000 miles away at Stanford; Abe had sensed that when Michael had boarded that United Plane six months ago that he would never see him again. He felt the end was near even then— over six months ago.. His mind drifted again—back to the foot specialist telling him that gangrene had set in and amputating his toes was a real possibility. He broke down and cried then uncontrollably. And he felt so ashamed afterwards for crying so openly. Thankfully Ida had not seen him bawling like a baby. That was a blessing from God. And he was so glad Michael could not see him crying from the viewing area as his oldest son boarded the plane from Bradley to San Francisco.
Abe never wanted anyone to see him crying; he had cried only a couple of times in his entire adult life. He had not even cried when his father Lipman died suddenly of a heart attack at the age of seventy, even though he really wanted to and tried as hard as he could to cry. No, the tears simply would not come. And he had not cried when he found out his younger brother George had committed suicide—shot himself in the forehead with a colt 45.
Abe imagined returning to his insurance brokerage in downtown Hartford. And then it hit him! The secret he had guarded so closely from all but a handful of his closest friends for the past twenty years—his diabetes—would now be revealed to the world. He saw his new persona-- an amputee with crutches. His many friends would console him with words of sympathy, but secretly he would experience their pity. He could taste the shame of it—Abe Katz, left-handed Hartford tennis champion at age 22, expert poker player, 7 handicap golfer, winning most of his Tuesday league matches—a CRIPPLE. A diabetic amputee! “No,” he felt his entire body twitch at the voice rising inside him.—“No! No! No.” His mind was now made up. I must say “goodbye” without actually saying “goodbye.” Abe Katz had decided to die.
Teachers without Borders 2 -Upasana Taku
{For background read part 1 under Beginnings}
Sheena stared at the big old clock on the grey side-wall of the room; it was about 10:05 am, still no sign of Tim. Right then, Tim walked in to the meeting room with a bowl of cheerios in one hand and his worn-out journal in the other. He had his cozy smile, ragged blue jeans and a starched white shirt on. To Sheena, it appeared that he had come in high air, standing tall at 6 feet with all his convictions in tow. Sheena loved his confidence but hated such situations all at once. For a wicked second, she wondered if today she would be the winner.
“Morning, sorry I’m late” said Tim earnestly.
Sheena jumped back “Hey! I guess I should bring along a test or something to read while I wait for you”.
Tim responded with a stretched instantaneous smile on his lips: “May be you should; you say it every time. Do you forget or were you running late too? In fact, after your class finished at 9:50, if you went to the teachers lounge to pick up a few tests you would bump in to me pouring cereal in the break room and we could walk to this very room together starting this meeting en-route!”
Sheena wanted to shake the shit out of Tim for his nonchalance but he was right. Why did she let him get to her? It drove Sheena nuts that he was witty and smart; it felt like she lost her whiz status when she was with him.
By now, Tim was amused and making a funny face -“Hello Ms Day Dreamer ! Should we begin? We’ve already lost 10 minutes. So where were we on Tuesday?”
Before Sheena could respond, Tim answered his own question “Ah, found my notes! We finalized the budget and the committee members on the annual project. Today we should focus on a cause - possibly social and then talk to student volunteers who might be interested. Once we have a good project plan we can pitch it to Sister Rosa.”
Tim eyed Sheena to scan her reactions. She was in one of her dark days – black cotton shirt, jet black slacks and black leather boots. The only thing non-nerve wracking or even delightful in her appearance was the way her petite black earrings made her small face stand out amidst waves of short, cropped hair. Had he not seen Sheena in her colorful, cool and casual clothes over the last 6 months, Tim would have thought she belonged to some gothic band or cult.
“Look Tim - I totally respect and appreciate your passion for this project and yes WE need to decide on a cause. But what makes you think it has to be one of social significance? I would much rather lobby for an annual project within the school that helps our students and strengthens Mt Mary High School’s community – that could be the social impact you so desire in everything. You know charity begins at home!” Sheena blurted out.
Her style did not appeal to Tim - she was aggressive, rational but over-the-to-top dramatic. He decided to ignore the Hollywood style effects and focus on her message and think of an appropriate response. At this very moment, Sheena was biting her tongue and fuming internally. Once again, she had let her emotions dominate her calm, collected professional self, which she had developed after years of critical self-analysis and practice.
The two young women made an odd pair as they walked along the platform for the train to Venice. Until the one in front turned to ask which carriage they were in, a casual observer might not have realized they were traveling together.
Jennifer led the way, wheeling a giant black suitcase behind her. Her University of Michigan t-shirt, perfectly worn in jeans, and white, but not too white, sneakers were as American as her blue passport cover. Her blond hair was carefully pulled back into a polished ponytail. Despite the humidity and the effort of lugging her belongings, she would not have looked out of place in a shampoo commercial. The hair dryer and full sized bottles of salon products carefully stowed in her black bag took care of that.
Portia’s hair was not doing so well with the humidity. If she had been in a shampoo commercial, she would have been the “before”. Her usually sedate brown waves had exploded into a halo of frizz. Her small brown suitcase did not have room for an arsenal of hair products. She too was dressed in jeans, but her button-down shirt and Italian brown leather flats made her nationality a bit more difficult to identify. Her accent gave her away though as soon as soon as she opened her mouth to respond to Jennifer’s question about their seats. Although affected by 3 months in London, Portia’s accent was still obviously American.
“We’re in carriage E seats 22 and 23.”
“Oh, next one then. Good I asked. For some reason I thought we were in G. I would have just kept walking.”
As the pair came to the entrance to carriage G, they dragged their bags up the steep steps and stowed them in the luggage rack just next to the door. Jennifer’s oversized bag rested on the floor, barely squeezing under the shelf above, where Portia’s more modest bag easily slid.
Jennifer paused slightly before heading to the seats. “Do you think the bags will be safe here? No one will take them?”
Portia, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, responded, “Your bag is so wedged in. I don’t think any thief will be able to get it out without us noticing.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Jennifer then broke into a large smile, “See, another advantage of not packing light.”
Portia grunted in response, turned away, took a deep breath, and moved towards their seats. They had reservations for 2 seats next to each other facing forward. But as Portia sat in their assigned window seat, she dropped her large leather tote bag into their assigned aisle seat, commenting, “It’s so empty we might as well spread out,” and gestured to Jennifer to take the seat opposite that faced backwards.
Portia then began rummaging through the assortment of books and papers that weighed down her tote bag. Frustrated with the chaos that always seems to inhabit large totes, she began pulling items out -- the International Herald Tribune from the day before folded over on the crossword page, a FedEx envelope full of photocopies, a Donna Leon mystery set in Venice, 2 guidebooks, a small notebook, and a pen.
Jennifer looked out the window at the people passing by.
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