Assignment 5: Post Here!

[Tamur]

This thread is for participants in the Mead Hall Writers' Society writing group to post their writing for Lesson 5.

Once you're done posting your writing, head over to the discussion thread and tell people what you thought of the assignment!

[Timsup2nothin]

Backstory:

Rockin' Ron Davison plays guitar in a band called Smokestack Lightning. It's a tribute to the original, by Howlin' Wolf, and Ron isn't personally impressed by any cover of the song since. The rest of the band agrees, in principle, though they all pretty much just like the name.

Smokestack Lightning is a cover band. They play classic rock in bars and small clubs from San Diego to Bakersfield; anywhere they can drive to and from in Ron's van to avoid motel costs.

Ron is thirty-six, and has played in the band since he was sixteen. Other players have come and gone and come back, some many times, but he has always been there. He has never found anyone who can write a decent lyric. He never really had the drive to 'make it' in the music business.

He finds gigs for the band and practices during the day, and keeps the line-up full. The other guys in the band usually have day jobs, which can cause problems for other than weekend gigs, or some sort of 'arrangement'. As the old joke says; what do you call a musician that doesn't have a girlfriend?...homeless.

Ron actually has a wife, and has been married for ten years. He met her through his sister, and she has never been into 'the bar scene'. To her it is just his job. She works as an office manager for a dentist. They have a mortgage, two kids, and a dog. They live in Canoga Park, an undistinguished chunk of the San Fernando Valley section of Los Angeles.

Ron takes payment by check and gives the other guys their cuts in cash. They appreciate it, since none of them are interested in reporting income. His wife appreciates it, since he tells her the check made out to him is just his cut, and that the club paid the other players individually. He robs banks to get the cash. They could never pay their bills on just his cut.

Conflicts:
Ron has to keep his wife away from his band life so she doesn't find out that it doesn't pay like she thinks it does.

Ron has to keep other players from his band away from his home life because they would wonder how his wife supports their family so well, and why.

Ron worries that he almost has to get caught robbing a bank eventually, which will unravel his entire life, but there is really no way for a thirty-six year old guitar player who has never had a job to make the kind of income he needs any other way, even if he gave up the band.

[Ironsword]

The old man sat at his bench, his knotted hands slowly working the clay to its fluted climax. As the wheel squeaked slowly to a halt he paused to consider his work, before sighing slowly and crushing it under a giant paw; it wasn’t good enough. He stood and rubbed his aching back, it had been three hours since he’d moved and his body needed more and more time to recover.

The floorboards creaked as he walked stiffly across his workshop and placed a tiny pair of spectacles upon his nose. He stopped at the table and wrapped his hands around a mug of cold tea. He savoured the sickly sweet brew for a moment as his weariness dissipated with his thirst. His gaze traced the ramshackle shelves that displayed the history of his work, the best piece of every year he’d been a potter.

He focused first on a small earthenware bowl, despite its unglazed and rough finish, it still captured his heart. It was the work that was to define the rest of his life. At twelve, that pot had kindled a fire that neither mathematics nor grammar could achieve.

His eyes skipped over the various works that made up the following ten years of his apprenticeship and settled onto a vase. It was tall and perfectly symmetrical, finished and painted with autumnal bouquets that represented the beginning of his brightest years. He recalled the day that it was thrown, his life had been deliciously complete. A wife, a business, bright summer days and the promise of a child to continue his legacy. The memory set his yellowed eyes to tears that ran freely into his beard. It took a moment for him to break with the past.

The next seven works were creations of increasing beauty and complexity, incorporating various handles, ruffled openings and delicate banding. The faces of ancient gods decorated the seventh; their visages caught in bright enamel with acid-gold tracing etched through the porcelain. It was the best work of his career, save one piece.

The following year of his life was reflected by an empty shelf, a missing part not just from the collection, but from his soul these past thirty summers. Within a dark and bitter January Molly and Sam had been taken from him, never to return. His wheel had fallen silent for a time and throughout the year he’d made but one piece. Nevertheless, he could still recall how the turntable had run slick with tears as he poured all his grief and regret into it. It was tempered only by the happy memories of his family that had pushed his skill to its limit. The result was little short of perfection, finished in the vibrant red that been her favourite; it was his masterpiece. He winced at the recollection, it was his finest work, yet he’d freely given it away.

The old man closed his eyes, his head bent down with the weight of the memory. He wiped the dry clay from his hands and his gaze ran swiftly over the last thirty years of pots. All were pale images of that great urn, some competent, others large and vulgar. Most of them bore glazed visages of his lost family, but all were the self indulgent works of a fading man. He placed the tea down and uncorked a bottle of whisky, its aroma rose invitingly. As he took a big slug of the drink, some escaped his lips and dribbled down his shirt.

The liquor had long been his respite, even though it had swallowed most of his money and dignity. He slumped into his chair, the warm feeling of the spirit eased him into a restless sleep.

----------------------------------------

He awoke late into the morning, still nursing the whisky bottle. An empty reminder of where most of the last quarter of a century had gone. He rose slowly and ambled over to the water bowl, clumsily avoiding blocks of alabaster and pots of dye. His crumpled garments matched his lined face. The day was filtering in past the shutters, casting long shadows behind his pots and catching swirling dust storms in shafts of sunlight.

He held his face close to the mirror and picked up the cut-throat razor. He placed it at the base of his neck, carefully avoiding his Adams apple. He brought the blade up slowly, it was a well rehearsed ritual, but he caught himself before he touched a hair. After thirty years he still hadn’t the strength to shave off his beard. Only Molly should know his true face, and even he had begun to forget how the run of his chin had once looked. He placed the razor down and dashed his face with tepid water, collecting himself for another day at the wheel.

A simple breakfast filled his belly, but hunger was rarely a concern, more often the rasping headaches that came in the wake of his drinking were more disquieting. He sat brooding as the food settled uneasily, his eyes ever fixed on the empty shelf that haunted him. He stood and brushed the crumbs from his shirt, wishing he could do the same with his worries. The day was approaching when the last of his wealth would be gone, it would precipitate the selling of the pots that marked his years. Some may provide a handsome sum, but it would still feel like a betrayal. With no kin before him or any that would now follow, he would be selling his very existence. It grated him that it was an unfair choice; his life now for his life then. However, he would gladly barter them all for his missing masterpiece.

Despite his creaking joints the potter set the bellows to the kiln, knowing he hadn’t fired a pot in eight months. He then slowly pulled the window shutters back, shying away from the sun. As he took up his work stool a bolt of joy lit his face and tingles ran like quicksilver through his limbs. Perhaps today would be the day that he rewrites the history of his shelves and casts and fires something that will lay his demons to rest. The zeal that kept him alive, yet made him a hermit was charged once more as the man and boy became one. With a flurry of excitement he hurled a lump of clay onto the bat and set his foot dancing to the treadle’s tune. Though he didn’t realise it, he was again trying to shape the great urn, each rotation bringing up its shape and forming the foot.

The wind started to rise and whip through the long meadowsweet in his yard. He ignored it, his fascination held by his work; he could always see Molly and Sam as the clay spun through his fingers.

Outside a solitary piece of vellum flapped up to the window and was held against the pane for a moment. The writing was barely legible, but the main characters of the church notice could still be seen. ‘Burial urn. Gilt edged, bears two portraits. Forced sale; exquisite piece.’ The potter was still bent over his wheel, his hands working a rib across the clay as the paper floated away in the wind.

[MountainTroll]

BACKSTORY

William Page (Bill, to all except the IRS) was brought up on a ranch in the mountains of Northern Arizona. Scrub brush, little prickly pear cactus, and cold nights define his sheep ranch life. He wanted to see more of the world, and not have to get up in the cold, snowy February nights to help during lambing season. He was tired of the cold, and wanted to do something that made a difference to people. He did not want to die an old wrinkled man in the confines of his ranch barb wire fence, unknown. He enjoyed making things with his hands in High School, was good at wood shop, and metal shop,

The story would take place with William as an old retired man, looking back on his life, wondering how he got to be in a living history blacksmith shop, with college kids chattering loudly and flashing digital cameras at any object anywhere. The dozens of camera flashes randomly popping, as if they were paparazzi at a movie opening. This wasn't the old age he'd imagined. He had left the ranch after high school to train as a Hot Shot (firefighters that parachute into wildfires.) He had loved the camaraderie of the firefighters, the adventure of traveling the country from fire camp to fire camp , the signs each community would put up on their gas stations and store windows saying "God Bless you Firefighters!"

He had done it for years, until he had gotten too old in his forties to pass the fitness tests. He moved into a trainer position, and managed operations from a field map at the firefighters base camps. It was a good life until retirement, when the girl he had met one fire season 40 years ago, said she wanted them to volunteer at the local living history museum. Surely he could help with the sheep for the wool demonstration, since he had grown up on a ranch? Gratefully when they applied, he found they also needed someone to staff the blacksmith shop, and he jumped at the chance. Fire was involved, and it got him away from the sheep that he had avoided for most of his life. It isn't the respected job he'd envisioned though. - Mainly teenagers with headphones in, looking bored with their family vacation, and the occasional blacksmith expert who told him what he was doing wrong.

Disconnects:

He wants to make lasting objects that matter - but chintzy mini horse shoes aren't that satisfying.

He misses connecting with nature - but is surrounded by people forcing technology at him in various ways.

He wants to be respected and well known (a hero of some sort) - but there are few ways for an old man to be a hero to modern kids.

[Tamur]

Closing for comments...

[Tamur]

Opening for comments. I'll be posting editor comments in the next thirty minutes or so. These will be in an observation format rather than the detailed format of previous exercises.

[Tamur]

Timsup2nothin

Ed. 1 This was well done. I can easily see it becoming a screenplay and a movie because the character of the band leader is very vivid. The conflicts are clear and intriguing. It's very amusing too, which makes me think the result will be a comedy.

Ed. 2 This is a great character introduction. I come away from it with a basic feel for the character, but primarily sympathy for him and his predicament. It points me towards the inevitable discovery of his bad habit, or the possible escape he makes through some major life change.


A couple of unresolved questions:

- Is he a solo robber?

- When does he do the robberies? Broad daylight when he has more chance of being caught on the run, but less chance of having to make excuses to his wife? Or night-time, when he has less chance of being caught but more need to make excuses to his wife about false gigs, etc?

- How does he deal with the robbery money? Does he hide it somewhere in his house? Deposit it overseas? Deposit in a US bank (at least) would be risky due to the treasury serial numbers. How has he been able to keep his wife from finding the stash?

[Tamur]

Ironsword

Ed. 1: Some very concisely stated conflicts and problems, like "his life now for his life then" and "the self-indulgent works of a fading man". Also "he was again trying to shape the great urn" was a great way to tie it all together. This is a sobering character - one who I want to suddenly discover a reason to live and make beautiful art. But realistically that won't happen will it?

Ed. 2: This is brilliant as a character description. At the end of it I feel deeply for the fellow, and feel that I've come to know him, his challenges, and his current situation well. Using this as a springboard into the story would be a fail-safe way to bring that same feeling - lack of closure, endless days trying to find the past, the world outside blowing by without him noticing.


A couple of questions and observations:

- the man has clear dilemmas, and ones that most readers could feel well. But with so much past to uncover in the story, what will move the reader forward through the narrative?

- the resolution will need a great deal of weight to balance out the strong feeling of loss in the character and his situation, so the story will be tremendously heavy without some sort of leavening (another present-day character, or nature) --- I had to get a bread-making metaphor in here!

[Tamur]

MountainTroll

Ed. 1: We get a good feel for the character's background, and his current dissatisfaction. I like the scene details you've added in the distant past (scrub, cactus, barbed wire) and the nearer present with the teenagers, and the paparazzi comparison. I wonder what will become of this retiree, and wonder if the story will be present time, or contain a lot of this backstory.

Ed. 2: This is a great example of using the past to define the present. I can see his conflicts clearly, except for the one about technology (questions below). It seems to me that there is a further conflict not listed - that he sees himself as separate from his upbringing, and wants to be well-known, but at the same time he wants to connect with nature. This could be a conflict in itself - how does one connect with nature and gain notoriety at the same time?


A couple of questions:

- who is forcing technology at him? Does he feel that these teenagers are doing that?

- is the girl he met 40 years ago his wife? Did he have kids, or did he decide the firefighter lifestyle was too unstable? What was his own family life like? These questions will have a lot of bearing on how (or if) he becomes respected by teens and others.

- he wants to be respected and well-known, but I wonder how this can be resolved in his current situation. Will his situation change dramatically?

[Timsup2nothin]

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[Ironsword]

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