Stroke my fragile ego and I will purr, purr, purr

The final class of the Unlocking Creativity module two nights ago was good. I wrote a little conflict resolution story off the cuff, and then was asked by Roland to read it out to the class. It came out very well, and it got widely praised in class. Lisa said again that she was blown away by my stuff, when we were sitting outside on the steps during break. Kathleen said that she hated the ending of my Sadness, Anger and Peace story too, so I’ve rewritten it (below).

After class, Roland quickly showed me the steps board for the 10 Month Novel and Script course, how it works to plan the archetypal story structure (every story has 8 turning points, made up of four steps, each made up of 8 scenes… etc). Very formulaic. Wouldn’t work for any of my favourite novels. Not 100 Years of Solitude, not Gilead, not The Poisonwood Bible. Nor, it seems for the novel I would like to write, with 5 or so characters speaking from first person pov. Still, we agreed that I would try to explore one character's story-line in the class, and maybe plot the others on the steps board. I'll see how it goes. I'm filled with trepidation.

I'm in New Zealand now, where I've come to renew my visa. I had to get up at 4:45 am on Thursday. It was horrendous. I felt ill all day, like I had the flu. The vibe in Aukland is very dull, not like Sydney. My friends Ian and Jianni went to bed at 8pm, and I was 2 hours advanced in time zone anyway, so I stayed up very late rewriting my Sadness, Anger and Peace story, and finishing my Frustration, Fear and Love stories and my little conflict story. Had some nice story board feedback on them.

Sadness, Anger and Peace

“I should have brought him in ages ago,” Theresa said to the vet, “but I just couldn’t face it.” Theresa stroked Oscar’s grizzled brown head as he lay quietly on the steel table. She could barely breathe in the hot little room. “He whimpers in the morning when he scrambles out of his basket.” She’d had an artificial hip herself. She knew arthritis.
“Ready?” asked Dr Patel.
A hot wet coal lodged in Theresa’s throat so that she could only nod. Oscar looked up at her with worried brown eyes. She bent and whispered softly in his ear. He jerked when the vet inserted the needle, but his body stilled quickly.
“I’ll give you a few minutes alone” said Dr Patel, shutting the door gently behind him. Theresa’s tears fell hot and fast, plink, plink, plink onto the metal table.

Driving home, Theresa thought back some ten years to the day she’d collected Oscar at the Ambleside Dog Pound. She’d been shocked by the stench of faeces and wet fur, overlayed with harsh chemicals. The dogs had barked and howled and hurled themselves against the wire caging when she entered the cement walkway by the pens. A young man with a pony tale and tired eyes had told her that the six dogs in the last pen were due to be put down the next day. “We’re very busy now because Christmas is just 10 days away”, he said. “People don’t want the inconvenience.” A searing flash of rage shook Theresa. “Selfish, selfish barbarians!” she had cried. Oscar was the ugliest of the six dogs in that last pen. The young man had kissed her hand when she the pound. She had been able to hear the howling of the other dogs left behind to their fates all the way to her car.

Theresa put Dr Patel’s bill and Oscar’s red leather collar on the kitchen table. She remembered how Oscar had cowered under this same table for 4 days before shyly climbing onto the foot of her bed one morning. She smiled to think how he’d slept there happily for the next 10 years. The doorbell pulled her back into the present. It was little Natasha from next door, wearing a pink birthday dress and a green paper hat. She was laughing as a small apricot poodle tried to wrestle the leash she was holding out of her hand. “Mummy said I could bring my new best friend Pumpkin over to meet you and Oscar.” Theresa felt the tears well in her eyes, but bent down to stroke the little dog, which licked her hand. “They couldn’t know” she thought, “Really, it was a mercy.” And then she looked at the little girl and smiled.

A little conflict and a resolution

George Browne looked around the kitchen and then at his watch. 9:40am. He would call in 5 minutes. No, 10. He would give himself 10 minutes, time enough for a cup of coffee. And one of those fresh blueberry muffins that Carol had left on the counter. George poured the coffee and sighed. The dishwasher pulsed, but otherwise the only sound was the faint background hum given off by an empty house. Carol had probably taken the kids to karate lessons or something. Through the large kitchen window, George could see chaos, brilliantly illuminated by the spring time sun. Dorothy Crookshank’s pack of dogs had torn through their garbage again, strewing it all over the lawn and driveway. George ate a muffin. And then another. 10:02 am. He sighed again and felt sick.

Suddenly, he reeled in horror. Dorothy Crookshank was advancing up the driveway, swinging her cane irritably at the pieces of garbage in her way. She even lopped the heads off two – no three! – of Carol’s prize nasturtiums. Good Lord! He wasn’t ready to face the old battleaxe in person! He’d hoped to deal with her over the telephone. George felt a groan of mortification escape his throat as he saw the old woman stoop to examine with great disgusted interest some dirty underwear he’d thrown out the night before.

She looked up suddenly, and George jerked back from the window, but it was too late. “Mr Browne,” she called, “Come out here now please. Your driveway is a disgrace!” He felt shaky. Had he had too much coffee?

He opened the door, and tried to say good morning, brightly, but a large wad of masticated muffin lodged around his tongue and he merely mumbled something unintelligible. “Are you inebriated, Mr Browne? At this hour?” She advanced on him balefully. “I’ve called the council about your shocking garbage management.”

George sputtered and sprayed a gobbet of slimy muffin onto Mrs Crookshank’s orthopaedic shoes. She looked down at her feet, and then slowly raised her face. He could see two long black hairs poking out of one of her nostrils. He cleared his throat and said “Dorothy…”

“I never ever gave you permission to call me that!” she interrupted. “How unbelievably impertinent!”
“Mrs Crookshank,” he tried again, “I was just going to call you. You see, your dogs…”
“Nonsense!” she cried, shaking her cane at him. “I’ve had them locked up in the house all night and morning.”

George sighed, and wished a giant flaming pit would suddenly open under the lying old witch and carry her away, orthopaedic shoes and all. Instead, something geological shift shifted deep within himself, and he could no longer hold back the long dormant eruption.

“Listen you old dragon”, he shrieked, “You’ve harassed me and my family for a long time. But just because you’re old, doesn’t make you right.” Mrs Crookshank’s eyes narrowed and George thought he saw them flash yellow. He felt a sudden quiver of fear. And just as suddenly again, the fear disappeared. He knew he wouldn’t take it back, even if he could. “Now get off my property!” Crookshank’s days as the tyrant of Dogwood Crescent were over!

Closing the door, George Browne chortled softly to himself. The dishwasher hummed quietly. He had done it. George had slain the dragon at exactly 10:36am. “Early or not,” George announced to the empty house, “I should celebrate.” He would pour himself a J&B on the rocks, and watch the ball game. And eat the rest of Carol’s muffins. He whooped and high-fived the empty air.