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I have decided that if I were to keep this blog strictly a collection of my short stories and such, then this would take forever to fill. So, time for a little change in pace. This blog will be where I write my ideas for short stories and my thoughts about the writing process. Let's begin.
I have to say that in this past year I've really begun to improve, slowly finding my style and technique. Yesterday I sat down with my professor, who is the author Lynn Freed, to talk about my writing style. She told me that she rather enjoyed it and I must say I was very flattered. It was a big moment for me to hear from someone who has been successful at having several books published tell me she liked my writing. Now, I'm not trying to say "o yeah I'm the best," that's far from it. Rather, I am recording a moment, a step of mine towards becoming a better author. Having a good writing style is probably the first and best thing one needs to have down before ever considering going to an agent or a publisher, at least that is what I have been told by several people within the writing department at my university. When you give your manuscript to a publisher, they read three pages(beginning, middle, and end) and if the writing is crap or just not appealing to them, that's it. It doesn't matter about your story's plot or the characters. No. Such elements won't even come into play unless you have perfected your writing. And it looks like I'm slowly getting there.
I will be posting the story that Professor Freed read shortly after making a few corrections.
Signing off,
Nicole
Friday, January 29, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
A Moment Over Coffee
I was pouring black coffee into Mrs. Bation’s cup when I heard the little, silver bell ring as someone opened the door wide. Mrs. Bation, a delicate old woman, had been in the middle of reminiscing about her late husband and the first date together. She was talking out loud, hoping that someone would hear her memory of her perfect love. While she spoke, she played with the small golden ring that still sat upon the finger of her left hand, despite the fact her husband had died in the war only after a year of their marriage.
“My darling John is such a sweet man,” she said, speaking as if he still were alive. “The first date he had was the best date I have ever been on. He drove me out to the top of this hill that overlooked the whole city. When we arrived, there was a blanket on the ground beneath the single tree that lived on that hill. He pulled out a picnic basket and revealed a delicious home cooked meal he had made for me. That night, as we had sat there overlooking the city, I had known he was the one for me.”
“Sounds magical,” I told her and smiled to give her the comfort of knowing someone had been touched by her story. As I turned the corner to get back behind the register and behind the counter, I raised my head towards the ringing of the bell and saw him walk in. At that moment, all time seemed to slow down and speed up simultaneously. The strong aroma of coffee beans disappeared and was replaced with a strong scent of daises. The faded brown walls and rusty iron tables seemed to glisten, as the sun washed over them and illuminated the man who just walked in. I was able to notice every little thing about him. His gorgeous, neatly tufted hair and his deep, dark eyes brightened his face. He had one of the most gorgeous smiles I have ever seen. It was neither too bright nor too wide, and it shone through the slight shading of a beard that had yet to be shaven away. Despite the paint-stained jeans, his recently ironed blue shirt that was complimented with a slick, black coat jacket that clung to his shoulders, giving him a more sophisticated look.
His appearance though was not the only thing that attracted me and locked me in. It was the object that he was carrying with him. Tucked neatly under his arms, he had the novel East of Eden by John Steinbeck. It was the same novel that happened to be my favorite book at the time. I felt my chest get heavy and sink in as I saw such a gorgeous man carrying that book. I realized then I was staring at the perfect man.
“Hi,” He replied simply. “Can I get one small coffee, black please.”
“Three, seventy two,” and I poured his coffee while he reached into his pockets to get exact change. As I handed the coffee over towards this man, and he simultaneously reached to grab it, the tips of our fingers touched. All time was frozen. I became lost in my own thoughts. Mrs. Bation’s story began running through my mind. However, rather than Mrs. Bation and her husband, I pictured myself and this man in the car overlooking the city. I quickly wondered if our first date would be like at all like that. I moved on to imagine our first kiss, our first time, how he would propose to me, our first dance at the end of our marriage ceremony, and the rest of our lives together. Looking at him, feeling his finger tip touch mine, I could tell he was the perfect man for me.
And then he was gone. As quickly as I had seen him walk into the coffee shop, I watched him walk out. Like a fleeting moment in time, he had entered my life and then vanished. He was never to be seen again, but also to never to be tainted by imperfections discovered in the future. He instead, was to forever remain as the one who happened to walk in to the coffee shop one summer afternoon for a single moment.
“My darling John is such a sweet man,” she said, speaking as if he still were alive. “The first date he had was the best date I have ever been on. He drove me out to the top of this hill that overlooked the whole city. When we arrived, there was a blanket on the ground beneath the single tree that lived on that hill. He pulled out a picnic basket and revealed a delicious home cooked meal he had made for me. That night, as we had sat there overlooking the city, I had known he was the one for me.”
“Sounds magical,” I told her and smiled to give her the comfort of knowing someone had been touched by her story. As I turned the corner to get back behind the register and behind the counter, I raised my head towards the ringing of the bell and saw him walk in. At that moment, all time seemed to slow down and speed up simultaneously. The strong aroma of coffee beans disappeared and was replaced with a strong scent of daises. The faded brown walls and rusty iron tables seemed to glisten, as the sun washed over them and illuminated the man who just walked in. I was able to notice every little thing about him. His gorgeous, neatly tufted hair and his deep, dark eyes brightened his face. He had one of the most gorgeous smiles I have ever seen. It was neither too bright nor too wide, and it shone through the slight shading of a beard that had yet to be shaven away. Despite the paint-stained jeans, his recently ironed blue shirt that was complimented with a slick, black coat jacket that clung to his shoulders, giving him a more sophisticated look.
His appearance though was not the only thing that attracted me and locked me in. It was the object that he was carrying with him. Tucked neatly under his arms, he had the novel East of Eden by John Steinbeck. It was the same novel that happened to be my favorite book at the time. I felt my chest get heavy and sink in as I saw such a gorgeous man carrying that book. I realized then I was staring at the perfect man.
“Hi,” He replied simply. “Can I get one small coffee, black please.”
“Three, seventy two,” and I poured his coffee while he reached into his pockets to get exact change. As I handed the coffee over towards this man, and he simultaneously reached to grab it, the tips of our fingers touched. All time was frozen. I became lost in my own thoughts. Mrs. Bation’s story began running through my mind. However, rather than Mrs. Bation and her husband, I pictured myself and this man in the car overlooking the city. I quickly wondered if our first date would be like at all like that. I moved on to imagine our first kiss, our first time, how he would propose to me, our first dance at the end of our marriage ceremony, and the rest of our lives together. Looking at him, feeling his finger tip touch mine, I could tell he was the perfect man for me.
And then he was gone. As quickly as I had seen him walk into the coffee shop, I watched him walk out. Like a fleeting moment in time, he had entered my life and then vanished. He was never to be seen again, but also to never to be tainted by imperfections discovered in the future. He instead, was to forever remain as the one who happened to walk in to the coffee shop one summer afternoon for a single moment.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Remains
She twisted the stem from left to right, then left again. She sat across the table from him with her head down, focused on the large pear in her trembling hands. A few minutes ago she had been craving a small snack, her stomach begging to be satisfied. Eating was the last thing from her mind now. Thoughts swirled through her mind as she tried to understand how she had ended up here, sitting across from her soon to be ex-husband. All she could do was focus on the pear, and try to keep the tears from falling down her face.
“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching his hand out to touch her. She jerked away and just glared up at him. How could he say sorry so easily? Did he really think two simple words would fix everything? Why did he have to go out and get drunk? Why did he have to throw away their life together? He had once been the cause of the joy in her life, but now caused the sharp pain in her broken heart.
“Sorry?” she said mockingly. “That’s all you have to say to me?”
“Please, can’t you forgive me,” he pleaded.
“Forgive you?” she replied. Even from her own lips, the words sounded absurd. How could she forgive the man she had slept beside for five years, never wavering in her love for him, when he so easily tossed it aside for a one night stand with some dumb slut from the bar? Her stomach began to curl up into knots as she became nauseas from the site of him. “You want me to forgive you?” she reiterated.
“Please, it was just a mistake,” he said, reaching out towards her again/. “Just a drunken mistake.”
“A mistake? That’s what you call it?” she mustered a sarcastic laugh. “No John, a mistake is misspelling a word on a work memo, a mistake is over cooking the steak, a mistake is not cheating on your wife!”
“But Sarah, I love-“ he started but was interrupted. Sarah raised the pear above her head and threw it across the room. John ducked, allowing the pear to fly over his head, and splatter upon the wall like the remains of her once comfortable life.
“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching his hand out to touch her. She jerked away and just glared up at him. How could he say sorry so easily? Did he really think two simple words would fix everything? Why did he have to go out and get drunk? Why did he have to throw away their life together? He had once been the cause of the joy in her life, but now caused the sharp pain in her broken heart.
“Sorry?” she said mockingly. “That’s all you have to say to me?”
“Please, can’t you forgive me,” he pleaded.
“Forgive you?” she replied. Even from her own lips, the words sounded absurd. How could she forgive the man she had slept beside for five years, never wavering in her love for him, when he so easily tossed it aside for a one night stand with some dumb slut from the bar? Her stomach began to curl up into knots as she became nauseas from the site of him. “You want me to forgive you?” she reiterated.
“Please, it was just a mistake,” he said, reaching out towards her again/. “Just a drunken mistake.”
“A mistake? That’s what you call it?” she mustered a sarcastic laugh. “No John, a mistake is misspelling a word on a work memo, a mistake is over cooking the steak, a mistake is not cheating on your wife!”
“But Sarah, I love-“ he started but was interrupted. Sarah raised the pear above her head and threw it across the room. John ducked, allowing the pear to fly over his head, and splatter upon the wall like the remains of her once comfortable life.
Bonjour!
My bookshelves are filled with great writers from Charles Dickens to Kurt Vonnegut to John Steinbeck. I have lived my world between reality and the wonderful places these authors take me. But, it has always been a dream of mine to make it as an author myself, to create places for people to escape to, and characters to fall in love with. I have already self-published on novel, Rage and Love, and am working to perfect it, as well as a sequel and another novel all together. In between projects, I write short stories that take me, and those who read, out of reality for a few short moments.
This blog is a collection of my short stories as well as an update on my projects. Not only is it meant to keep me on task, and to create a collection of my stories, but to also hopefully start a following. So please, come read and enjoy, comment and do tell, and may my stories bring some delight.
This blog is a collection of my short stories as well as an update on my projects. Not only is it meant to keep me on task, and to create a collection of my stories, but to also hopefully start a following. So please, come read and enjoy, comment and do tell, and may my stories bring some delight.
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