Maybe I”m just too hard on myself.

Our second fiction writing class put me on a high. Steve used each story in the group to point out what we’d done well and ways to improve. Our “homework” assignment was to either revise, add on, or start again. After rewriting/revising my original story last Thursday and Friday, I realized I’d made so many changes, it had morphed into something new. There’s not much action–my character is in her head, unaware the rest of the world doesn’t swim in the same pond she does. She sees people and events through her own perspective, but I had written the story in third person.

First I tried changing to first person, but I couldn’t make it work. Then I took out all references to outside events she was reacting to (politics, family issues) and tried to “live” in her mind. Finally, I reverted back to third person but changed it to present tense. Anyway, by yesterday morning, the story had been ripped apart and pasted back together so many times, it didn’t make sense. And I was frustrated. (I was rewriting scenes in my head at church yesterday morning–not a good sign!)

Since our story was due that night, I pulled out something else I’d been working on, and revised the point of view and tense to first person present. By 9 p.m. last night, my brain was fried. Of course I couldn’t sleep, wondering whether I should have plugged along with the first piece.

But back to my main point. I am so forgiving of others (at least I try to be).  But forgive myself? Forget it. My internal voice becomes so negative, I turn a small event into a rehash of my entire life, flaws and poor choices ringing in my ears.

This morning, though, I’ve moved past most of it, though some guilt/anxiety will always be with me, I’m afraid. I ran into a friend yesterday who said, “When all else fails, walk the dog.” Well, I can’t do that anymore, but I sure can get myself outside. I’m hoping a long, fast power walk around town will clear my head.

Then I’ll be ready to dive into that first story again–with a better attitude. This should be fun, right?

My first short story is finished. I really thought I had a premise–a character who could only see her own political perspective.

But halfway through my 5 pages, I started slowing….way down. I hadn’t figured out how to end it. Though I finally came up with an idea, I am not happy with it. This morning, I ran across this post, which is helpful. I think it applies to short stories as well.

Writers often struggle with finding the exact right climax and resolution to their novels, memoirs an screenplays.

So much time and thought and writing goes into developing a compelling protagonist with a mysterious back story, deciding where is the exact right beginning of the story, how to make the action exciting and the book concept big, the details just right, the dialogue snappy, the setting exotic, the crisis disastrous…. (see more)

Martha Alderson also has some videos I’m going to watch. Then I’ll rethink what happens to my character and whether there’s a story there.

I’m also wondering if readers will be frustrated by this character. She’s not too likable and she doesn’t change much. I do look forward to Wednesday night’s class to see what others think about her.

I left my first class with Steve Watkins filled with anxiety. Not that anxiety is something new to me. I seem to live with it these days, though that’s another story.

But his instruction to write five pages of a short story by Sunday night made my stomach flip. I tend to write short poems, short articles for the Front Porch, and short pieces of prose. I’d spent the day still mourning my sweet dog, feeling like my head wasn’t working right, and noticing all my conversations seemed slightly off.

So when he said: Write! I panicked. And couldn’t sleep. Which is also nothing new.

But this morning at my 7 a.m. dental appointment (who goes for a cleaning at dawn?), I had an inspiration. I can’t say more about it or I”ll be revealing too much about my dentist. But I came up with a kernel of a story that interests me.

Writing inspiration comes in the strangest places…..

We climbed out of the car, dad leaning on the side as he adjusted his legs. His unsteadiness had worsened, but I didn’t want to hover.

The putting green was in name only. It had turned in late August to a field of dry stalks, bare splotches, hardly a place I’d imagined to share an afternoon with him.

I’d asked  him earlier if he would teach me to hit a golf ball, a game he played regularly before. Before the cancer. Before the strokes.

“Do you know why we’re here?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Not really.”

I tried to decide which hurt more, losing dad minute by minute or knowing eventually he’d be gone.

Fifteen years earlier, the doom and gloom doctors had given him a three-percent chance of survival. He’d made it 15 years, though not without lots of intervention, many hospital visits, and my mother–a woman who would not let him die.

“Come on, I’ll try,” I said, reaching for a 20-year old golf putter. Not that I cared about golf. It had seemed, in the moment, a way to connect to an easier time with him.

As I hit ball after ball, he’d watch and then say, “good job,” as the ball veered off to the woods or I’d miss it completely.

Twenty minutes later, his already wobbly legs began to curve outward even more. Arthritis had made a space for a basketball between his knees, and I knew he was tired.

Later, he rested in the yard, staring at familiar plantings his mother had grown years before.

“So, what did you and Susie do?” Mom asked, bringing him a cup of coffee.

Quiet.

“Susie,” he said, his eyes betraying him. “What did we do?”

We shared a moment, dad. We shared a moment.