Archive for April, 2011

Critique of Bad Fiction

Several years ago, I did a critique for a friend who wanted my editorial-writerly insight on some stories she wrote. After I read them, I was then uneasy, because I am not willing to lie, yet I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. When she asked about the results of my reading, I told her I was afraid she wouldn’t like my critique. She stated emphatically that she wanted the cold hard truth. And so, that’s what I gave her.

Below, is the critique, and I post it because I feel it covers lots of territory that every new writer should be made aware of.

CRITIQUE:

I’ve marked your copies up, but thought it might be hard to read. I don’t have the best penwomanship…so I’ll expound here.

I wish I had your writing in electronic form, because it would have been neater for both of us and I could also run stats on the writing and give you a better idea of things like reading level and frequency of word usage. These things are very helpful to me after I finish a draft. I do the polish and cleanup and some formatting after the story/book is done.

Onward. . .

I don’t pretend to be a writing instructor, but I have learned a few things along the way, and will just mention a few points. If you are serious about becoming a writer, I do you no favors by patting you on the head. What you need is constructive criticism. That’s what I’ll try to give–hoping that it will be taken in the spirit intended…

If you are serious, then understand that you have some work to do. There are many things a writer must do to create quality work. Although being a writer is often romanticized, Good Writing is hard. It requires great dedication and thus, it is not for the thin-skinned, nor the meek. Contrary to popular belief, it is not normally something that comes naturally. Rarely is someone able to write great fiction after the whim strikes. It springs from a “need” to write and then becomes a lifelong avocation, passion and SCHOOL, where the writer can learn and teach. . . it has always been a Continuing Education for me.

In all fiction, the story must accomplish the Willing Suspension of Disbelief. In your stories, I was not only unwilling to suspend my disbelief, it was IMPOSSIBLE. If you had not been my friend, I would have stopped reading and told the writer to stop writing and start studying the craft of writing before attempting again. And strangely, I saw promise in your writing with the other things of yours I saw-the erotic story, and the journal entries. Something happened between then and now.

As a conscious writer, you must also identify your audience. Is this just for your girlfriend? Even if it is just for her, I have read other pieces of writing by you, and this batch simply does not hold a candle to the other writings. You wrote the other things, if memory serves, before you met her. So what happened? “End of a Long Hard Day” was so much more real, much more filled out, well-rounded and believable. Has love made you lose your sense, woman? These stories don’t show your writing strengths. There is little exposition, and the dialogue is forced, trite, predictable, and not specific to each character.

When I revised As You Were, I had to deal with a lot of harsh truths. I initially started it when I was still a fledgling writer. It was, in fact, my first real novel. I saw that I had ruined an otherwise promising story with all the cheesy melodrama. I had fallen prey to the machinations of the overly-romanticized, even quixotic cogs of sentimentality. Everything in the story was just a pathway to a sexual encounter. To my own fantasies. I learned that if I wanted it to be a real novel, with any hope of engaging other readers, I had to give it more bite. More tension. I had to really challenge those characters. I also had to dial back the props and contrived situations to a believable degree. It was difficult to do that entirely due to the nature of the storyline, which was a romantic suspense one. . .and I also had to make sure that the plot twists were credible. For example, in one of the early drafts, I set up the premise that Brittany could not be found after her accident, because there was no ID in the vehicle-completely OVERLOOKING the fact that cars have VIN numbers and are registered to someone. I worked that part out without compromising where I wanted the story to go, but it was a challenge. And it took the keen eyes of someone else (Justi) to shed light on those things. . .While I’m still not entirely certain I pulled all that off effectively, I know it is at least a much better book than it was, and plausible. You can only do so much with certain romantic story lines. I had learned that freewriting from a space of romanticism did not create strong fiction. There are certain guidelines that are helpful, and these are too numerous to mention here…to that end, you should look on some writing sites and perhaps join some writer’s groups online…and I have books you can borrow too…

Anyway….

I realize you were writing longhand and quickly–and freewriting is a good technique for a draft, but you must be willing to revise more than once. Your mechanics, voice, and word choice are problematic. As an overview, understand that a few NEON signs of bad writing or an unseasoned writer are:

  • Not knowing how to format the writing. (A new paragraph is started for each character…have a look at some modern fiction book. Pay attention to how it’s arranged).
  • Attributions which are largely he said/she said, and used liberally. (You have to know when and how often to use this, and other ways to handle attributions, without repeating he said/she said to the point of distraction. And that doesn’t always mean changing “said” to “mumbled” either. Sometimes this might mean not using the attribution at all, but rather using an action or some exposition. Your reader should be able to tell who is speaking without always having the attribution. If they can’t tell, your characters aren’t individuated yet).
  • Choppy, awkward phrasing and timing. (There is a rhythm and a flow to sentences and paragraphs. You must nurture an instinct for that cadence)
  • Using exclamation points frequently. (Teenaged girls do this when they write…it’s a big no-no in adult fiction).
  • Using the same word repeatedly, especially in the same sentence, paragraph or page. (You should never have to use the same word twice in a page–unless it’s a conjunction or article or the like. There are plenty of other words in the English language. Using synonyms will both help the flow and also add nuance to the content)
  • Overtly sentimental content (all the lovestruck comments, honey-this and honey-that and you-were-so-wonderfuls, etc., are overkill. This makes your writing sound immature. There is a bold line between poignant writing and cheese).
  • Contrived situations that lead to what the writer obviously is most interested in–in this case, sex. (readers are smart enough to spot it when they are being led down the garden path. Any reader with half a brain cell will be offended if they don’t feel the events are plausible, or a natural extension of plot or character development).
  • Dialogue that does not ring true, and does little to move the story or reveal character. If you are going to take liberties with grammar, dialogue is one place you can do that-and contrarily, you cannot be precise and proper in dialogue, because people simply don’t speak that way, unless they are Harvard-educated members of the intelligentsia. That’s why you have to know your characters and how they speak-dialect, regional colloquialisms, the natural flow of conversation. (see marks). Repetition of Words,
  • quietly
  • softly
  • reached
  • little boy
  • nuzzling
  • snow
  • giggled
  • laughed
  • pulled
  • looked
  • hill
  • flipped
  • phrases,
  • we/they said in unison
  • looked at
  • reached up
  • reached for
  • we/she began to
  • she said/I said

and using cliches:

  • “warmed my heart”
  • “made me glow with love”
  • “looked deep into her hazel eyes”
  • “layed together as one” (that one was a misspelling, misusage and a cliche, all at once)
  • “lost in her eyes”
  • (see marks).

USAGE
The words you choose are closely related to the style you have. To develop your own style, you have to play with words. With the above list in mind, I REPEAT: please understand that there are so many words in the English language, that it is not necessary to use the same one twice, unless you’re talking about conjunctions, articles, etc. Redundancy is one quick way of getting your reader to stop reading.

You must find the nuances, and pick a word that will allow the reader to see and feel and hear what your story has to offer.

SETTING & ATMOSPHERE
In these pieces, you say that the snow is falling and the wind is blowing. Beyond that, there is little detail about the weather, its affect on you, whether it incites memory or reveals character, or what it smells like, feels like, sounds like, tastes like, looks like…you must engage the five senses of the reader as much as possible to create a real sensation of suspended disbelief. That’s part of suspending disbelief, too. It has to feel real, before the reader will go on the journey you wish to guide.

Also, in only one place, did you mention where you were, and I was frankly surprised it was Canada. You let that go on too long before identifying the location. And where in Canada? Why were you there? did you like it? Did you both live there? or did one of you move? Why? Did it have to do with how you met? All these things are setting and atmosphere, because they set the tone, and allow the reader to relate, and to understand what’s happening, and feel it like YOU do.

PLOT
There is no discernible plot in these stories. While it might seem that short stories don’t allow room for a plot, this is not so. There should be a plot in any story, if it is indeed fiction. Further, plots in short pieces are necessarily more succinct because they have to accomplish the same goals in a shorter amount of space.

The purpose of plot is to have a compelling series of events that make sense and create tension.

If I had to explain your plot in one of the stories, it would go something like this::

Two amorous lesbians go snow sledding, find an injured toddler in a ravine, take him home and put him on the bed, have lots of sex, and then hear on the news that his parents are looking for him. They call the number on the screen, and police bring the distraught parents to their house, where one of the lesbians asks the mother why her son was sledding alone, to which the mother replies with a detailed account of the boy’s history, and then the family and police leave and the two lesbians decide they will also have a child…

This plot synopsis–does it sound like anything you would want to read? You must be careful not to contrive situations for your own need to get to “the good parts.” Your personal attachment to these characters shows in that sense, and it only serves to cripple the writing. What is the point of these stories? Why are you telling them? Is it just a form of literary masturbation? I think you are too close to this material, and so you write to satisfy your own fantasies, and not for a reader. The reason your girlfriend likes it is because she is in the same space you are, and it’s about you and her.  But all it really is at this point, is self-gratification. So you need to be clear about WHY you are writing. If it’s for you and your girlfriend, then fine. If you are trying to be a real writer, this is going to be a process and it will take time and effort.

AUDIENCE
To beef up these stories, (provided you are attempting fiction) you first have to identify your audience. Is this for young adults? Mainstream readers? Young lesbians? Older lesbians? Only when you know who you are writing to, will you be able to write to them effectively. My guess for these stories is that it was for teenagers, and still, I don’t think it is up to par–not even to the level you set for yourself with your previous writings.

CONFLICT
In any fiction, there must be conflict, an attempt to ease the conflict/or exacerbation of conflict, and resolution of conflict. Ideally, you want to create a character that a reader cares about, not a cardboard cutout. Then you must place that character in some dilemma for which there seems no escape. You want the reader to see the character evolve through the conflict and its resolution.

You are interested in these stories because you are in that zone, and it’s about you and someone you know…that is often a mistake…while one school of thought tells the writer to write what she knows, another school of thought says to stretch beyond that…both suggestions have merit. One thing you must realize, though, is that there is little interest for a reader in representations of idyllic relations and events. The content here is overtly sentimental, cheesy, trite…it smacks of pre-pubescent girls, and yet your characters are supposed to be adults. They behave in ways that are not adult-like…they speak in ways that most people simply do not speak. They are not three dimensional. They are not meeting any obstacles. Conflict creates interest. Challenges create intrigue and tension. These things keep the reader turning pages. Which leads to…

CHARACTERIZATION
These two characters and the few secondary characters are one-dimensional…often referred to as Cardboard Characters. You never allow the reader any authentic sense of who your characters are. We don’t know what they look like, or what they are about. The only specific is that K. has hazel eyes, and that you have had some sort of training in medical or first aid. The reader wants to know enough about the character so that he/she can relate on some universal level. You can do this in exposition, in dialogue, and in what they DON’T say, as much as what they do.

My suggestion is to step away from the personal aspects of this content, and merely use it to springboard into something else. Make these characters multi-dimensional. The most common way is to allow the reader some insight into who they are ASIDE from the relationship…and another way you do that (as I mentioned) is to have them in some sort of conflict.

It does not make your characters appear credible when they miss the obvious, or they behave in ways that don’t make sense. They should have immediately contacted the authorities after finding the child. They most certainly should not be having wild sex repeatedly while a child lies unconscious in the other room. If the plot dictates that they cannot call anyone, give a credible reason for it, i.e. a dead cell phone, or ice on the land line. You really must explain their patently cavalier method of dealing with the child. It’s also not believable that that experience changed them to the point that the one character suddenly wants to have a child after not wanting to. That experience simply was not poignant or powerful enough to incite such a deep-seated change. When you sent your characters to dinner at the pizzeria, I thought there might actually be some plot twist, where the child figured into the story somehow, or the waiter you introduced might have some connection, and maybe it was all going somewhere–but this did not happen. Again, you introduced a character and told us a few things about him, but he did not move the story any more than a lead weight would have. You HAVE to populate your story with people who MATTER–and not just to you, but to a reader. Any reader. And especially a reader who doesn’t know you at all.

You are in the throes of a new relationship and you have sex on the brain. Don’t let it interfere with telling a story with meat on it. It can’t just be one situation leading to another for the sake of having sex. If you feel the need to do that, write erotica (your other erotic story was pretty good). And if your characters have a different set of goals for having children, don’t be obvious about placing a child-catalyst in front of them…this kind of contrived element is very difficult to accomplish with any degree of credibility. It’s very difficult, in general, to write romantic stories without coming off cheesy. Your tale will ring true if it is more hardcore–more like our day to day lives during a time of stress or important events…you have to breathe some life into your characters. Why do I care? why would anyone care? does every line move your story?
does every paragraph really count toward that end?

EXPOSITION
Your nouns and verbs should have enough strength on their own to stand without lots of modifiers and adverbs and adjectives. It’s a good idea to look for all your gerunds and cut back on using them (gerunds are made by adding -ing to a verb, and -ly words).

As for the actual telling of the story…Does it really matter that a character brushed her teeth, put on pajamas, walked down the hall, smiled, flipped on a light….? these are play-by-play notations that are not at all helpful in moving the story, or enriching it, or revealing character. Instead of

Now, if the character’s CAT brushed its teeth, that would be interesting.

brushing her teeth, have her brush with a certain brush because she always has used that one, and always starts on the right, and always rinses twice, without knowing why…use the ACTIONS of the character to REVEAL character. It is exceedingly dull for a reader to trudge through the play by play, for no real reason. The way in which you accomplish this is what will set you apart from other writers. You have something unique to say. If you read this and it was written by someone else, what would you say about it? Can you remove yourself from the writing? You HAVE TO or it will not aspire to anything but a romanticized journal entry. Make it matter.

The only way I can suggest you do this is to study articles about writing, and other writers. Compare what you write to how they write and find the differences –try to mimic their techniques. Ironically, if you can imitate them, you are on your way to finding your own voice. That’s what I mean when I say you have to know the rules, in order to break them effectively.

Assuming you are serious about writing, study the elements of plotting, setting, characterization, conflict, mechanics, etc., and pay attention to the other writers you like to read. The most fundamental rule in plotting is that a story of any size (even a novel) must have a beginning, middle, and end. And it must also bring something meaningful to the reader–meaningful in a universal sense.

Go to that coffee shop, or better yet, to a mall or other busy place, and sit down with your notebook. Take dictation from the voices around you. Get story ideas from the content of their discussion. Get a feel for real dialogue.

Subscribe to a writing magazine like Writer’s Digest, and study it cover to cover.

Here are a few online places to check too:

Writer Gazette
Fiction Factor
Learner
Write101
Write101: short story
Building Blocks of Creative Writing

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Trauma Biscuit

Discovered that the private garage at my new place is very small. I felt I should maybe fold my side mirrors in, or rub Vaseline on the side of the Cherryot. I did get it pulled in without losing any paint, but hoped I would learn the skill that sardines know.

Got everything inside, and discovered that Biscuit was nowhere to be found. I had been so careful. I even closed the garage door after I pulled in, carried her inside, and watched her dart into the apartment to hide, as usual. She has been so traumatized by this.

But then after I got everything in, couldn’t find her, looked in every nook and cranny, closet, even checked to see if baseboards were intact in kitchen by dishwasher, because I had lost her when moving into my previous apartment, and that’s where she went. Then, as now, I thought she might be some magic cat who could disappear at will. Like the Cheshire Cat, except when Biscuit disappears, she hasn’t been smiling. Finally when the laws of logic started to move into considerations of a possible vortex, or a wormhole, or even a parallel universe, I found her. In the corner of the kitchen, atop the cabinet. She’s been there now for two hours. Won’t come down.

Then of course, after the hideous 5 days I’d had, I just wanted a shower. But realized I’d left my shower curtain, and also had no towel. I showered anyway, just as I had the at previous apartment when I moved to Colorado–just directed the spray toward the wall and tried not to splash too much. And then I had to just get dressed, and let my clothes absorb the water. Then of course, I found that one towel, but it was too late. Later on, I had to climb with my sore body up on the counter and lean over the top of fridge to have a discussion with the still-retreated Biscuit.

“Hey Biscuit-head. You know it’s okay to come down now. This is our new home. We’re staying. No more moving. No more grabbing you and stuffing you in crates and suitcases. It’s safe to come down now.”
She said  right.

“No really. I mean it. I did all that horrible stuff so I could get us here. This is your apartment too. You want the grand tour?”

Turning her head away. Not really.

I scratched her head,  petted her. “Why don’t you just step down onto the top of the fridge, so you can see?”

Not a chance.

“How about if I just help you down?”

Don’t you freakin’ touch me. You’ve been trying to kill me all week.

“That’s not true, Biscuit. I love you. You’re my baby.”  Then I added in a collusive whisper, “You know you’re my favorite.”

Slightly interested now. Really?

“Really. Now let me just help you down.”
I picked her up and held her firmly to my chest, still petting her and cooing nice things, and then struggled down off the counter. I set her wriggling onto the carpet in the living room.

“Look, Biscuit, look how big it is! And over here on the fireplace hearth, I have the litter box and your food and water, come look.”

She obliged, but without much enthusiasm. “Now, in here is the room where my office will be. It’s twice the size of all my other office rooms. Look.”
MM-hm.
Walking to the bathroom doorway, like some erstwhile tour guide, I said. “And in here is the bathroom, see? No shower curtain, careful of the puddle on the floor.”

She peeked in and nodded, and then swirled with her feather duster tail toward the bedroom door.

“And this is the bedroom. See? There’s Monkey on the foamy bed.”
She rubbed it along the side, and gave a nod to Monkey who extended a paw, but it was rejected.

Wandering back in the living room, she plopped down in the middle on the carpet. Calmer now. Monkey ambled in with her simian stride, and simian feet and sat down in front of her, gave her a few kisses on the head. Biscuit purred.

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EXTENDED STRESS Hotel.

My Cherryot was loaded to capacity, with the things I thought I’d need for two months, until an apartment became available.

 

At Extended Stay, I checked in with desk clerk–started to unload, and had to take several things up first (5 trips in elevator) before I noticed that there was a luggage cart in front with a tattooed guy leaning on it talking to another guy. “Oh a luggage cart!” I said. “I need that.” He said he only had a couple of things and rushed off to get his task done so I could have it.

Meantime, I wanted to get the cats out of the Cherryot so they’d be safe and I’m sure they needed some freedom. That cardboard box in back of crate with litter was bound to be hard to lay next to.

I was trying to figure out what to do to get the cats up there safely. I also knew there was a limit of one animal, and so I had to be careful they didn’t see two.

I emptied a small gym bag and tried to put Monkey in it, but she doesn’t like being trapped, and I felt awful that I’d have to zip it up and scare her, and it was a small bag; I was stressing her more. So I dragged out the big red rolling suitcase, emptied it, and put her in it fairly easily, and then rolled her down the walk, through the breezeway, onto the elevator, all the while reassuring her in a sweet voice that it was okay and I was right here and we’d be in the room soon, etc. I always talk to my cats, explain things to them, as if they completely understand the English language.

I put Monkey in the bathroom and closed door, went to get Biscuit. She’s always harder to manage because these travel scenarios wear her out. Again, I discovered she was lying in the litterbox and wouldn’t come out. She did that on my move here in 09. I had to move a bunch more things, just to get that huge crate turned so I could get the door open wide enough, because I had to reach all the way to the back to get her. Monkey just came out when I asked her to, and then I just picked her up. With Biscuit, it was another story. I would have to be aggressive and just grab her and poke her in the case, because no amount of quiet explanation would get her to do what I needed her to do. And I had to be careful she didn’t slip out the door of Cherryot and run away. Horrifying thought for me.

SO she was in there and I asked her not to cry too loud so anyone would hear. Just as we reached the elevators, and passed a maintenance guy, she cried once, and I hurriedly coughed rudely continually, punching the elevator button. Finally the car came down and I rolled her in, and had another soothing conversation with her, for what it was worth. Even told her she was a pretty kitty and mommy loved her very much.

Got Biscuit in the bathroom with Monkey, and knew Monkey would console her, while I went to get the rolling cart and unload the rest. It still wasn’t there.

Mind you, there was a memory foam mattress rolled up and attached to the luggage rack of the Cherryot, along with the litter box with that 35 pound container of litter, and couple other things. I didn’t want someone to steal it. The bed, not the litter. My friends know that my foamy bed is as crucial to me as breathing, because I can’t sleep on anything else without my back going out.

Finally I procured the luggage cart from Tattoo Guy and began loading it up. Hard to do, since most things were not neatly arranged in one size liquor boxes or crates. Had to be creative with stacking since a couple of the plastic tubs had no lids. I had to pull them out of the garden shed thing off the back porch of house and clean them out. Anyway, it took about 4 trips to get it all up there.

The entire time, I am limping because of my injured knee (thanks to my Awful X– as in previous, X–as in crossed out, gone, no longer applicable), and my hands were so sore, and my spine felt like it had hot bricks for discs, my feet were throbbing, and my neck was making threats to rupture a disc again. If that happened, I was down for the count, and I would be completely immobilized. I hoped for good fortune and carried on.

Once in the room, I had intended to go straight to bed, too tired to shower. But then I had to find things and then I started unpacking in increments, and then before I knew it, I had unpacked everything, maybe it was just leftover nervous energy.

During this time, I was on the phone with my best friend Justi, and my spirits were considerably higher because I was allowing myself to feel relieved that I was somewhere I could rest. Make camp. I told her about the fine art of controlling a loaded luggage cart; it likes to spin around at will like a go cart with one bad brake.

Then I can’t avoid the need for food any longer and about 12:30, I hoped there was a drive thru open. Problem was, I seemed to be in a section of the city that was a fast food dead zone. I drove North on Wadsworth, and saw nothing. I was going to use my Mango fast food app on my iPhone to find it but realized that app was lost in the last screwy update I did where I forgot to select to save apps. I searched it and got it again, while still talking to her, and she was on her computer trying to find me a place to get food too. Then I said I just wanted a cheeseburger and fries. Small. My stomach was shrunk. I had already lost five pounds from stress and exertion in the last 6 days.

“There’s an Arby’s on Jewel,” she offered.

“I don’t want Arby’s, I want a cheeseburger. I’m looking for McDonalds and Burger King, because I knew they were open late, too.”

“There’s also a Wendy’s on Jewel,” she added.

“I don’t want Wendy’s because I want fries and I don’t like their fries. Too fat.”

I finally located the Wendy’s though, and drove past it looking for ARBY’s because she began extolling the virtues of sliced roast beef and cheese sauce and seasoned curly fries. I didn’t see it, and my stomach was growling and I was a little dizzy from hypoglycemia. I turned around and went back toward Wendy’s. “Fuck it, I’ll got to Wendy’s. At least they have cheeseburgers.” And then I discovered they had something called a Baconator, with natural cut fries with sea salt. Enjoyed a playful conversation with the order taker and got my goodies. The fries were delish, and when I got back to the hotel and tried the Baconator, it became automatically my new favorite burger, so it all worked out.

The fact that I would post this is perhaps an indication that vanity is not one of my shortcomings.

There was much I needed to do–I didn’t have time to actually let the emotional aspects kick in. I was afraid I wouldn’t get things done if I was blubbering like a two year old. I had paperwork from the court and advocacy group people to go through, information to fill out, notes to take in Daytimer, figuring out my next steps and priorities. I still had bills I needed to take care of, (that my Awful X had failed to pay, though she had used my money to pay HERS for about 4 months while she stayed unemployed). I had to update my bank account info before the bills came due, etc. I started my water distiller and drank what was left in previous jug, so dehydrated. My eyes were bloodshot, and I looked terrible in the bright light of that hotel bathroom mirror. So I graced my best friend with a photo of that and MMS’d it to her.

I looked like I’d been dragged behind a horse. Or at least my EYES had been dragged behind a horse. Or maybe a goat. A large, feral goat.

On the TV the size of a breadbox, I’m sort of watching some movie called Teen Witch about a coven of high school witches. Ironically it was partly about them discovering their powers to take vengeance on those who had wronged them, and I wished fervently for a little of that craft. Then I started watching another movie and eventually fell asleep.

Next morning, fire alarms go off, pulling me out the door onto the balcony muttering what the fuck? It stopped and I went back to bed, then the alarms went off again, just as I was dozing. I went back outside to look around to see if there was any smoke or firetrucks and heard a guest below me mutter What the fuck? which made me think that was quite the appropriate response. My nerves were raw by now, this 6th day of the debacle, with 3 hours sleep, on top of 2 on top of 2 on top of 3, on top of 5 on top of NONE and none. I was certainly not going back to sleep now. I checked to see if my direct deposit had been transferred to the new account from the old one, and it hadn’t. I’m getting more and more stressed. I called the bank and they said it would happen within an hour. So I got dressed and went to the front desk to arrange to pay for another day.

Enter, stage right, the archetype of Rude Managers. Anne, I think her name was. I had missed checkout time at 11. And because my money didn’t transfer to my new account yet, I explained and said the bank was correcting, would be ok within an hour, but she said I had to be out by 3p. She wouldn’t let me pay for another day, even with a credit card, she said I had to pay for the week. I said the agreement I had made with them on the phone was to pay for two nights and then pay for a whole month, for this month and then May, until my apartment was available. She said I had to pay for the week. I said I could pay her cash or use a credit card for one more night and then she’d have over a thousand dollars for me to stay the month, and she wouldn’t budge, she said get out by 3p. Now, this was particularly hurtful and aggravating, because I had explained my predicament to her on the phone, and she knew I was escaping a bad situation. Before walking out the door I said “Just remember, lady, Karma is a castrating bitch.”

SO then I’m freaking out, because now, not only am I dealing with the bank glitch, but having to load the Cherryot AGAIN, with no place to go afterward. I’m not good at feeling helpless or trapped, and this was exactly that situation, in spades.

At Justi’s counsel, I called the Apartments office to see if they had a different apartment that would be available NOW, and if not, a month to month one until the other one was ready. If not, where would they suggest I stay? I was trying to go to the bank while talking to Justi and got so disoriented, I didn’t know where I was. Took me 10 minutes to get the map to make sense on my phone. All the while I’m chanting, I am stronger that her (D), I will get through this. I will be okay. And then I was angry that I was dealing with all this because of her, and for the first time in my life, I used that word I hate so much. I shouted, “She is such a cunt!”

Then I had to pull over and take a deep breath, because I was losing it and I had to keep control in order to get myself out of this situation. I continued to chant I’m okay…I’m strong enough to deal with this, it’s just temporary, I’m okay…

I went to the bank, and they were so nice. They did a credit memo, based on my direct deposit, and made $2000 available to me, in cash. I’m standing there at the counter at the bank, tears streaming down my face, my body throbbing, my knee killing me, desperately needing a drink of water, food and some sleep. I redeposited enough cash to cover the 200 dollar security fee, and $20 application fee I wrote temporary checks for at the Apartments, plus some fees for the cashier’s check. Traded out the other cash for that. I kept hearing that song in my head by Billy Pilgrim: Got my own falling-apart-ment….

SO I left with a sealed envelope of $2000 and felt slightly better. Except for the possibility of being mugged. That would have been the first horseman of the Apocalypse. I tried not to think about it. At least I had money. I’d be very careful. I also had the $300 from pawning my guitar–which i was loath to do, as it is beloved, and a symbol of happier days when i was playing and singing with my band in front of a receptive audience… But strangely, having cash is not always helpful these days. Most people won’t take it. And temporary checks are shunned. And I didn’t have a debit card yet to get to my funds that way.

As it turned out, with the apartments, I didn’t even have to go to the second choice of a month to month or third choice of asking them to refer me elsewhere, because they had an apartment. It was a 2br,  with a private garage – it cost more of course, but just as Justi said, I make more now and can afford it. Plus when I get my storage, I’ll have an extra $135 from not paying that; and my Cherryot pays off in May, so starting in June, that will be an additional $330 per month I’ll have. I was relieved, though still shaky and skeptical…

I spoke with Shelia (had spoken to Kayla earlier too) they all knew the story of what had happened. When I got to the Apartment office, Kayla came out of the far office with her arms wide, saying “You poor thing! Come here, you need a hug~!” and she gave me a big hug. It almost made me cry. She said not to worry, I was home now, and everything would be okay. That also nearly made me cry, because it did feel like home. All the things home is supposed to feel–safe, pleasant, convenient, with supportive people around you.

Before any business was done, Shelia came over to sit with us and the two asked me details of what happened. I talked about more of what I’d been through and details about D’s arrest and that night when she threw the gun in koi pond. They were both rapt. It was like sitting with two old friends. They know I’m gay and they don’t care. They were supportive and encouraging. It felt so good and went a long way to relieve my stress. I said I would be writing all about it.  Kayla said I ought to do a memoir about it. I said I already have a memoir about events 10-14 years ago; I had hoped never to have this kind of thing to write about again, at least not if it was nonfiction, and happening to me; but this is another kind of drama that would work as a memoir, yes. Or I could just make it fiction. They both said they would LOVE to read it.

Kayla rushed through the application process. When I went out to get my banking information, I grabbed the new final proof for Achilles Forjan and gave it to Kayla. She was genuinely thrilled and said she couldn’t wait to read it.

So then, I went back to the bank to get a cashier’s check, and re-deposit the 200 and 20 to cover the temp checks I wrote for security deposit and app fee, and trade off cash for cashier’s check. Always nice to be recognized and waved over to a clerk at your bank–but I wish it wasn’t because I had been in there earlier in crisis mode.

All this, I did without a single Xanax.

I headed over to my new place, feeling relieved, stunned, exhausted and a little happy, all at the same time. I kept thinking, and miles to go before I sleep…

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