Telling Tuesdays 03/13/12 - "She'd never been so afraid."

Welcome to Telling Tuesday, a day reminiscent of those in school when I looked forward to seeing what everyone brought for show and tell. This weekly feature was inspired by an article on WriteToDone.com, called "How to Show (Not Tell): A Writing Lesson from John LeCarre."


It is one of the best articles I've seen on the rule all writers know--show, don't tell--because it doesn't just tell us how not to tell, it shows us some of LeCarre's very own examples.

" . . . descriptions can set the scene, convey the inexpressible, and turn the reader into a witness, instead of remaining a mere bystander." -- Mary Jaksch, author of the article

Each week, I'll give a "telling" prompt, and invite you to show us, to make us a witness, not a mere bystander. Feel free to use the prompt, or the photo (if a photo is shown.) Of course, if you have a completely different "telling" prompt, you can "show" us that, too.


As always, I invite you to leave a link to your website or blog with your comments.


THIS WEEK'S PROMPT:


She'd never been so afraid.

     She tiptoed, slowly, slowly, hoping he would not hear her. She'd even murmured a prayer, though she wasn't sure if she'd said it right. And if she said it wrong, would God hear her?
     She was afraid of the dark, but grateful for it, too.
     A leaf crunched--screamed--below her foot.
     He turned toward her.
     Did he see her?
     She froze. All except her heart. It pounded so hard and loud in ears it might have smothered the sound of his footsteps . . . if he wasn't getting closer.
     Closer.
     Should she scream?
     No. He'd hear her. Then find her.
     But, it was her only chance. Surely someone would hear, come to help.
     She opened her mouth, and prayed she could make a sound escape it.

Telling Tuesdays 2/7/12-"The food in the refrigerator looked gross."

Welcome to Telling Tuesday, a day reminiscent of those in school when I looked forward to seeing what everyone brought for show and tell. This weekly feature was inspired by an article on WriteToDone.com, called "How to Show (Not Tell): A Writing Lesson from John LeCarre."


It is one of the best articles I've seen on the rule all writers know--show, don't tell--because it doesn't just tell us how not to tell, it shows us some of LeCarre's very own examples.

" . . . descriptions can set the scene, convey the inexpressible, and turn the reader into a witness, instead of remaining a mere bystander." -- Mary Jaksch, author of the article

Each week, I'll give a "telling" prompt, and invite you to show us, to make us a witness, not a mere bystander. Feel free to use the prompt, or the photo (if a photo is shown.) Of course, if you have a completely different "telling" prompt, you can "show" us that, too.

As always, I invite you to leave a link to your website or blog with your comments.

THIS WEEK'S PROMPT:

The food in the refrigerator looked gross.

     Ms. Human Resources smiled and opened the break room refrigerator. "And this is where our employees keep their lunches."

     I had two simultaneous and inseparable urges. One, to turn away quickly, lest I breathe spores the strange life forms surely exhaled upon being exposed to light. At the same time, I couldn't turn away, overtaken by a curiosity almost as strange as that of a passerby at the scene of an accident. 

     I'd never seen cheese with such a thick five o'clock shadow. The pizza, apparently bored with Parmesan, had decided to grow its own blue cheese.

     But strangest of all was the tiny voice I heard coming from the tomatoes. "I'm melting. What a cruel world. I'm melting."

     I felt myself turn green as I feared the aliens inside the refrigerator had already infected me with their spores. I held my breath and ran out of the building as fast as my turning stomach would allow.

     "Wait! Wait!" cried Ms. Human Resources. "I'm not finished with my orientation yet. And you forgot your employee badge!"

     Bursting through the door and into fresh air, I bent over my knees and gulped deep breaths. When my lungs felt clear of contamination, I straightened again and stared at the entrance of the building. I couldn't help laughing at the sign I'd missed earlier:

ESPIAL LABS, Inc.

Bringing new life to those in need. 

     

Telling Tuesdays 2/7/12-"He dreaded the news."

Welcome to Telling Tuesday, a day reminiscent of those in school when I looked forward to seeing what everyone brought for show and tell. This weekly feature was inspired by an article on WriteToDone.com, called "How to Show (Not Tell): A Writing Lesson from John LeCarre."


It is one of the best articles I've seen on the rule all writers know--show, don't tell--because it doesn't just tell us how not to tell, it shows us some of LeCarre's very own examples.

" . . . descriptions can set the scene, convey the inexpressible, and turn the reader into a witness, instead of remaining a mere bystander." -- Mary Jaksch, author of the article

Each week, I'll give a "telling" prompt, and invite you to show us, to make us a witness, not a mere bystander. Feel free to use the prompt, or the photo (if a photo is shown.) Of course, if you have a completely different "telling" prompt, you can "show" us that, too.


As always, I invite you to leave a link to your website or blog with your comments.


THIS WEEK'S PROMPT:


He dreaded the news.

The following is an excerpt from Broken Dolls. The scene takes place in December, 1941. Terrence is unable to get into the Christmas spirit, because he misses his daddy, who is stationed at Pearl Harbor.

Missy and Patty serenaded all the way home. Jingle bells, jingle bells. Over and over. Way too many times.

Terrence shook his head. “Come on, you two. Don’t you know any other songs?”

Wouldn’t matter none. He just wasn’t in the mood, even with a tree tied to the top of the car. Even with Christmas carols and colored lights showing through windows everywhere. It’d be a fine scene – if only Daddy was home.

Momma turned into the driveway. “Wonder why Brother Harold’s sitting on our porch swing? And who’s that man . . . in the uniform?” Her voice faded to a whisper.

Patty and Missy stopped singing.

No.

The whole world came to a stop. The talking. The movement. The breathing. Something buzzed in his ear and clutched Terrence’s heart tight. Wouldn’t let go. Might never let go.

No.

Momma’s hands clutched the steering wheel. She whispered real slow. “You kids . . . go on in the house now. I be there in a minute.”

Terrence lifted Missy out of the car and took Patty’s hand. No matter how bad he didn’t want to know, he knew.

Let’s just back up, Momma. Get back in the car. Get back to the Christmas tree lot. I promise I won’t complain about looking for the perfect tree. Won’t never complain about having to get up early. Just please. No way. No way do we want none of what Brother Harold has to tell us.

Terrence nodded as he shuffled past Brother Harold. But he couldn’t—wouldn’t—look him in the eye.

Brother Harold touched him on the shoulder with his large, warm hand. It sent shivers all over, tensed every part of his body.

Once inside the house, Terrence put Missy down and shut the front door. “You two go on and play now,” he said.

Missy ran off to her room, but Patty stared at her brother, her eyes looking more scared than he’d ever seen them. “I don’t want to play. Why’s Brother Harold here? Is it Dad—”

Don’t you say it!

“I said, go on now Patty. I wanna talk to Momma when she comes in.”

He pressed his ear to the door, wanting to hear, yet so desperately not wanting to hear. His heart begged for a way—any way—to stop time, to go back in time.

Telling Tuesdays 1/31/12--"She felt sick."

Welcome to Telling Tuesday, a day reminiscent of those in school when I looked forward to seeing what everyone brought for show and tell. This weekly feature was inspired by an article on WriteToDone.com, called "How to Show (Not Tell): A Writing Lesson from John LeCarre."


It is one of the best articles I've seen on the rule all writers know--show, don't tell--because it doesn't just tell us how not to tell, it shows us some of LeCarre's very own examples.

" . . . descriptions can set the scene, convey the inexpressible, and turn the reader into a witness, instead of remaining a mere bystander." -- Mary Jaksch, author of the article

Each week, I'll give a "telling" prompt, and invite you to show us, to make us a witness, not a mere bystander. Feel free to use the prompt, or the photo (if a photo is shown.) Of course, if you have a completely different "telling" prompt, you can "show" us that, too.


As always, I invite you to leave a link to your website or blog with your comments.

THIS WEEK'S PROMPT:
The other day, for some unknown reason, I began to feel sick to my stomach shortly after eating lunch. Thus, my prompt for this week. To "show" feeling sick, I've used an excerpt from Broken Dolls. At this point, I'm not sure if I'll use in the final draft of the book or not.

She felt sick.

Sumiko clutched her stomach and knew she must be an awful shade of green. She’d had morning sickness before boarding the ship, but comparing that to the queasiness she'd felt since the Korea-maru left Yokohama was like comparing waves on a shore to a tsunami.  Whether she was standing or sitting, awake or asleep, the room rolled left and right, up and down. There was no way to escape it. And how could she possibly hover at the edge of retching once again? Surely by now, her stomach was completely empty.

Chopsticks trembled in her hand as she forced herself to take another bite of rice. She could not risk losing the child growing inside her, the only part of Taro she would ever have.

Telling Tuesdays 01/17/12

Welcome to Telling Tuesday, a day reminiscent of those in school when I looked forward to seeing what everyone brought for show and tell. This weekly feature was inspired by an article on WriteToDone.com, called "How to Show (Not Tell): A Writing Lesson from John LeCarre."


It is one of the best articles I've seen on the rule all writers know--show, don't tell--because it doesn't just tell us how not to tell, it shows us some of LeCarre's very own examples.

" . . . descriptions can set the scene, convey the inexpressible, and turn the reader into a witness, instead of remaining a mere bystander." -- Mary Jaksch, author of the article

Each week, I'll give a "telling" prompt, and invite you to show us, to make us a witness, not a mere bystander.

THIS WEEK'S PROMPT:

I'm out of town today, so have not yet written my "showing" for my prompt. But, I'm looking forward to reading the variety of senses you use to "show" me stress. Not that I need it. :)


I'll have my tale posted by tomorrow.

She felt stressed when she noticed the time.

Telling Tuesdays 1/10/12

Welcome to Telling Tuesday, a day reminiscent of those in school when I looked forward to seeing what everyone brought for show and tell. This weekly feature was inspired by an article on WriteToDone.com, called "How to Show (Not Tell): A Writing Lesson from John LeCarre."


It is one of the best articles I've seen on the rule all writers know--show, don't tell--because it doesn't just tell us how not to tell, it shows us some of LeCarre's very own examples.

" . . . descriptions can set the scene, convey the inexpressible, and turn the reader into a witness, instead of remaining a mere bystander." -- Mary Jaksch, author of the article

Each week, I'll give a "telling" prompt, and invite you to show us, to make us a witness, not a mere bystander.

THIS WEEK'S PROMPT:

Hmmm . . . let's see. I must admit, I had a tough time coming up with a prompt this week. Imagine. I, as a writer, had a hard time coming up with one, measly sentence. That should tell you how lazy my muse has been lately. No, this morning she didn't want to get out of bed. Hey! There it is . . . my telling prompt! Now, wake your muse up and show me.

She didn't want to get out of bed.

Brave New World     

     She opened one eye and tried to focus on the clock. No luck. She'd have to open the other eye, too. The numbers across the room still a blob of red, she blinked until they became clear. 6:09. How could three little numbers be the harbinger of such dread? The day had begun.

     "Oh, just five more minutes," she mumbled, as if anyone would hear her plea. In denial, she pulled the covers over her head. The warmth was a magnet that held her tightly from the cold world outside her cocoon.
     But like the call of the wild, she forced herself--drew on every ounce of willpower--and peeked her head from under the covers to check the clock again.
     6:17. Ugh.
     The scent of coffee drifted in the air. She'd barely inhaled the aroma when her monster-lab, Bear, poked her exposed face with his ice-cold nose. His wagging tail pounded on the bed, like a demanding visitor knocking on the door.
     The day had begun. There'd be no ignoring it now. She threw off her covers and took in a deep breath. What adventures would the new day bring?

Telling Tuesdays 1/3/12

Welcome to Telling Tuesday, a day reminiscent of those in school when I looked forward to seeing what everyone brought for show and tell. This weekly feature was inspired by an article on WriteToDone.com, called "How to Show (Not Tell): A Writing Lesson from John LeCarre."

It is one of the best articles I've seen on the rule all writers know--show, don't tell--because it doesn't just tell us how not to tell, it shows us some of LeCarre's very own examples.

" . . . descriptions can set the scene, convey the inexpressible, and turn the reader into a witness, instead of remaining a mere bystander." -- Mary Jaksch, author of the article

Each week, I'll give a "telling" prompt, and invite you to show us, to make us a witness, not a mere bystander.

THIS WEEK'S "TELLING" PROMPT:

The dark road was scary.

This week's prompt was inspired by my drive home from Tulsa last night. There's something about driving along on a dark and windy road. Here's my "showing:"

     How dark the night had become since turning onto County Road 256, as if all color had been sucked from the world. The blackness surrounding her was like a monster, devouring all but the small patch of gray left by her headlights.

     Nothing felt lonelier than being on that road. Seemed like hours since she'd seen another car. Maybe the blackness had swallowed them all.

     Then, headlights in the distance. Thank goodness. She wasn't alone after all. She smiled. Funny how two lights in the distance--stranger's lights--could bring a little comfort.

     But even welcome light can become too bright. She flashed her high beams, but the stranger didn't heed her request.

     Closer. Brighter. Closer.

     She turned away from the blinding beam as the stranger passed.

     Jerk.

     Then again, at least for a moment, she'd had a little company. And the return of a void felt even emptier.

     Returning to darkness left spots in front of her eyes. She watched them dance on the center line that zipped past her car as she tried to focus on the road ahead of her. Anything for a little entertainment.

     But one spot quit dancing. It grew larger and larger as she approached.

     She blinked.

     It wasn't a spot. A deer?

     A man!

     His eyes widened.

     She slammed on the brakes.

     Someone screamed.

I know you have some dark road stories to tell. Show me?

As always, feel free to leave a link to your blog with your comments.

Telling Tuesdays 12/20/11

Telling Tuesday. Reminiscent of the days in school when I used to look forward to seeing what everyone brought for Show and Tell and inspired by an article on WriteToDone.com, called "How to Show (Not Tell): A Writing Lesson from John LeCarre."


It's one of the best articles I've seen on the rule all writers know--show, don't tell--because it doesn't just tell us how not to tell, it shows us some of LeCarre's very own examples.

" . . . descriptions can set the scene, convey the inexpressible, and turn the reader into a witness, instead of remaining a mere bystander." -- Mary Jaksch, author of the article

Each week, I give a "telling" prompt, then invite you to show us, to make us a witness, not a mere bystander.


12/20/11
Last week I drove by my old house in Tulsa. My old home. I lived in that house for 25 years - raised my two children in it. Because it is around the corner from my parents' house, I see it each week when I go back to Tulsa to visit them. That house became a part of me, and when I left it for the last time . . . well, here's this week's telling prompt:

Her mind filled with memories as she shut the door.

Following is an excerpt from Broken Dolls. In this scene, Sachi and her family prepare to leave for the internment camp, taking with them only what they could carry. I began the scene with a haiku I wrote, based on how I felt when I left my house in Tulsa:

My house is empty

But memories will remain

Echoes in my heart.

It was almost time to go. Sachi listened to Mama’s heels tapping on the floor as she rushed around the house for a final check before they’d leave for good.

Tap, tap, tap, tap. Silence.

What did Mama think about as she walked into the kitchen? The living room? The bedrooms?

Tap, tap, tap, tap. Silence.

Sachi did her own wandering, drifting from empty room to empty room, trying to gather memories to hold. Each footstep echoed on the hardwood floor, and she too stopped walking to remember: Getting mad at Taro because he kept winning at jacks. Watching Papa build a fire in the fireplace. Even practicing her dreaded dance lessons in front of the mirror was a good memory now.

The government might be able to limit the number of suitcases they could carry, but they couldn’t make her leave her memories behind.

The hollow echoes swallowed her. She paced around her bedroom, running her hands along the pink walls. Step, step, step, step – like the heartbeat of her home. When they left, the heartbeat would stop.

Mama called from the hallway. “It is time to go.”

Time to go? Time to go? Her heart ached. She didn’t want to leave her room. Her house.

Mama called again. “Did you hear me? It’s time to go.”

Nobu peeked into her bedroom. “Come on, Sach. It’ll be okay,” he said, leading her out.

When Mama closed the door behind them, Sachi squeezed her eyes and thought of all the times she’d heard that door shut before. The fall mornings when she left for school. The evenings when Papa arrived home from work. The afternoons she returned from playing and Mama told her not to slam the door.

Mama wouldn’t have to worry anymore. She’d never slam it again.

Your turn! I can't wait to experience your character's memories of a home.

Telling Tuesdays 12/13/11

Telling Tuesday. Reminiscent of those days in school when I looked forward to seeing what everyone brought to show and inspired by an article on WriteToDone.com, called "How to Show (Not Tell): A Writing Lesson from John LeCarre."

It is one of the best articles I've seen on the rule all writers know--show, don't tell--because it doesn't just tell us how not to tell, it shows us some of LeCarre's very own examples.

" . . . descriptions can set the scene, convey the inexpressible, and turn the reader into a witness, instead of remaining a mere bystander." -- Mary Jaksch, author of the article

Each week, I'll give a "telling" prompt, and invite you to show us, to make us a witness, not a mere bystander.

This week's prompt was inspired by a passage in a book I'm reading, Life of Pi. Here's the excerpt:

     Richard Parker has stayed with me. I've never forgotten him. Dare I say I miss him? I do. I miss him. I still see him in my dreams. They are nightmares, mostly, but nightmares tinged with love. Such is the strangeness of the human heart. I still cannot understand how he could abandon me so unceremoniously, without any sort of goodbye, without looking back even once. That pain is like an axe that chops at my heart.


So, here's this week's "telling" prompt. What can you "show" us?

She was sad when he left.

Here's an excerpt from a story I wrote several years ago (Voices, Volume I, High Hill Press, 2008) about a couple and their sailboat called "Haiku":

     He pulled away from her driveway with Haiku in-tow, leaving her feeling as empty as her now vacant garage. Sadness hovered like a gray cloud when a realization fixed itself in her heart - a realization as clear as the 800 pound gorilla that stood in the corner, its arms crossed in mock satisfaction.
  
  Their dance was nearing an end. Like the sailboats she'd watched on San Francisco Bay, their souls had moved toward each other, but never touched.
  
  And sailing Haiku wouldn't change anything.
  
      Her bed is empty
      Train whistle cries far away
      She hugs her pillow.


I'm looking forward to reading your "show" part of show and tell!

Telling Tuesdays 12/6/11

Telling Tuesday. Reminiscent of those days in school when I looked forward to seeing what everyone brought to show and inspired by an article on WriteToDone.com, called "How to Show (Not Tell): A Writing Lesson from John LeCarre."

It is one of the best articles I've seen on the rule all writers know--show, don't tell--because it doesn't just tell us how not to tell, it shows us some of LeCarre's very own examples.

" . . . descriptions can set the scene, convey the inexpressible, and turn the reader into a witness, instead of remaining a mere bystander." -- Mary Jaksch, author of the article

Each week, I'll give a "telling" prompt, and invite you to show us, to make us a witness, not a mere bystander.

This week's prompt came to mind when I watched the first snowflakes of the season fall yesterday morning:

It was snowing.


I'll go first. This is an excerpt from my manuscript, Broken Dolls. In this scene, on the anniversary of her father's death, 10-year old Sachi has been running from something all day, trying to keep a thought from coming to consciousness. Here's part of that scene:

She started to run, as if she could escape the thought. But it was too strong this time. There was nothing to drive it away. It burst into her mind, full force. She stopped. Breathless.

If you hadn’t begged Papa to take you to the park that day, he might still be alive.

Tears burned her eyes. It was her fault. She covered her face with her hands, hoping darkness would hide her from the bitter realization. It didn’t. There was no escape from the flood of emotion. The dam had burst.

Mama had warned them—told them it wasn’t a good idea to go to the park that day. Papa had probably agreed, but he took Sachi anyway.

It was her fault.

If she hadn’t dragged Papa there, those boys wouldn’t have found him. And if Mama and Nobu blamed those boys, surely they blamed her, too. It all happened because of her. Her fault.

 I’m sorry, Papa.

Something cold tingled on her hands, trickled down her collar. She took her hands from her face and opened her eyes.

White flakes drifted all around her. Landed on her eyelashes. Her nose. Her tongue.

Falling, falling.

Softly.

Gracefully.

Unbelievably quiet.

     Snow! Her first snow.


Your turn! I'm watching and waiting to experience your snow scene.

Telling Tuesdays 11/29/11

Tuesday was show-and-tell-day at school, and though I remember the excitement of trying to decide what to bring, what I liked best was seeing what everyone else brought to show.

Yesterday, I found a great article on a website called WriteToDone.com, called "How to Show (Not Tell): A Writing Lesson from John LeCarre." It is one of the best articles I've seen on the rule all writers know--show, don't tell--because it doesn't just tell us how not to tell, it shows us some of LeCarre's very own examples.

" . . . descriptions can set the scene, convey the inexpressible, and turn the reader into a witness, instead of remaining a mere bystander." -- Mary Jaksch, author of the article

This inspired me to start a new feature on my blog, Telling Tuesdays. Each week, I'll give a "telling" prompt, and invite you to show us, to make us a witness, not a mere bystander.

This week's prompt:

The coffee was good.

I'll show you mine, if you'll show me yours:

     The scent grew stronger, richer, with every step she took down the stairway. Rubbing her eyes, she shuffled into the kitchen and heard the rhythmic gurgle of percolating coffee.
     She flipped on the light, then stifled a yawn as she stared at the mugs hanging over the counter. Picking one at random, she smiled at her choice. "Happy Boss's Day," it said.
     As she poured, steam rose from the dark brew and she took a deep breath. To her mouth she drew it, closer, closer, blowing to cool it, anticipating.
     Then, a sip.
     Ah. A morning to relax and enjoy a cup of coffee. The first time in years. For now, she didn't care that she'd been fired the day before.

Okay. I'm sitting at my desk now, hands folded in front of me, and I'm almost as excited to see what you'll "show" as I was back in elementary school. Only difference is, Johnny Winklebuns is not sitting behind me, pulling my hair.

Addendum: 11/30/11

I had to add this picture of coffee in my grandmother's rosebud cup, after reading Keli's comment. Thanks for the memories, Keli!