Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Game of Pick Up
When I was a child there were endless games to be played. I spent the majority of my time at the church yard, sitting on the grass hill beside the old school bus in Rowland’s driveway watching the older boys play basketball with an old, netless goal. Days turned into months, years turned into years. I was a scrawny thing as a kid. My feet were too big. My arms too long. My legs too spindly. I could barely get the ball up to the hoop. And finally, one summer day the ball came my way and I picked it up. The boy with his dark brown eyes looked down at me, grin as wide as his face.
“You’re holding that ball like you can play.”
I pursed my lips, enjoying the feel of the warn leather and sleek rubber against my fingertips. By this time, I was almost ten. Every night, I’d sneak up to the church and practice on my own. I’d watched the boys enough that I knew what to do. I could shoot the ball. I could dribble. I cocked my hip out and pitched him back the ball. “If you let me play, I’ll show you.”
The boy smiled and motioned me over. He ruffled my hair as we walked over to the group of boys standing in the middle of the makeshift concrete court. “Check it out. She wants to play.”
All of them groaned, except the boy standing at my side. He pushed me forward and I thought my knees would start knocking. I pulled my ponytail tighter and set my shoulders. I could play. I wouldn’t let them talk me out of it.
“I want to play.” I said, smacking the ball from the boy standing beside me. I dribbled it while I let them debate and finally the boy who had drawn me over said he would sit out. My heart beat nervously, thumping hard against my ribs as we took our places. I stood at the point and the other boy with freckles, the one who was in my class and sat behind me in last year pulling my hair, telling people I had lice, that my mother was really my sister, stood in front of me. He sneered as he bounced the ball hard and it smacked my hands with a sharp sting. I bit my tongue and shoved it back at him. He stood there for the longest time, staring me down before he tossed the ball to his right and ran to his left, shoving my shoulder as he went by. He made me work hard to cover him, running me around in circles until I was blue in the face.
The game went on forever. The sun was hot on my shoulders, baking me like a chocolate chip cookie. Grandma had laid out a red tank top for me and a pair of matching shorts. It was a boy shirt from the Goodwill. The freckled boy had on one that was blue and I felt my heart sink. I saw the look in his eye when he realized we were wearing the same shirt and he opened his mouth to lay into me. “Mama too poor to buy you girl clothes? You want me to just give you this shirt so you don’t have to pay a dime for it?” I turned on my heels and started to walk away. Grandpa had warned me earlier in the summer to stop fighting. Grandma was giving him a headache telling him the devil was alive in me. Grandpa just wanted me to get it all out before I was a teen. Whatever that meant.
“I know why you don’t have any friends.” I paused. I knew this was coming. “You’re not a boy or a girl. You’re a freak!”
And before I knew it, I wheeled back around and walked back to him with one goal in mind. Beating him senseless. “Take it back!” I shouted. “Take that back!”
And he grinned. “Whadya gonna do? Hit me with your little freak hands?"
I balled my little hand into a fist and punched him square in the nose. The boys were silent. The freckled boy howled. He pushed me hard and I fell backwards onto the concrete. My hand was covered in his blood and his nose was a waterfall. We stared at each other for the longest time and I got up and launched myself on him. We rolled and punched and kicked and screamed. We fought like that until I could barely lift my arms anymore and the boy who had started this all by bringing me over plucked me off of him by the back of my shorts. “Alright, pip squeak, I think you’ve had enough.” He tossed a look to the freckled kid, “Time for you to go home.”
The boy gave me the stare down until he rounded the corner of the church and the rest of the boys reluctantly took off too. Dusk was approaching; supper would be starting soon for most of them. It was only the boy and me. He regarded me with an amused look for a long time, while I stared at my little bloody hands. I’d glance up at him waiting for him to laugh and say “told you so”. But he didn’t. He walked over to the forgotten basketball and used his foot to kick it up to his hands. “I’ve seen you up here late at night.” He said and I glanced up at him. “I’ve watched you shoot the ball. You’re really getting pretty good.” I blushed. Thank god for blood stains and sunburn because I was already shy and embarrassed to all end.
“I didn’t see you shoot the ball.” He said, handing me the ball. “Why?”
I shrugged a shoulder and lobbed the ball up to the hoop. It went in with a little rattle and bounced back down to me. I bounced it around a little bit and I watched the dust bounce up each time it hit the concrete.
“You didn’t want them to make fun of you, did you?”
I shot a look up at him and shook my hand. I handed him back the ball, ready for this day to be over with. “Thanks.” I told him. “I’m sorry I caused problems.”
He grinned, a boyish lock of blonde hair fell over his eyes. “See you next time.”
But I knew that there wouldn’t be one. Too much trouble. That is until I became a teenager. Then I whooped those boys ass into the dirt with my basketball skills. Except for that boy. He helped me get there.
Just like everything else in my life, there’s always something I wish I would’ve kept up with. Always something left behind in the pursuit of another dream. I loved basketball. I played every waking moment until I fell in “love” with a boy. Then I fell in love with boys in general. Then I fell in love with writing poetry. Then I fell in love with basketball again. Then singing. You get the point.
As a writer, there’s always something needing your attention. But sometimes there is something; waiting in the wings, under a pile of half read books with bookmarks you’ve been looking for months now. Killer dust bunnies have assumed watch over it with tiny pollen infested assault riffles. Each night as you walk by, you slide a longing gaze over it, the feeling of dread settles in the pit of your stomach at the thought of annihilating the killer dust bunnies and picking it up for the first time in forever. It calls to you in the middle of the night. Not really saying much at all, other than reminding you it’s still there. Waiting anxiously for you to take another chance at it.
And then one day, you sigh. You can’t stand it anymore. It’s driving you literally insane. You pick it up; blow the killer dust bunnies away and flip open the pages. You see faded handwriting, places where the ink has blotted into a big blob. Torn pages where you’ve taken a piece for a quick phone number cuts off an important sentence that you no longer remember what it was leading up to… What I’m talking about is that dreaded partial manuscript. You know, that one you were passionate about for all of a month before you got bored with it and sat it down without another thought. The concept was good. You had passion for what you were writing about, but like all puppy loves, it came in with a fury and went out like a lamb. But all it takes is a little spark to get it going again. Just a thought. A glance. A conversation over dinner. A mood that strikes late at night. So you take out the pen and start writing again, feeling that joy that you once felt for the story line, the characters, the overall feeling of the work. You take joy in your quiet time, alone with your work. And it produces BIG numbers in the word count game. You’re happy. For now. But what keeps you happy? Is it the fact of starting something fresh in your mind? Or is it the joy that you found the first time when writing it? And what keeps you from ditching it again? For me it’s all about progress and staying positive while writing. So if it makes me happy, I do it. And if it doesn’t, well sometimes I just grit my teeth and bear it.
Have you ever ditched a manuscript and came back to it days, weeks, months, years later? Did you ever finish it? What gives you the most joy about reading and/or writing?
“You’re holding that ball like you can play.”
I pursed my lips, enjoying the feel of the warn leather and sleek rubber against my fingertips. By this time, I was almost ten. Every night, I’d sneak up to the church and practice on my own. I’d watched the boys enough that I knew what to do. I could shoot the ball. I could dribble. I cocked my hip out and pitched him back the ball. “If you let me play, I’ll show you.”
The boy smiled and motioned me over. He ruffled my hair as we walked over to the group of boys standing in the middle of the makeshift concrete court. “Check it out. She wants to play.”
All of them groaned, except the boy standing at my side. He pushed me forward and I thought my knees would start knocking. I pulled my ponytail tighter and set my shoulders. I could play. I wouldn’t let them talk me out of it.
“I want to play.” I said, smacking the ball from the boy standing beside me. I dribbled it while I let them debate and finally the boy who had drawn me over said he would sit out. My heart beat nervously, thumping hard against my ribs as we took our places. I stood at the point and the other boy with freckles, the one who was in my class and sat behind me in last year pulling my hair, telling people I had lice, that my mother was really my sister, stood in front of me. He sneered as he bounced the ball hard and it smacked my hands with a sharp sting. I bit my tongue and shoved it back at him. He stood there for the longest time, staring me down before he tossed the ball to his right and ran to his left, shoving my shoulder as he went by. He made me work hard to cover him, running me around in circles until I was blue in the face.
The game went on forever. The sun was hot on my shoulders, baking me like a chocolate chip cookie. Grandma had laid out a red tank top for me and a pair of matching shorts. It was a boy shirt from the Goodwill. The freckled boy had on one that was blue and I felt my heart sink. I saw the look in his eye when he realized we were wearing the same shirt and he opened his mouth to lay into me. “Mama too poor to buy you girl clothes? You want me to just give you this shirt so you don’t have to pay a dime for it?” I turned on my heels and started to walk away. Grandpa had warned me earlier in the summer to stop fighting. Grandma was giving him a headache telling him the devil was alive in me. Grandpa just wanted me to get it all out before I was a teen. Whatever that meant.
“I know why you don’t have any friends.” I paused. I knew this was coming. “You’re not a boy or a girl. You’re a freak!”
And before I knew it, I wheeled back around and walked back to him with one goal in mind. Beating him senseless. “Take it back!” I shouted. “Take that back!”
And he grinned. “Whadya gonna do? Hit me with your little freak hands?"
I balled my little hand into a fist and punched him square in the nose. The boys were silent. The freckled boy howled. He pushed me hard and I fell backwards onto the concrete. My hand was covered in his blood and his nose was a waterfall. We stared at each other for the longest time and I got up and launched myself on him. We rolled and punched and kicked and screamed. We fought like that until I could barely lift my arms anymore and the boy who had started this all by bringing me over plucked me off of him by the back of my shorts. “Alright, pip squeak, I think you’ve had enough.” He tossed a look to the freckled kid, “Time for you to go home.”
The boy gave me the stare down until he rounded the corner of the church and the rest of the boys reluctantly took off too. Dusk was approaching; supper would be starting soon for most of them. It was only the boy and me. He regarded me with an amused look for a long time, while I stared at my little bloody hands. I’d glance up at him waiting for him to laugh and say “told you so”. But he didn’t. He walked over to the forgotten basketball and used his foot to kick it up to his hands. “I’ve seen you up here late at night.” He said and I glanced up at him. “I’ve watched you shoot the ball. You’re really getting pretty good.” I blushed. Thank god for blood stains and sunburn because I was already shy and embarrassed to all end.
“I didn’t see you shoot the ball.” He said, handing me the ball. “Why?”
I shrugged a shoulder and lobbed the ball up to the hoop. It went in with a little rattle and bounced back down to me. I bounced it around a little bit and I watched the dust bounce up each time it hit the concrete.
“You didn’t want them to make fun of you, did you?”
I shot a look up at him and shook my hand. I handed him back the ball, ready for this day to be over with. “Thanks.” I told him. “I’m sorry I caused problems.”
He grinned, a boyish lock of blonde hair fell over his eyes. “See you next time.”
But I knew that there wouldn’t be one. Too much trouble. That is until I became a teenager. Then I whooped those boys ass into the dirt with my basketball skills. Except for that boy. He helped me get there.
Just like everything else in my life, there’s always something I wish I would’ve kept up with. Always something left behind in the pursuit of another dream. I loved basketball. I played every waking moment until I fell in “love” with a boy. Then I fell in love with boys in general. Then I fell in love with writing poetry. Then I fell in love with basketball again. Then singing. You get the point.
As a writer, there’s always something needing your attention. But sometimes there is something; waiting in the wings, under a pile of half read books with bookmarks you’ve been looking for months now. Killer dust bunnies have assumed watch over it with tiny pollen infested assault riffles. Each night as you walk by, you slide a longing gaze over it, the feeling of dread settles in the pit of your stomach at the thought of annihilating the killer dust bunnies and picking it up for the first time in forever. It calls to you in the middle of the night. Not really saying much at all, other than reminding you it’s still there. Waiting anxiously for you to take another chance at it.
And then one day, you sigh. You can’t stand it anymore. It’s driving you literally insane. You pick it up; blow the killer dust bunnies away and flip open the pages. You see faded handwriting, places where the ink has blotted into a big blob. Torn pages where you’ve taken a piece for a quick phone number cuts off an important sentence that you no longer remember what it was leading up to… What I’m talking about is that dreaded partial manuscript. You know, that one you were passionate about for all of a month before you got bored with it and sat it down without another thought. The concept was good. You had passion for what you were writing about, but like all puppy loves, it came in with a fury and went out like a lamb. But all it takes is a little spark to get it going again. Just a thought. A glance. A conversation over dinner. A mood that strikes late at night. So you take out the pen and start writing again, feeling that joy that you once felt for the story line, the characters, the overall feeling of the work. You take joy in your quiet time, alone with your work. And it produces BIG numbers in the word count game. You’re happy. For now. But what keeps you happy? Is it the fact of starting something fresh in your mind? Or is it the joy that you found the first time when writing it? And what keeps you from ditching it again? For me it’s all about progress and staying positive while writing. So if it makes me happy, I do it. And if it doesn’t, well sometimes I just grit my teeth and bear it.
Have you ever ditched a manuscript and came back to it days, weeks, months, years later? Did you ever finish it? What gives you the most joy about reading and/or writing?
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36 comments:
I've never written a partial manuscript, but I have written bits and pieces of fan fic and returned to finish it later.I totally get the renewed feeling of dusting it off like you have a new lease on your writing life.
I get the same joy out of writing as I do reading-escape. I also enjoy reading because it gives me ideas about style, and voice in my writing. Reading a great book gives me the inspiration to create something as awe inspiring.
Sin,the more you played basketball the more improved you became-I feel the same about writing.
Practice is the key.
Awesome Blog.
I have to say that this blog was completely wonderful. Your writing was awesome. I'm totally wondering what happended to the boy with the blonde hair.
Okay now about manuscripts:
When I wrote my first WIP it took me a year. And then when I was revising it I dropped it. It was too much work to fix it I assured myself. Then a year later I picked it back up again. There was some good stuff in there. I could piece together the good parts with the bad parts. And then it became too hard. Too many of the new parts weren't good. It was too hard. I walked away for six months. And now I'm back. There's good stuff there, but most of it won't work. I have a new vision for this story. A new motivation and purpose for the character's. I'm nealry entirely re-writing the book. But that's ok because I've learned from my mistakes.Finally.
I don't know what gives me the most joy in reading and writing. In reading there's the thrill of flipping the pages faster and faster in dire pursuit of the ending, cause it's just so good, yet hoping it will never end at the exact same time. There's the exhilaration of finishing a great read.
For writing there's the euphoria of realizing you nailed a scene, the joy of finishing a new draft, even the drudgery of revision has some sort of appealing spark for me(when it's done, that is!!!lol).
Also, as Lisa said, seeing how much you've improved.
Again, this was and awesome blog!
Thanks!
Sin, I'm hopelessly rude, but I wanted to comment on Hellion's piece yesterday, which I only read this morning. I am in synopsis hell myself, and have printed out your invaluable questions. Amazing that I've started out following the order altho I didn't know there was one...must be psychic or something. Thanks so much, and good luck w/ Ben and Livie.
Now, Sin, to you. First off, your childhood vignette was just terrific. I just revised a book I finished over a year ago. I never expected to touch it again, and was surprised that I didn't completely hate it. I have several starts that are not precisely abandoned, but are waiting their turn in the queue. Early stuff I wrote is pretty bad, but fixable if I live long enough *g*.
I was totally sucked into that story, and since I can never remember whose day it is, it was clear from that voice that it was you. I love that I can tell everyone apart that way. And I too want to know what happened to that boy.
I started typing that I'd never written a partial MS but then remembered that I have. It was a Western about a female gambler out to avenge her father's death. I must have started it 15 years ago or more and I'm not sure where it is now. I know it's in one of the journals on my bookshelf.
I think I'll dig that out and see if I can make something of it one day.
Sin, this was a wonderful story! :) And as always, so full of your beautiful imagery.
I have put down stories and picked them up later. In fact, I put down my WIP for almost a year while I was finishing my pregnancy and, well, having a newborn. It wasn't until after I was firmly a stay at home mom that I knew I had to do something for me, something that made me happy and was almost a little selfish, that I wanted to get serious about my writing.
Though the dusting off was more figurative than real (the file was in my laptop), it was kinda the same idea. :)
Ter - I agree! I did the same thing, thinking, oh, it must be Sin's day. LOL!!
The boy never regarded me with anymore than sisterly affection, which was okay because when I got older I would've never kissed him. LOL. The boy with the freckles, however, teased me mercelessly until the summer I was 14 and tripped all over himself. Which is what he deserved. And he always asked me out, and I always turned him down. LOL
Now, Lisa, you got the fundamental aspect of the blog that I was trying to get out there, practice, practice, practice. Even if you think it's crap this year and needs to go in the shredder, with a little practice you can come back to it later and pick it back up with renewed interest.
Writing is my escape from everyday life. It's why I enjoy it so much. And even when it's trying and difficult to get the words out, there are always scenes going on in my head.
And I was thinking about you last night when I was writing this. You know why.
Kelly! Thank you so much! Basketball was a huge part of my life for so long and now I have something in common with it that I struggle with every day but refuse to give up on. LOL
I'm glad I'm not the only one who completely rewrites when the mood strikes and the creative winds are feeling generous!
Maggie, it's okay because I'll totally forgive you. I'm hopelessly rude myself but I don't find you commenting for Hellion rude at all. Her blog was awesome!
I think everyone's early stuff if awful but fixable. We just have to dedicate ourselves to fixing it and most of us would rather move on and shove it underneath a bed somewhere. LOL
*Please* tell me you beat that freckled, monkey-faced Rowland boy senseless. Repeatedly. All the Rowlands were hateful little bastards; his sister was just as frightening. Probably because she too was monkey-faced.
Sorry. Having Physics class flashbacks.
My LEXAR flashdrive is nothing but partial manuscripts. What makes me return? Well, like the men in my life whom I know I should never talk to or allow back in my life in any capacity, my characters roam back into my living room, plop on the couch, and start talking to me in earnest. Generally I will have gotten some hare-brained idea, thinking "that sounds like something this character would do"--and speak of the devil, in he walks.
The romance lasts as long as it takes for me to remember that this is probably not the right time for this book; the character gets sulky by my lack of commitment and faith in his abilities to charm a wide audience; and I get distracted by watching episodes of That 70s Show.
Ter- you mean to tell me after six months or so of writing on this blog and you still don't have the order memorized? Oh, who am I kidding! If I didn't know y'all's voices, I'd be screwed. LOL
I've always loved Westerns and gamblers. Must be the pirate in me. LOL
Marn! Every once in a blue moon we need to step away and live life. We might not choose to sit it down willingly but we do it anyway and when we come back to it, it's an euphoric feeling. Plus babies are worth a break.
Yes, Sin, WHO exactly was the blonde boy with the brown eyes? Because the one I know with blonde hair and brown eyes was also a little jerk-off...so I know it can't be the same boy. Well, maybe. You could always charm better...
Sin, I was so sucked into your story and voice that I forgot that you were supposed to have a point...I was pissed I never knew how the story ended. "WTF? NO! What happened to the blond boy? Did she run over the monkey-faced boy with a car? Did she do a better job than Steph and break BOTH his legs?"
Hellion, it's funny you knew it was a Rowland boy. LOL
Trust me. That wasn't the only scrap we ever got into. You know my grandparents just lived behind them. He was forever teasing me. Grandpa used to say it was because he liked me. Mary (Rowland) said it was because he had a crush on me. I say it was because he was a mean little spiteful brat.
I loved Mary as a kid. She was always so nice. She always gave us lemonade and let us sell said lemonade from 5gal buckets as we sat in her front yard. LOL
All the Rowlands were red-haired. It was like a Weasley family with Malfoy manners. Entitlement. Brattiness. Hateful to the core.
No broken legs. He once broke his arm when I pushed him outta the tree in Rowland's front yard. And I wouldn't apologize. He was trying to push me outta it. I'm just meaner. LOL
You know, I don't know what happened to the blonde headed boy. He was older than me (of course) and by the time I was 14, he was graduating. And I don't keep up with HS gossip.
I never understood that. Why were the mother and fathers so NICE and their children such nasty little demons? The McCubbins and Sprys worked the same way. I loved Mrs. McCubbin--but her youngest son... *shakes head*
Is that the way everywhere?
I guess adults don't have the need to be obnoxious little pricks because they already know they're better than you since they're the ADULT...
Sin, I loved the story. I was so there with the fight that I could see the blood.
The sports analogy works well to talk about writing, as does music. One reason I can't play piano now despite five years of lessons is that I hated to practice. :)
I have a partial mss (not romance) that I have worked on off and on for decades. Maybe some day I will have the time and the discipline to finish it.
Your someday will come Janga! All it takes is a little spark of wanting to work on it and then you'll pull it out and be all fired up for it again!
Man, I hope Janga gets a move on with her manuscript. I love your lyrical prose--as distinctive and lyrical and gripping as Marsha Moyer or Lisa Kleypas' contemporary voice. Character driven and meaty and heartbreaking.
Sin, loved the story of you kicking butt on the court, and your writing voice is fantastic. The whole scene played out beautifully in my head as I read. Great detail. I was so there.
As for my writing, it's just dormant. I need to dust off my brain. I have all these thoughts running through my head and fail to put them to paper. I'm not accustomed to writing creatively for me. My writing always revolved around an assignment. Now, I no longer have assignments due, but my blog seems to be helping me to write at least something.
MistyJo! Thanks for commenting about my writing voice!
Would you like me to get you a feather duster so that you can write something fabulous? I know the feeling about a blog. It seems when I have little writing activity going on in my life, writing a blog seems to spark it.
Hell, MistyJo, we can give you an assignment. 400-page romance full of heart-tugging moments and hot-flash-inducing love scenes. GO! You have *looks at watch* 6 months to complete it. First chapter due next Wednesday!
Make it a magical feather duster and then maybe something fabulous would come out. lol
Careful what you ask for, Misty. Knowing Sin the thing will either be a French Tickler or it will vibrate. LOL!
And if it's ticking, don't open the package.
Dude. I'm magic. I don't need no stinking French Tickler to make the writing happen. I can be like the Godmother of Fairy Dusting Fiction. Of course, we might have to double check the dust. It might make you hallucinate.
Sin is our Samuel Coleridge of the group.
Have I ever? I'm the effin Queen of unfinished manuscripts! I could fill a library with pages, chapters, 3 quarters of stories, you wouldn't believe.
I start writing as soon as I get an idea, you see. I don't gather ideas, write down plot points, I just write. And when I run out of ideas, I stop.
But your post gave me inspiration to pick one or the other back up again, if the files haven't gone corrupted yet, and see if I can rekindle that passion...
Karen! I'm exactly the same way! If I think it, I just write it. I don't take notes about it (which I should because I'm a bird brain). But it's like I'm a racehorse itching to get out from the gate and race to the finish line, but I'm too outta shape to make it all the way there, so I stop about halfway to catch my breath.
I know exactly what you were thinking when you wrote this blog.
That's the beauty of your talent. You will persevere, I know, I've seen it first hand. *hugs*
Hellion, thanks for the generous six months, but knowing me, I would wait until the last minute to write. Ultimate procrastinator here.
Sin, I'm guessing that the dust would be like Tinker Bell's dust and send us flying. lol
Terrio, lol about the vibrating. Here's my TMI for the day. Made me think of mine and Bill's honeymoon. When we landed in Key West, Bill's luggage was lost, but he had packed a few things in my bag. While he was at customer service, I was standing at the luggage portal with my bag. People were all around, and we all kept hearing a loud "ZZZZZZZZZ" sound. I figured out that it was coming from my bag, and when I opened it, I discovered that Bill, the dummy, had forgotten to take the batteries out of a wedding gift. Very embarrassing! I could have killed him.
MistyJo: we must be long lost sisters. I'm the ultimate of ultimate procrastinators. LOL
Sin, great blog! Sorry I'm late to the game... I was just thinking about the voice thing the other day. I can usually tell who is posting by their voice. It's pretty cool knowing you all that way!!!
I too have tons of unfinished, half written, semi-complete, bits of stuff littering my computer and several notebooks. It's fun to go back and revisit some of the stuff I've done in the past. And I have gone in and tweaked things here and there and fallen right back into things. Whether anything will ever get complete is anyone's guess, but it's always fun for me to go back and jump right back into an old story.
Misty, ROTFLMAO... funny honeymoon story!!!! Reminds me of the scene in Parenthood where Steve Martin runs in the room with his sister's vibrator thinking it was a flashlight.
Irish! You're never too late to read a blog entry! Even with commenters, especially the ones that comment constantly, you start to get a feel for your guys voices too.
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