Accepting Criticism ... Along With a Special Thanks and a Really Cool Opportunity :-)

I truly believe that the reason my novel is still unpublished is that I suck at struggle with accepting criticism.  This is true in all facets of my life, but it's unquestionably the strongest with regard to my writing.

Why?  I suspect because, at least in terms of the tentatively titled Unbreakable, I put so much of myself into it, that I put many years of my life into it, that it has been a part of me for a very long time.

I spent a lot of this summer working on fixing up my novel, based in large part on suggestions and input from you, my lovely readers.

So I'm going to ask you to please do it again ... how's that for grateful ;-)?

Marcy over at Mainewords and Dianne from In High Spirits collaborate on what they call "First Impressions".  Basically, you can submit the first page of your manuscript, and both Marcy and Dianne will critique it publicly on their respective blogs.

If you're a writer, I strongly recommend this great opportunity.  I mean, the hardest thing to hear is that something that you've poured your heart and soul into stinks ... but at the same time, receiving specific feedback on how to improve it from fellow writers is absolutely invaluable.

I'm not getting torn to shreds, actually, which is cool :-)  The big issues seem to be my use of a mother's use of "revulsion" in terms of her son, and my affinity for extremely long sentences.  Both of these are excellent points and remind me that I still have much work to do.

But I'm feeling great about it (my new mindset is permeating all aspects of my life :-)), and am now really interested in finding a critique partner and really, seriously, 100% aggressively delving into getting that book published instead of waiting for someone to say, "I read an excerpt of your novel online, and it's amazing.  I'd love to represent you!" because clearly that is not going to happen ;-)

Anyway, special thanks to Marcy and Dianne, and I hope that you will go over to their respective blogs and add to the critique fest ... myself and my novel need all the help we can get ;-)

And again, please consider submitting a "First Impression" piece to these two wonderful ladies ... you won't be sorry.

I Wrote a Short Story--Read and Critique, Please?

My primary weakness as a writer of fiction is that I am trapped in the world of novel.  I seem to be incapable of writing anything short ... it all just wants to grow into a novel that might or might not come into fruition.

I'm making a serious effort to work with the "short story" concept, which I've struggled with.  If you're interested, you can check out a couple of my prior attempts here ("Ruffled Feathers"), here ("Fading Bouquets"), and here ("Que Sera Sera").  The following is my latest crack at it.

Please let me know what you think--comments, criticisms (only please don't say, "It sucks" without elaboration), suggestions, general "keep trying ... you'll get better" words of encouragement--all would be welcome and much appreciated.

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                                       "MATRIARCH"

                                                 by

                                          Katie Loud

Carol Butterick sighed with pleasure, careful to make sure that the noise could be construed as pain, discomfort, sadness.  She was, after all, dying.

She allowed her eyes to open a crack, taking in the sight of her family huddled around her hospital bed, as close as the IV stand would allow.  She noted with satisfaction that they were all there, the whole lot of them. They were quiet, and Carol knew that her presence was the reason why.

Nobody was looking directly at Carol--that was clearly too painful for them as they struggled to imagine a world without her.  She had, after all, been omnipresent in all of their lives for ... well, forever, as far as she was concerned.  

Her husband Herman was sitting close to her on her right side, his hand almost touching hers, but not quite.  She was glad.  

Herman looked old and haggard; he was a heavy smoker whose every breath was characterized by the wheeze of emphysema.  The doctor had suggested that Herman use a portable oxygen tank, but Carol had put the kibosh on that right away.  Herman needed to carry her wheelchair from place to place, to help her in and out of the car, to run and do her bidding as he'd done for the duration of their marriage.  That was his role.

Herman was a car mechanic, and he wore his work uniform even on weekends.  It was easier that way, since the garage laundered employee attire; the thought of his dirty, greasy clothes mixing in with hers in the washing machine ... well, it was just not going to happen, and that was all.

They lived in a small, almost stereotypical New Hampshire town, and the Buttericks were considered an odd, even a dysfunctional, family.  Carol didn't mind; it was easy enough to ignore the "Jack Sprat and his wife" jokes and the implication that Herman was what the young ones called "pussywhipped".  

That was a joke; Carol hadn't allowed her husband carnal knowledge of her body since their wedding night.  

He did her bidding, came running when she called, and handed over his paycheck.  She handled the bills, the household expenses, and it briefly occurred to her that someone was going to have to step up and help him out.  She knew for a fact that Herman Butterick didn't have a clue how to do something as simple as writing a check.

Her eyes, still slitted snake-like, moved to the other side of the bed where Amber sat.

Poor Amber, who was the spitting image of her whore of a mother.

Amber was overweight, homely as sin, spotted with acne even though she was approaching thirty, and bound to be a spinster.  Amber had been born dangerously prematurely, and the lack of oxygen following her birth had unquestionably damaged her brain.  Carol's view was that the girl's evident cow-like stupidity was a direct punishment for her mother's sins.

Amber had tried to escape, as much as her limited brainpower would allow.  As Amber's aunt and legal guardian, Carol had ignored the school's requests for special education testing.  Why bother?  The girl was numb as a stump, and nothing was going to change that.

She'd worked as a cashier at one of the town's two gas stations since her graduation from high school with a D- average.  The station's owner, a friend of Herman's, had carefully gone over the cash register with her, had patiently taught her how to make change, and Amber was a fixture at the gas station now.

The year before, she'd moved into an apartment in town with a couple of her old friends from high school.  Carol couldn't remember their names, but one of them flipped burgers at the Burger King uptown, and the other one had a baby and lived on food stamps and welfare money.  

Carol had liked having Amber at home, had become used to bullying the girl into submission.  It was an art form she'd mastered over the years, and besides, Amber had kept the trailer sparkling clean.  Since she'd moved into that hophouse down the road, nobody had vacuumed or dusted or picked up.  Herman wasn't capable of picking up the slack, not with the number of hours he worked each week, and Carol certainly wasn't going to do it.

It might let them onto the fact that she wasn't anywhere near as sickly as they all believed, and that just would not do.  It would lead to all sorts of complications, to questions best left unanswered ...

And anyway, he was back, now, her shining prince, and she knew--knew--that he wouldn't tolerate a messy house.  She'd left instructions with Herman to hire a housekeeper after her death, since she would never make her boy do anything as mundane as housework.

Carol had been married to another man once, when Herman was just another boy from town who was hardworking and came from a family that owned their own land but would never amount to much.

Jerry had been different.  Although possessed of a snake-like native intelligence, Carol Butterick wasn't an educated woman; the word charismatic  was not in her repertoire, although it fit Jerry Melanson to a T.  She had married Jerry without a moment's hesitation, had gone to live in his cabin in the woods without a second thought.  That it didn't have running water or a refrigerator was beside the point--no, what Jerry did to her at night, the way he touched her when he was in a good mood, his booming laugh, those were the things that mattered.

Jerry had a bad temper, and Carol was very cautious not to set off his hair trigger.  Of course, "cautious" was something of a foreign concept to a woman who truly believed herself better than anyone else, a woman who dropped out of school following a fight with another student.  They'd made Carol talk to a "special doctor", and her mother's eyes had widened when the word sociopath was mentioned.  It hadn't been hard for Carol to convince her mother that the shrink was all wet, and it had been with her parents' blessing that she'd left school.

Despite Carol's awareness of and deference to Jerry's quick, violent anger, he spent a lot of nights out of the house, ostensibly because he was out drinking with the boys.  It never occurred to Carol that he was stepping out on her.

So the day that her mother pulled her wheezy Chevrolet into the cabin's dirt driveway and told Carol that her younger sister, Valerie, was pregnant and had named her brother-in-law Jerry as the father was a dark one indeed for Carol.  

Jerry had quickly and, with something close to relief, admitted his affair with Valerie.  He filed for divorce and, as soon as it was finalized, married the now hugely pregnant Val.  To prove that she didn't hold a grudge, Carol had arranged for herself and Herman, who she'd been dating for approximately a month, to be married the same day.

If Valerie felt slighted at having to share her wedding day with the older sister that had tormented and tortured and basically eclipsed her entire childhood, she said nothing.  Valerie was a simple soul, and her affair with Jerry had been based solely on the fact that someone was paying attention to her for once.  

Valerie's baby was a boy, a son she named Albert, and their daughter Amber was born two years later.  

Two years after that, Jerry and Valerie got into a serious car accident.  Valerie received serious, potentially life-threatening injuries.  Jerry received a DWI summons.

Carol, who had largely avoided her sister and former husband other than lavishing expensive gifts on young Albert and, to a noticeably lesser degree, little Amber, swept in to play nurse for her sister.  

There were no questions asked when Valerie succumbed to her injuries despite the best efforts of her sister.  Certainly nobody noticed that the bottle of antibiotics prescribed to Valerie to stop her infection contained the same number of capsules as it had when Carol picked it up at the drugstore.  The numerous painkillers that should have made a woman suffering from tremendous pain feel a little bit better had likewise been untouched.

Shortly after Valerie's death, Jerry was on his way home from a late night at the bar.  His beat-up pick up truck crossed the yellow line and crashed into a small car carrying a family of four on their way home from a picnic at the lake.  He was sentenced to many years in jail, needless to say, and custody of Albert and Amber was transferred to their Aunt Carol.

Carol looked now at the foot of her hospital bed, where Albert was slumped in a chair.  His resemblance to Jerry was striking, and Carol felt a surge of pride ... and a tug of something else as well, deathbed or no.

Albert had been her shining star, the valedictorian of his graduating class, a Boy Scout, a volunteer at the local nursing home, and a three-season athlete.  She had given all of herself to him--all of herself--and, when he tried to protest, she reminded him of all that she had done for him.  It was the least he could do.  Nobody else would ever want him anyway.  If he didn't do what she wanted him to, she would consider sending Amber to an orphanage.

Albert lived under a heavy weight of guilt--the guilt of his very existence which had been at the expense of Aunt Carol, the guilt of protesting her physical desires when she had done so much for him, the fact that Amber was treated like a niece and he was treated as better than a son ...

Carol had not wanted Albert to go to college, but of course a boy of his stellar successes was college-bound. She made Herman buy him a car so that he could come home every weekend, though, and was insistent that he did.

And then Albert met a girl down there in Boston, a high society bitch who clearly thought she was better than Albert's poor white trash family, and suddenly Albert stopped coming home every weekend.  When he did return to the trailer, he brazenly brought the Boston bitch with him.  Carol had no choice but to get the message.

She was disgusted by Albert's weakness as he bought the bitch a diamond ring and wedding plans moved forward, Albert's family left out of all aspects of the planning.  Carol got in her digs when she could--she brought the girl to tears by telling her that she was going to wear black to the wedding, for example--but she mostly had no choice but to gnash her teeth and take out her anger on Amber, who actually showed a degree of gumption by moving out.

The marriage lasted just over a year.  Albert, who'd gotten some hard-core executive job that Carol didn't understand (nor did she need to), had found himself in trouble at work when his aunt (who he referred to as his mother) called him every hour.  He was reprimanded at work, first informally and then on paper.  She continued to call, telling him that she was alone and sick and needed him.

He started leaving work at odd hours to drive the three hours up to make sure that Aunt Carol was okay.  

His wife was not pleased, and between being a failure at work and being a failure in his marriage, Albert started to drink heavily.  He drank as he drove up to the tiny New Hampshire town that was his prison, he spent time with his Aunt Carol, who was the only person that seemed to think he was worth anything, and then he drank all the way back to Boston.

It was inevitable that he would be bagged for DWI eventually.  It happened the day before he was fired from his job, a rising star that fizzled like the bubbles in a bottle of alcohol.

His wife, distraught and confused, was called to bail him out.  She made an appointment for marriage counseling the next day, and for the first time he confessed about the horrible abuse he'd suffered at the hands of his Aunt Carol.  That was the only counseling appointment that he went to sober, and after the third time Albert beat her badly enough to require medical assistance, she filed for divorce.

Carol, who sat in the courtroom holding her son's hand as the divorce was granted, licked her lips like a cat who'd gotten the ultimate dish of cream.  Albert moved back home, and she bought him bottles of wine because that was what he wanted, and he did whatever she wanted as long as he had his wine.

Sometimes, though, the Albert that had crossed the graduation stage covered with gold braid to give the valedictory address, the young man with so much potential who had caught the attention of a bright and beautiful girl and earned her love, tried to stand up to her, tried to say no, both to the wine and to her.

Carol had a history of diabetes, of heart problems, of debilitating blood clots in her legs.  Her history of mental illness was unknown, of course, but Carol had figured out that stopping her medication led to a trip to the hospital in an ambulance ... and the gathering of her family by her bedside.

This was the third time she'd done it, and Herman and Amber looked worried, perhaps even a little suspicious.

Albert just looked resigned.  

His glanced upward, his eyes meeting hers.  She winked at him, a promise of wine waiting at home for him, so long as he played things her way, and he looked away.

She groaned again, an expert at making herself sound pained and long-suffering.  Herman took her hand, and Amber rang for the nurse.

Albert looked away, but she knew it was only a matter of time.  She had her boy back, and he wasn't going anywhere this time ... she knew that it was the wine that held him to her, but that didn't matter to her.

What did was that he wasn't going anywhere.

Here It Is, The Prologue to "Unbreakable" ... Please Read and React :-)

Okay, so I've been doing a lot of soul-searching regarding my finished novel. After taking in what you weighed in on (thank you, thank you, thank you :-)), I've decided to keep it a complete novel and just work on thinning it out. I started rereading it yesterday, and of course I've lost all sense of perspective on the beginning, since I've read through it so many times.

I figured, hey, I'll post the prologue (it's in three parts ... hmm, maybe this is why it's too long) and see what my lovely blog readers have to say. Please (pleasepleaseplease) weigh in :-)
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Excerpt from Unbreakable by Katie Loud
“Outlander!” she said as soon as he picked up the phone.

“Come on, now, Outlander, I was here first,” he said, but his response sounded uncharacteristically half-hearted to one who knew him as well as she did.

“You okay, champ?”

“Yeah. There’s some stuff going down, that’s all.”

“Want to talk about it?”’’

“I’ll call you in a few days. Fill you in then.”

“Okay. If it makes you feel any better, we’re in the midst of a crisis here, too.”

She sensed a grudging smile when he spoke again. “Trouble in paradise?”

“You could say that.”

He paused. “She’s having a baby.”

“And that’s a problem because?”

His voice was stony. “Some bloodlines should die out.”

“Maybe.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I was just thinking about you.”

“Me? Why?”

“Reliving the past, I guess you could say.”

He laughed, but it was void of any joy. This disturbed her; he was most memorable to her for his resolute happiness in the face of disaster. “Reliving the past? I have a feeling there’s going to be a lot of that tonight.”

“Be well. I love you.”

He wanted to tell her everything then. If anyone would understand, it would be the voice on the other end of the state-of- the-art cellular phone that wasn’t on the standard consumer market yet, but he couldn’t. He could only echo her own words back. “I love you, too.”

I.
(Susy; Emerson, NH; September, 2006)
I felt revulsion toward my son today.

There have been times in the past that Seth (and, to be fair, his siblings) has upset me … but never anything like this.

Never before have I been unsure I wanted to lay claim to him.

“He’s only twelve,” my husband told me when I called his cell in near-hysterics. “He doesn’t get it.” He let me rant for another minute before interrupting to say that he was calling the school as soon as he hung up to request that he be called first in the event of further disciplinary issues concerning our children.

Of course, I started laughing. “That isn’t funny.”

“Yeah, I’m getting the impression that you really feel that way,” he said soberly, only making me laugh harder. “Okay, I’m in the middle of a meeting, but I’ll be home in a couple of hours.”

“Is there any way you could pick the kids up from school?”

“Sure, no problem.” He paused for a minute. “Honestly, Susy, it really isn’t that big a deal.”

“No, it wouldn’t be to you,” I said, more sharply than I’d intended.

He didn’t say anything for a long second. “You’re not implying …”

“What, that you’d ever refer to a scholarship student as welfare trash? That you’d use the word spic? No, I know you wouldn’t. That’s the thing, we’ve raised a kid willing to bully someone because of their race or socioeconomic status.”

“He’s a good kid, and I’m not making excuses. I’m probably more upset about this than you are.”

“You just keep the histrionics out of it, right?”

I could hear the smile in his voice. “You said it, I didn’t. Seriously, I have to go, Suse. Eddie just came out and tapped his watch for the third time.”

I laughed, picturing our gentle, stereotypical, compulsive accountant. “Okay, I’ll see you in a few hours, then.”

“I love you, Susannah. Things’ll be fine, okay?”

“Okay. Love you.”

I hadn’t been off the phone for five minutes before it rang again. I wasn’t at all surprised when I heard my mother-in-law’s voice; I lucked out like you wouldn’t believe in terms of in-laws. “I heard,” she said, knowing there was no need to elaborate. “Here’s what I want you to do. Write a letter to Seth explaining why this was particularly upsetting to you.”

“Write a letter?” I asked dubiously.

“You won’t be able to talk to him without getting worked up.”
I tried it out in my mind. Dear Seth, No matter what my last name is now, I started out as welfare trash. Love, Mommy.

“That’ll be a more useful lesson than the week of detention he got at school.” There was a coldness in her voice that I’d never heard before in relation to her grandchildren. I suddenly realized that she was as furious with my son as I was.

“I’ll think about it,” I hedged.

“Want to drive down to Portsmouth, get some lunch?”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll be writing a letter.”

“Now, don’t worry about what he’ll think. He’ll hear the whole sordid truth at some point regardless.”

After saying goodbye, I went into my office and fired up the computer. I thought for a long moment about the thousands of books I’d read, suddenly realizing that my hysterical reaction to Seth’s harassment of a financially underprivileged Hispanic kid screwed from the start at a school like Stephens Academy served as a prologue of sorts to a much longer story.

II.
(Roy; Boston, MA; September, 2006)
I'm sure that to some people, memories are indeed the proverbial priceless gem that can be brought out to examine and relive with positive connotations.

My memories give me nightmares for a week.

That's not precisely true, of course; some of my memories are wonderful. It's just that most of the good ones gleaned over the course of thirty years occurred after I was fourteen. It’s the years before then, though, that my mind is focusing on now as I sit alone in the study of the Boston penthouse that Addie and I have lived in for the past five years, wishing that I was a drinker. Conventional wisdom states that nothing helps tragedy like alcohol (until the next morning, anyway), but I can’t keep myself from holding true to a promise I made when I was just a kid that I would never drink.

Adelaide is in our bedroom crying. She doesn’t want my comfort; I caused every one of her tears.

It started out as a typical day. The team flew back to Boston early this morning after a two-week road trip. Although the stretch was highly successful (especially when you consider the roller coaster reputation of the Red Sox), we were instructed to report to Fenway for extra batting practice immediately after getting off the plane from Detroit. I was home at six o'clock, toting two suitcases and a dozen red roses for Addie. Because I can't read (a long, complex story unto itself), Ad and I leave "audio notes" on a tape player that sits on the kitchen counter, nestled between the toaster and the can opener and as inherently necessary. Sure enough, there was a fresh tape in it. Arranging the roses in a glass vase, I pressed the play button.

"Hello, my shortstop in shining armor." I smiled at the sound of Adelaide's sweet voice. "I'll be home around seven. Take a look at the newspapers on the counter. Another Gold Glove for Pentinicci?, Pentinicci Leads Sox to Fifth Victory in Six Games, Can Roy Pentinicci Make Those Who Called his Team the Dead Sox Apologize?, Roy Pentinicci Takes the Growl Out of the Tigers. I’m so proud! I'm thinking take-out for dinner tonight. I have a feeling it's going to be one of those days. See you at seven. I'm so glad you're home, Roy, and I have some wonderful news for you. Love you."

I picked up the newspapers on the counter, bemused as always with the media's obsession with me. I was named People's "Sexiest Athlete Alive" last year, an occurrence that tickled Adelaide as much as it embarrassed me. I hadn't wanted celebrity, hadn't asked for it, but somehow or other, it had happened. Addie's brother Christian, my closest friend since we were five years old, jokes that I was born for the spotlight, but we all know it's just teasing. My personality is unquestionably extroverted and I’ve been known to be somewhat vain about my looks (to quote Adelaide, "Roy spends more time in front of the mirror than I do"), but inside, there is someone to whom celebrity is impossible, unattainable, unimportant, insignificant. I stared at the head shot accompanying the article discussing my Gold Glove candidacy; it was unmistakably me, hat askew, go-to-hell grin on my face, but I wondered if anyone could look at that picture, see through the windows of my eyes and glimpse the demons that lurk beyond, the darkness that plagues my nights.

I had forty-five minutes before Adelaide was due home from her thankless yet somehow fulfilling job as a social worker for the city of Boston, so I went upstairs to unpack and shower. After ordering pizza then throwing on jeans and a T-shirt, I put on a Simon and Garfunkel CD and dozed on the couch.

When Addie's keys jingled in the lock, I rose to meet her. "Hey, gorgeous, long time no see," I said softly.

She dropped her briefcase and ran to me. "I missed you so much!"

I was lost in her, the sweet, spicy smell of her tanned, flawless skin against mine, an overwhelming feeling of completeness. I'd known Adelaide since she was three years old, but I don't know when it was that I realized I loved her. Even when I went through the notorious stud phase (the object of which is to see how many notches you can get on your belt), she just waited for me to see what had been in front of my face all along.

"So how’s life in the big city?" I murmured against her hair.

“Amazing for me, heartbreaking to hundreds of kids."

“Why do you do it?”

She smiled, and it erased the exhaustion from her eyes. “Because I love it.”

“Because you love it?”

She countered, “Why do you chase a ball around? Hit it with a stick?”

“Hmm,” I said. “Because I love it.”

“Because you love it?” She hung her keys on the designated hook and dug her cell out of her purse.

“Who you calling?”

“Pizza.” Like me, she had the local delivery place on speed dial.

“Already ordered. It should be here any minute.” When the buzzer rang, I pressed the intercom button and said, “Be right down.”

“I’ll go,” Addie said even as I stepped into my well-worn Nikes. I knew she’d offer, just as I knew she expected me to insist, like the nights we’d be in bed and she’d mention a hankering for the pint of Ben and Jerry’s downstairs in the freezer. She’d say she’d wait until the next commercial if we were watching television, and I’d end up running downstairs to get it.

“I don’t mind,” I said, pulling two twenties out of my pocket. “Be right back.”

“Thanks, sweetie.”

I took the elevator down to the lobby, although usually I walk. There’re an awful lot of flights to run down when someone who gets paid minimum wage is waiting on you. The guy in the red and blue uniform holding the cardboard pizza box was just a kid, but his eyes widened when he saw me.

“Pizza for Jim?” I asked.

“Uh, yeah. Jim. That’ll be twenty-one dollars and eighteen cents.” He pulled out a wad of bills and tried to make change while glancing up at me.

“Has it cooled down at all outside?” I asked. The day had been unseasonably warm and humid.

“Cooled down? Yeah, sure. Sure it has.” He took a deep breath. “Are you Roy Pentinicci?”

“You’re pretty good, man. Most people don’t recognize me without the hat.”

“Wow. Holy shit.” He colored, looking even younger than the sixteen or seventeen that he was. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“No sweat. I spend half my time in a dugout.”

He turned an even deeper shade of red as he held out a pen and a paper menu from the pizza place. It shook like an October leaf from New Hampshire in his hand. “Could I have your autograph?”

“Sure.” Kevin, the building security guard, started to approach, but I waved him off. I signed my initials in straggling, child-like penmanship then handed the menu back to the kid. “Have a great night.”

“Wait, what about your change?”

“Keep it,” I said.

Kevin keyed the elevator open for me. “Recognized by the pizza guy?”

I smiled. “The world is full of all types, my friend.”

“That’s for sure. Heard you swept the Tigers.”

“Yup. It was a good trip.” The elevator arrived, and I stepped on. “Have a great night, Kevin.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pentinicci. You too.”

When I returned, I saw that Addie had set the table. “I come in pizza,” I said, an old line.

She smiled anyway. “Good, I’m starving. What took you so long?”

“The pizza guy wanted an autograph.”

“And you aren’t even wearing your uniform.”

Addie is not one of those anorexic must-fit-into-my-size-six-jeans-so-no-dessert-for-me types, but she’s a slow, almost methodical eater. They always try to clear her plate before she’s finished eating at a restaurant. I watched her scarf two pieces of pizza and reach for another slice with amusement. “Do you have a tapeworm or something?”

“Or something.” Her eyes sparkled with happiness and, underneath, uncharacteristic unease. "That’s my news, sweetheart. I'm pregnant."

My father had died more than ten years earlier, but I could feel him rising up in me. I clenched my fists, fighting for control, not comprehending what Adelaide had said although I’d heard it loud and clear. "What?" I said in a voice that was deeper than mine, a decibel that seemed to come from the past, a rumble that haunted my dreams.

"I thought you'd be happy," she whispered, although I saw in her eyes that she was lying.

"We've talked about this a hundred fucking times!" I struggled to keep from yelling at her, to keep my anger in check. You're not like him, Roy, you're not like him.

"Don't swear at me."

"Fuck! Shit!” I yelled, embarrassingly aware of my immaturity. “I don't want a goddamned kid, Addie! You know that. We agreed to it when we got married!"

"You agreed to it when we got married," she said quietly.

I sat up, moving away from her. "Shit," I whispered, running a hand through my hair, a nervous gesture left over from childhood. "Oh, shit."

"You love kids. Susy and Christian's kids ..."

"It's not the same thing, and you know it."

"Why the hell not?"

"Who's swearing now?" It was juvenile, but I couldn't help it. If acting like an immature idiot would keep me from raising my fists to her, I would pick my nose, scratch my balls, and walk backwards through downtown Boston.

"Why does it have to be like this?"

I studied my hands, trying to choke the past down into the depths of my soul even as part of me knew that only vomiting it up would allow it to leave my system forever. There was a bruise that spread in an interesting array of greens and blues across the knuckles of my left hand. I’d acquired the bruise fielding a grounder in the last game of the road trip; it was fading, but I fixated on it now the way a drowning man would a life preserver. "Doesn't matter," I muttered, aware that I sounded like a petulant preschooler.

"Tell me why. Please."

"You know why." Oh, but she didn’t. She never would have married me if she had any clue what I really was.

"Roy?"

"What?"

“A lot of people overcome bad childhoods. A lot of people. It's not fair to either one of us that your childhood limits things. Isn’t it about time you move beyond it?"

"You don't understand," I mumbled.

"I would if you'd tell me."

"Not to change the subject or anything," I began, effectively doing just that. I had to; thoughts of a girl named Angie Cantor who would now be around fifteen were flooding my head. Angie, who looked at the world through my eyes and would never have to stress about getting a suntan because of her naturally olive skin. "But how the hell did this happen?"

"I stopped taking the pill," she whispered.

A pulse throbbed in my head. "What?" I roared. And the litany You're not like him played over and over in my mind.

I saw fear in Adelaide's eyes, an azure gaze of terror, and I was sick. Sick. I stood up and almost ran into my study while Addie went to our bedroom alone.

And so here I sit, faced with a past that I have buried deep enough to function in life, but not deep enough to forget. I don't think it could ever be buried that deep. Addie can talk about getting over a bad childhood, but she doesn't get it. How could she? that voice inside my head whispered. You’ve shared very little of yourself with her, when you get right down to it. Her parents, who pretty much raised me from the time I was in first grade, would understand, I think, and I know that Christian would, but they are my wife’s family first, and that complicates things too much.

I haven't forgotten, can never forget, but I'm sure that there are details that have mercifully fogged over in the passage of time, and do I really want to remember them? Am I prepared to face my own voice cracking with preadolescence, the words of a boy trapped in a situation he can't get out of? Do I want to return to hell? Although I got out, the feelings of loneliness and isolation that nobody even guessed about never really left. And of course there were the years of wondering where Gina was, if she was alive and safe and okay.

It kills me to think of Gina, even after all this time. And sometimes, even though I know it’s impossible, I think that maybe she’s still out there somewhere. When I go to put flowers on the headstone, I pretend that the casket is empty, or maybe that it isn't really my sister underneath all the dirt. I know it’s undoubtedly her body in the high-priced mahogany coffin this time; I watched her die, held her lifeless body and cried, but part of me always hopes.

Wallowing in the past was old hat, but what about my present life with
Addie? I gave when I could, did the dishes, went grocery shopping, discussed her work and my own with her, but it hit me with sudden clarity that I’d never really made a conscious effort to do a whole lot for her beyond showing up at her request to meet with troubled kids that needed motivation that might or might not come in the form of a real live baseball star. If she wanted to have a baby, she should have been able to discuss it with me. How many times, I wondered guiltily, had she tried to broach the subject?

I could even understand why she might think that my attitude about having children had changed. I absolutely adore my nephews and nieces; in fact, Seth, Amanda, Aaron, and Lucy had stayed with us for a week in Februay while Christian and Susy went to Aruba, and it was one of the best times of my life. They were enchanted with Boston, and I loved being able to show them the sights, loved hearing I love you, Uncle Roy every night as I tucked them in and kissed them good night.

I know that Addie would be a wonderful mother, and I hate to deprive her of that, but I can't be a strong support to her the way that Christian is to Susannah. He’s frequently away on business, of course, but the first thing he does when he gets home, no matter how tired or jet-lagged or cranky he might be, is to take the kids out of the house and let Susy have a few hours to herself. In addition to the horrors of the past, I’m too selfish to be a father. The status quo of my life works for me, and I don't want to rock the boat, don't want to upset the applecart.

I stood up, hating the way that my hands were shaking. I was a man now, a major league ball player, for Christ's sake, not the scared, helpless, isolated fourteen-year-old who only lived in my nightmares. Angie was in California with parents that loved her. She is okay, she’s (WHERE IS ERICA SCOTT NOW?) okay (STOPITSTOPITIWON’T THINKABOUTTHATNOTMYFAULT), probably surfing. Wondering why it was easier to think of Angie than that other (notmyfaultshedidn’ttellmeididn’tknow), I walked to the stairs, knowing that hesitation would cause a solid crack to exist in my marriage.

Addie’s eyes were red and swollen from crying. "Ad?" I ventured. "Sweetheart?"

She fixed me with an angry glare and choked out, "What?"

"I'm sorry. That sounds lame, but I don't know what else to say."

"It's not enough, Roy."

"I know. I, um, I want you to understand."

She sat up and looked at me. "You're going to tell me? About your parents and Gina and Mikey?"

I swallowed hard. "I should have told you a long time ago."

She looked at me, her eyes becoming gentle. "What about the baby?"

"I'll get used to it, I guess."

"Will you ever be happy about it?"

I smiled, although I was dying inside. "Probably. Now, hakuna mattata, okay?"

She nodded, and I sat next to her and put a hand on her stomach. Still washboard flat ... a baby. My baby. Oh, fuck.

"Roy ..."

"You wanted to know, Addie. And I need for you to understand why this baby thing is so hard for me."

And then I started talking.

A Movie Review of Sorts: My Thoughts on "Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince"

I was one of the crazy people sitting in a movie theater at midnight to catch Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. Although I love movies, I don't as a rule love movies based on books. There are, of course, exceptions, but in general if I've read and enjoyed a book I make it a point not to see a film adaptation.

The whole Harry Potter experience has been a bit unusual for me, though. I wouldn't read the books for the longest time on general principle ... I have a kind of overly stiff-necked aversion to "the latest craze" when it comes to literature. However, I also take very seriously the component of book sharing in my relationships with my students. In other words, if a kid tells me to read a book, I do so (or at least I'll try really hard). I feel like, if I'm going to recommend books to students or assign them required texts, I should at least extend them the common courtesy of giving their recommendations a chance. However, I broke that rule when it came to Harry Potter ... I only started reading J.K. Rowling's masterpieces when Addie did. Naturally, I loved the books and I (somewhat shockingly) am a fan of the movies as well (except the third one, although it's my favorite of the books ... kind of weird).

All of which is way off base of the intended topic of this post, which is to share with you my thoughts on the film adaptation of Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, a film I took in last night at 12:04 a.m. Oh, and I guess I should warn that there are spoilers here (albeit minor ones--I'm making a concerted effort not to wreck the movie for anyone).

In a nutshell, it was a good movie. If my entire Harry Potter experience had been of the cinematic bend, in fact, I'd go so far as to say it was great. I don't want to completely ruin the plot for anyone, so I guess I'll share my three main criticisms and repeat again that it was definitely worth the midnight thing and suffering what some are referring to as a "Harry Potter Hangover" today.

I thought the beginning of the movie was horrible. It was not remotely engaging, and in fact it showed the character of Harry in a light that I found kind of pathetic. Basically, Harry is hitting on a waitress in a little diner, going so far as to arrange what appears to be a casual hook-up when the waitress gets off shift at eleven. I'm certainly not a prude or anything, but it was just ... crass. Anyway, nothing happened because Harry was forced to accompany a suddenly-present Dumbledore to a creepy-looking house in order to convince a former Hogwarts professor to return to teaching duties. It was too long, too much, and too boring, particularly when you consider that a secret meeting between the enigmatic Professor Severus Snape and two Death-Eaters soon follows. The latter scene is fast-paced, interesting, and effectively sets up circumstances that are the very meat of the movie. Pretty waitresses and the magical cleaning up of a house seem pretty draggy when such a crackling interchange is waiting in the wings. As far as I'm concerned, that's where they should have started the movie.

I enjoy humor as much as the next person. In fact, I take heat from time to time about laughing at things that are really pretty stupid (at a meeting today, for example, the word "oral" kept coming up, and I just giggled like an adolescent every time). Furthermore, I realize that any accurate depiction of teenagers is impossible without dumb jokes, particularly of the sexual variety (Harry and Ginny go alone to a secret room to hide a book and, when they return to their friends, are asked, "Did you do it?"), and I laughed as hard as anyone at these little zingers last night ... but I know that if I see the movie again, I'll know the jokes already and will just find them stale and kind of a detraction from the story. Half Blood Prince is extremely plot-driven; I don't think you need excessive sophomoric humor to entertain your audience.

Finally, I noticed when leaving the theater in a huge throng of people that several people were saying, "So who was the half blood prince? How did Harry get his book? Why does this matter?" and so on and so forth. Since I've read the book I had a deeper understanding and, while I don't expect filmmakers to elaborate in a way that is far easier to do through the written word, it bugged me that several major parts of the story were glossed over as almost an afterthought. The half blood prince, his annotated potions book that serves Harry very well, and the explanation for why he took on that dubious nickname are the sort of details that make the book a rich, thought-provoking experience. Yeah,not so much in the movie.

Other than those three criticisms, though (and remember, those criticisms are solely my own and I freely confess to having a bias against film adaptations of books I loved), it was very well done. If you haven't seen it yet, definitely make it a point to do so. You'll be glad you did, and it might even look something like this ...

My Lone Short Story--Please Rip it to Shreds

The following is the lone short story I've ever felt remotely proud of, the only one I've written for pleasure or passion and not because a teacher made me. I'd really appreciate honest feedback on it ... since I'm not of the opinion that it's a great piece, any suggestions for how to approach it would be beneficial not just in terms of this piece but also in how I look to improve my novels.

There is less of me personally in this piece, and maybe that's why I'm more open to having it shredded.

Thanks in advance : )

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"Ruffled Feathers"
by KLo
Every once in awhile, people will do a double take when they walk by me at the mall or on the street or whatever. A good many will even take it to the next level and say, “Excuse me, but where do I know you from?” Invariably, I tell them that they must be mistaken. I have told virtual multitudes about how I have “one of those familiar faces.”

I am a liar.

The age bracket of my familiars fits squarely in with those that would have been three to five year olds in the late eighties and early nineties, when “Birds of a Feather” burned up PBS stations across the country. The only exception are those that look to be my mother’s age; I guess that shouldn’t surprise me, either.

On occasion, my mother, the epitome of all stage mothers, is with me when one of those close encounters transpires. I have to put my hand over her mouth and pull her away quick.

“Why don’t you tell them you’re a Feather Friend?” she always asks. It breaks the woman’s heart that I teach middle school. She had expected far more grandiose bragging rights.

“Was, Mother, was.”

Most of the time, it is easy to forget that, for three years, I was Peggy Feather on “Birds of a Feather.” I live a quiet existence. I rent a small apartment with my cat Whiskers and teach seventh graders how to write paragraphs and diagram sentences. My mother comes over for dinner every Sunday and tells me how brown the lettuce is and how I wouldn’t be overcooking meat if I’d stayed in “the business.”
I knew something was wrong when her elderly gray sedan was in my parking lot when I got home from work today. She hauled her hefty frame out of the car and minced over to me in high heels that matched perfectly the purple sequins on her full-length jacket. She was wearing sunglasses although it was a cloudy day; I’d seen enough Hollywood funerals on television to know what that meant.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” I asked, hoping she couldn’t hear the annoyance in my voice. I mean, I had work to do; I didn’t have time to commiserate with her on the loss of her favorite soap star.

“Oh, Jennifer, Petey’s dead!” She pulled a spangled purple handkerchief out of her pocket and blew her nose loudly.

I cringed, both inside and out, but my mother didn’t notice. “Petey?”

“Petey Feather!” she sobbed.

I sat down hard on the fender of my car, stunned. “Mike’s dead?”

Blowing her nose again and nodding, she contemplated sitting next to me but accurately assessed that my little Honda would not hold her bulk. “I saw it on the news!”

Of course Michael Gladstone’s death would have been on the news. He was, after all, a world famous film star. Even before his stint as Petey Feather began when he was ten, Mike had been fairly visible through all the commercials he’d done. He’d once admitted rather embarrassedly that he’d been in over forty commercials … beginning with the extreme close-up of his derriere in the Huggies ad when he wasn’t even old enough to crawl. Mike was an old pro, and he’d taken me under his wing (so to speak) during the “Birds of a Feather” years.

Mike Gladstone had me pegged from the start. Before we ever arrived on the set, my mother was legendary with all the network bigwigs. She had spent the vast majority of my father’s life insurance money on trying to break her pretty little daughter—me, of course—into the acting world. There were the photograph portfolios, the singing lessons, the dancing lessons, the acting lessons. I acquiesced meekly enough, although I could see the truth in the blank eyes of my singing and dancing teachers as they looked through me and toward the more talented members of the class; I was not exceptional in any sense of the word. There wasn’t anything special about me that would result in my standing out from the crowded, crooked line of pink leotards and ballet slippers—except, of course, my overbearing mother. Through sheer perseverance and pushiness, my mother made connections in the power-hungry world of entertainment as I moved through my childhood years. These connections were definitely on the fringes of things and resulted in pretty much nothing until I was nine and they were looking for a sort-of pretty (in a plain way) girl who could sing (moderately well) and dance (a little bit) for a regular, recurring role in a television show for children.
Mike was sitting on a stool inside a huge warehouse-like building the first time I saw him. The building contained the set-in-progress, but I had no idea about that at the time. To me, it was an impossibly huge room full of a veritable passel of grown-ups, all talking at the same time … and one boy about my age reading a sports magazine. From the start, I couldn’t take my eyes off of him; he lit up the room even though he was just a child. Part of it was how handsome he was, beautiful, really. You could stare at his face for hours in complete awe of something so perfect, so artistic, almost, as though he’d been sculpted by Michelangelo. His movements were so graceful they seemed impeccably choreographed, even those as mundane as flipping through the pages in his magazine. When he looked up and saw me, I felt cold all over. The thought of those huge brown eyes within the porcelainesque face looking at me, looking into me, was almost more than I could bear. The feeling went away when Mike smiled and there were braces on his teeth and he walked over and told me about the playground out back. He looked warily at my mother, glanced at me again, smiled reassuringly, and led me outside. We had our first forbidden jump-off-the-swing-for-distance contest that very afternoon. Mike won, of course, and I was just happy to have spent an hour in his presence. I didn’t realize how much time we would soon be spending together … or how seriously Mike took his role as my first and only friend.

“Birds of a Feather” sort of bridged the gap between that old childhood classic “Sesame Street” and the more modern shows created by “creative experts” that emphasize the learning as well as the entertainment such as “Blue’s Clues” and “Dora the Explorer.” The premise was fairly standard—a family fond of singing and dancing travels the country sharing their performances with children of all ages, making friends and having adventures in various locations. The “parents” of the family, Mama and Papa Feather, were actually huge puppets that frightened me terribly at first. These rainbow-colored mutant birds somehow procreated, resulting in two human children, Petey Feather and Peggy Feather. Petey was the family superstar, perfect at everything he tried to do, happy and cheerful, loved by all; playing Petey Feather was barely acting for Mike Gladstone. In the same vein, Peggy Feather was no stretch for me. Peggy was the picture of mediocrity, especially when compared to her crackerjack brother. A common theme in several episodes of “Birds of a Feather” is a focus on Peggy’s feelings of insecurity. Perhaps the television viewers never realized that Peggy’s feelings of insecurity were well-founded; that was not the case for me. I spent four years singing back-up to Mike as Petey, four years shadowing his dances, four years on television bringing milk and cookies to the “nice friends Petey made” at locations all over the country. Mama and Papa Feather even gave me-as-Peggy a cursory good-night peck (sorry, even after all these years, the bird jokes keep on coming) before heading over to Mike-as-Petey’s nest to discuss the central theme of the day with him for the purpose of really driving home the lesson of the day to our young audience. If I had been a different person, I would have hated Mike Gladstone, or at least I would have had terrible jealousy pangs in his very presence. However, I had spent my entire life in the formidable shadow of my brash, loud, pushy mother; Mike’s shadow may have been huge, but it was at least benevolent.

“Birds of a Feather” had a good four-year run before it ended in 1992 because Mike was offered a pivotal film role that was just too good to pass up. They decided not to recast Petey Feather and, since he really was the heart and soul and star of the show, “Birds of a Feather” was delegated to the archives of memory. The episodes were released on videotape, of course, and sales were good. I was able to go to college without taking out loans because of those videotapes. My mother and I moved to a small town in New Hampshire where I started eighth grade, my first time in a public school. My English teacher, Ms. Gardner, showed me that I did indeed excel in something—writing. “Maybe,” Mike wrote in one of the two letters I received from him, “you can come out to California and write screenplays.”

Indeed.

Screenplays are not my medium; I am a novelist, or at least I think I am. I’ve been working on a novel since eighth grade, the same one since that time. It’s actually pretty good now, and one of these days I might get up the courage to try to figure out how to go about getting it published. Until that time, I entertain my students with my sarcasm and enlighten them about how to write. “Writing,” I repeat over and over, “is an art.” I am no Ms. Gardner, but I think I’m pretty good at teaching, too. I never got any commentary from Mike on that count; his star had risen far beyond my reach by the time my teaching career started, and besides, he probably couldn’t have connected a teaching career to himself the way he could a writing career.

Mike Gladstone received an Academy Award nomination for the role he dropped “Birds of a Feather” to take. It took him four more years, to the age of eighteen, before he actually won an Oscar. Like many, many stars that came before him, Mike was on a rocket ride. He sped to the top, to dizzying heights, to a world of beautiful women and never-ending parties, to a place where each role brought him accolades and the awe-struck praise made him more and more famous, more and more unattainable. His body was found this morning in his California mansion, full of a lethal dose of alcohol and Vicodin. I’m sure there will be the standard accident/suicide debate, but I don’t think it really matters in the long run. Like Marilyn Monroe and River Phoenix, Mike soared through the sky, reveling in the way people looked up to watch him, the way people couldn’t take their eyes off of him. Like Icarus, Mike (and so many of young Hollywood) had a hell of a ride. Like Icarus, he was not careful, and he paid with his life in the ensuing fall.

“Do you want to come up and have a cup of tea?” I asked my mother when my legs felt strong enough to support my weight.

She shook her head. “I just thought you should know.”

“Thanks, Mom. That was nice of you.”

“I’ll be happy to join you for his funeral, Jennifer.”

I stared at her for a long, long time before I turned and headed up to my apartment. Whiskers was in the window, anticipating my arrival. He would be happy to receive a thorough patting and his cat food dinner. My bag was full of essays to grade.

The phone was ringing as I walked in the door. Ignoring the purring of my cat, I raced over and grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”

“Please hold for Ms. Watkins.”

“Excuse me?”

The only response was the “you’re on hold” music. Just as I was about to hang up the phone, a woman’s voice said, “I’m trying to reach Jenny Pearson.”

“This is she.”

“Jenny, this is Lucy Watkins.”

“Umm … do I know you?”

The woman made a noise of frustration. “Used to be Lucy Gibbs?” She had an irritating habit of making all of her sentences sound like questions. “From ‘Birds of a Feather’?”

But I didn’t need any further clarification; the statements-as-questions had clued me in. She’d been a lower-level producer of the show, and not one that I’d particularly liked. “Um, hi. What can I do for you?”

“A favor? Please, please, please tell your mother to stop calling my people?”

“Um … my mother?”

She huffed in irritation at my evident idiocy. “If you want to go to Mike’s services, it could probably be arranged? You know?”

“Um …”

“Tell her I fold? I’ll e-mail you the details? Just stop calling?”

“Um, listen, I have no interest in going to Mike Gladstone’s services.”

“Excuse me? No interest?”

Suddenly, I felt powerful. “I had an enormous amount of respect for Mike as an entertainer and, while it’s true we were friends during ‘Birds’, I haven’t heard from him in over twelve years. I have no place at his funeral; I’ll do my grieving in private.”

“You could have saved me the trouble of calling?” she said, then hung up with an audible click.

“How could I have saved you the trouble of calling?” I asked the receiver as I hung it up. I was laughing uncontrollably. As I fed Whiskers, relishing his purr of gratitude, I looked out the window and saw that, while my mother had squeezed herself back into her car, she still sat in my parking lot. She had wanted me to have wings; she had wanted me to fly. If I had set the screen on fire like Mike Gladstone and melted the wax on my wings in the process, it would have been worth it to her.

She saw me in the window and began gesturing frantically; I turned away. She’ll still be here on Sunday for dinner, and she’ll still be criticizing my cooking, and she’ll still wish I was more than I am. I don’t. I’m okay with who I am. I may never fly shrieking with excitement to dizzying heights, but I can be safe in the knowledge that I will never fall either.

Later, I took a break from making red marks on student essays to walk out onto the porch with a glass of Cabernet. Night was just starting to fall; there was one star twinkling like mad in the darkening sky. Impulsively, I raised my glass of wine to the faraway light, then I went back to the kitchen table, picked up my red pen, and got back to work.