I think my story has a moral. I haven’t quite worked out exactly what it is!
A Stranger in Floodtown
The rain turned the road into a river. Fortunately the drivers of Floodtown were used to this. As soon as the water level reached their car’s chassis, they pressed the button marked float. The wheels slowly vanished inside the frame and the bottom of the vehicle became more rounded. The drivers waited until the water level was high enough for floating. Then they continued their journey.
Today, Floodtown had a visitor: Darcie from Droughttown. She waited in her car watching all the other cars turning into boats and expecting the same to happen to hers. By the time she realised it wouldn’t, it was too late. Darcie drowned.
Life is strange. So is language. Stroppy Author and Catdownunder both blogged recently about the lack of words in English to describe a situation that we tend to feel is too hard to talk about. I thought of a word that’s missing in Hebrew: assassination. Perhaps it’s right that it’s missing. A leader who is murdered is a human being. All murders are equally bad. Then I thought of another missing word: bullying. That’s an oversight, in my opinion.
When you leave your country of birth to live in a country where a different language is spoken, things happen with your native tongue. Sometimes you forget words, because you’re more used to saying them in the new language. Sometimes new concepts appear and you hear them only in the new language. Sometimes people in the old country find new ways of saying things and you don’t know them.
For example, when I left Britain, “Oh right,” meant, “Do you know I’d forgotten all about that. Thank you for reminding me.” Or something like that. At some stage, on a visit back to my former home country, I realised its meaning had changed. Now it means, “Oh really? I never knew that.”
For years I felt cut off from the changing language. Now that I’m able to listen to BBC Radio 4, I’m more in touch. I know that young interviewees will start most sentences with the word, “So.” And I’ve finally learnt the expression, “to raise awareness,” which is what I want to do to social anxiety.
But when I asked recently how I should say I have social anxiety and people replied, “I live with social anxiety,” I thought that sounded strange. I thought I’d never heard that use before, but I think I had really. I just hadn’t taken much notice of it and certainly hadn’t taken it on board. It was part of my passive vocabulary – the parts I understand but don’t think of using.
And what’s the point of all this rambling? So (yes, I’m pretending to be young) the other day on Woman’s Hour, I heard this: “I don’t live with HIV; HIV lives with me.”
I let that sentence revolve several times in my brain. What did it mean? What does it mean? I wonder if it’s this: she doesn’t let HIV rule her life; HIV happens to be there, but she ignores it as much as possible and gets on with her life.
Taking control of SA
.
Can I apply that to social anxiety? I don’t think so. It comes up too often; it’s the cause of too many things that I wish were different. But that’s something I can aim for. It sounds much more possible than aiming to get rid of social anxiety.
I didn’t take on last week’s challenge – to include the words: I blamed it on the dog.What do I know about dogs? I thought. Yet this week….
The challenge is to include:
…Murray was just about to serve for the Championship when…
Championship Point
Murray, the Scottish Terrier, and Federer, the Swiss Greyhound, were arguing again.
“I’m small and can retrieve things from small places.” Murray stuck his chin up in the air, although it was still well below Federer’s eye level.
“I can run faster and fetch things more quickly.” Federer smirked at Murray from his great height.
They agreed to hold a contest to determine, once and for all, which of them was better able to serve their master.
At the final test, they were still neck-and-neck. Clutching the slipper between his jaws, Murray was just about to serve for the championship when the heavens opened and rain stopped play.
There was an old woman who lived in a teapot. With lots of children. She gave them some broth and sent them to bed and they all lived very happily. Until one day when calamity struck. It was very windy. The wind pushed the lid off. They heard it crash to the ground. Then they looked through the window and saw the little pieces lying on the ground.
The woman and the children waited all day long looking up at the sky in trepidation, knowing what was to come. Finally, it came.
Then they were in hot water.
If you want to know more about the 100-word challenge, click on the picture below.
This is not good enough. I need to write other blog posts besides those for 100WCGU. Not that I have anything against 100WCGU, but that’s not all this blog is about. So I will be writing other posts – as soon as I’ve thought of something to say!
In the meantime, here’s another post for
Click the image if you want to join in
This time we have to include the prompt:
… in the dark recess of my mind …
The Listener
So she’s telling me the story in all its detail. Her memory is amazing. She remembers every word they said to each other, every movement, every facial expression. She can describe not only the whole scene but also the people who walked past them. Anonymous souls who have no connection to the story. How does she do it?
I’m staring at her, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. After each sentence, I’m going “Really?” and “Wow!” and “No!” and “Oh my God!”
Somewhere, in the dark recess of my mind, in that secret place to which she has no access, I’m thinking: Don’t succumb to the temptation to yawn.
This week’s challenge: There’s a real buzz about this place.
Julia says we do not have to include the text, but I did.
“Okay, I’m in the garden, about to pick the lock of the back door.”
“Remember, do exactly what I told you. Nothing else.”
“Sure, boss. You can trust me – you know that. There’s a real buzz about this place.”
“Can’t be. They’re on holiday. There shouldn’t be anyone there.”
“No, I mean a real buzz. A buzzing noise.”
“A motorcycle?”
“No.”
“A neighbour trimming the hedge?”
“No. I think it’s coming from this box. I’ll just lift up the lid….”
“That might not be such a good idea. Sounds as if it might be…”
“Arghhh!”
“…bees.”
I just spent a few days in Berlin, which is probably what triggered my entry for the 100 word challenge. I’ll try and make next week’s lighter.
This week’s challenge is to add 100 words to:
….The flame flickered before….
The Last Candle
She opened the door of a kitchen cupboard, bare apart from one solitary candle. Only one by which to remember all those they’d taken. Her father, her mother and her two brothers. Her whole family. What would she do when this one burned out? She struck a match and lit it, fastidiously blowing out the match and throwing it in the bin. Then she sat and watched, seeing the images of those she loved inside the flame. She knew it was only a matter of time.
The single remaining candle turned out to be enough. The flame flickered before they broke down the door.
There aren’t many writers’ conferences in Israel, but there was one this week and there will be another next week. This week’s, in Bar Ilan University, was free and I decided to go along yesterday.
I attended all five sessions and they were excellent. The first, with Joseph Skibell and E. Ethelbert Miller discussed memoir writing. I loved the way their advice was interspersed with humorous asides. I think it was E. Ethelbert Miller who talked about being the baby of the family. He said, “Growing up, I thought my name was Shh.”
They gave us an exercise to sketch a floor plan of our first house and list five sensory details from it, and then discuss it with a partner. In a second exercise, we recalled a gift we’d received, reflecting on why it was valuable, what was symbolic about it and the stories behind it.
In the poetry session with Linda Zisquit and Joy Katz, they invited people to relate a memory. Then they told us to “write a poem about something that scares you.” Writing the poem was pretty scary in itself, as I don’t write poetry. Not only did I write it, but I read it out loud.
“We need a volunteer. You.” The finger is pointing at me. Me! “Stand up. Turn round. Tell us about a memory.” “But….” “Just do it.” I want to say, “You don’t understand.” I want to say, “I can’t do this.” I want to say, “I suffer from social anxiety.” Ten thousand eyes are looking at me. Ten thousand ears are waiting for me to talk. “No – sorry.” I sit down and rest my head on my knees.
In the fiction session with Evan Fallenberg and Joan Legant, we analysed a whole (three-paragraph) story by Etgar Keret and then wrote two paragraphs of our own story, starting with one of four prompts. The main advice from the session was: resist. Resist the obvious plot and resist obvious words.
In a fascinating concluding session, Etgar Keret himself was interviewed by Evan Fallenberg. I wrote down just two of the many interesting things he said.
In couple therapy, there’s an exercise in which one partner falls backwards and lets the other partner catch them. So, when you’re writing close your eyes, fall backwards and wait for the story to catch you. Sometimes it does. Other times you find yourself on the floor with a bump on your head.
Only when you’re writing can you do anything you want. You can be rude to your mother, make a lot of noise, anything. Etgar doesn’t want to compromise this freedom for any audience by making his stories more universal.
At the very end I took an awful picture with my phone.
Creative Writing Conference, 08 May, 2012
Keret is on the right and the screen shows his picture as it appears on the cover of his latest book: Suddenly, a Knock on the Door.
This week’s prompt is “RUBY”. I found myself being influenced by some Stones. Sorry the theme is similar to my last story. I think they complement each other.
Goodbye Ruby
Monday, she’s the office executive, toiling long after the others have left.
Tuesday, she’s the doting mother, kissing away pain and remembering to listen.
Wednesday, she’s the caring daughter, running errands for those who no longer can.
Thursday, she’s the volunteer, giving to society for no financial gain.
Friday, she’s the exercise freak, working out to work off all the excess grams.
Weekend, she’s the cleaner, the cook, the hostess, the party-goer.
They’re full of praises. They say she’s wonderful. They’re amazed she manages to do so much. I know one role she’s forgotten about. Goodbye Ruby. I’ll miss you.
Miriam Drori, Author 