1...December 18th

The trees overhead sway as the wind blows in the chilly winter air. It never snows in Larkinge, so the path is clear. I near the edge of the trail and slow. Stopping completely, I jump off my horse, Bolt, and sit by the lake. Taking my riding boots and socks off, I dip my feet into the cold water. The water ripples, causing a school of fish to swim from their hiding spot. I close my eyes, breathing in the fresh air. Hearing the sound of a horse trotting behind me, I open my eyes and turn my head to see who it is. I see Bolt looking into the bundle of trees, seeming to be looking at something. After a few seconds, another horse I recognize comes out of the trees.

“Don’t scare me like that.” I get up, leaving my boots and socks by the water. The horse stops, and the boy I’ve grown up with jumps off.

“If I had known you were here, I would’ve been a lot scarier.” Oliver grins. Rolling my eyes, I walk back to the lake, and grab my belongings. Oliver raises his brow, asking a question. I continue to put my stuff in my saddlebag and go back to sitting down. He joins me and we watch the sunset. I rest my head on his shoulder and he plays with my long brown hair. I hadn’t brushed it today, so his fingers get caught in a few knots.

“How has your day been?” he asks, his voice quiet and gentle.

“Okay. I rode around a little bit. It’s been nice outside, and my mom said I could have a break from school. While you may be on break, homeschool never ends,” I reply and he laughs. “How was yours?”

“Not bad. I finally learned how to play a full song on my guitar. Maybe you can come over later and hear it” He answers, pushing up his glasses with his free hand.

“Maybe, but you know Juliette will want to come too.”

He chuckles. We sit quietly for a few minutes, watching some fish swim by. We both know the conversation we’re avoiding is going to happen at some point, so I go ahead and start.

“As you should know, my birthday is in a few days,” I mumble, my voice not working correctly. I clear my throat and continue. “I have until then to find a job.”

“You still haven’t found one yet?” Oliver questions, his voice cracking a little. He knows the answer already.

“No, nobody wants a homeschooled child to work for them.” I sigh, “‘You don’t have a real education, you don’t know how to work.’” I mimic, trying to make Oliver laugh. When he doesn’t, I try again, “Look, I’ll be fine. Maybe I can get a job in the stables or something, taking care of the horses.”

“Maybe,” he says, sounding doubtful. We sit in silence again until he continues, “What if you don’t find a job? You’ll be sent off to fight in that stupid war.” I hear the anger in his voice and I say nothing, “I can’t lose you, Lili. I just can’t.” Tears start to well up in my eyes, and I blink them away.

“Oli, you will never lose me.” I turn to look at him, seeing him trying to hold himself together. I almost break at the sight, but I take a deep breath, “I will not go with them, no matter what. Do you hear me?” I wait until he nods to continue, “We made a promise, and I never break promises. No matter what happens, you will not lose me.” He nods and I raise my mouth to him, his lips cold from the winter air. When I pull away, I see him slowly calming down. We turn back to face the pond and sit in silence for a while, the sun getting lower.

“We should probably leave before it gets too dark,” I say. He nods and we get up and go back to our horses.

“Did you bring a flashlight?” Oliver asks, his voice getting stronger. I shake my head and he frowns a little. “Stay right behind me then.” He pulls out a large silver flashlight from his saddlebag and straddles his horse. I do the same with Bolt, and we start back on the path. The ride is silent but for a few croaks telling us nightfall is coming faster and faster. I see Oliver’s wild blond hair blowing in the wind, the same blond as everyone else in Larkinge. I tear up at the thought of having to leave him. By the time we make it back to the stable, it’s pitch-black outside and we can hardly see. We put our horses away and I grab my boots and socks from my bag.

“Can we see if Lana’s here? I can ask her if I could get an interview to work here.” I say, pulling my socks and boots on. Oliver nods and we walk towards the office on the side of the building. I peek in the window to see that the room is empty. My hope falters and I walk away, Oliver following behind me.

“We can try again tomorrow,” he suggests. I nod and we start walking home, the two blocks feeling like a million miles.

When we get to my doorstep, He lowers his head and kisses me, this one more passionate than before. When we pull away, I search his eyes and can tell we both want time to stop. We stand there for a few minutes, just looking at each other. I hug him and he wraps his arms tightly around me.

“I love you, Lilianna Emeline Raddix,” Oliver confesses, startling me. We have both known how we feel for a few years, but we rarely actually say it aloud. We’ve never needed to. I pull away and look into his eyes.

“Oliver Jace Wilson, I love you too,” I reply. We embrace again, holding tighter this time. We stay for a few minutes until the door opens and we whip ourselves apart.

“Gross.” My younger sister Juliette says. “Mom, Lilianna is being touchy with Oliver again,” She whines. I roll my eyes and kiss him on his cheek.

“See you tomorrow after my shift.” He says as I’m walking inside. When I close the door, I let out a breath and climb the stairs to my room.

“Mom, why does Oliver like her and not me?” I hear Juliette groan.

“He’s eighteen and you’re fourteen. There’s an age gap,” my mother replies. I let out a small chuckle and continue to my room. Upon opening the door, I am startled to find suitcases full of clothes.

“Mom,” I call. I hear footsteps getting louder and turn to see my mother walking in with Juliette on her tail.

“Yes, sweetie?” She asks. I turn back toward the suitcases and she follows my gaze, seeming to understand. “Well,” her voice starts cracking and I can tell she’s starting to cry. “Your birthday’s in two days and…” She trails off, starting to sob. I turn to her and hug her. I feel my eyes starting to water as well and I do nothing to stop them.

“What’s wrong with you guys?” Juliette asks. When we don’t answer, she goes down the hall and I hear muffled voices. A few seconds later, she runs back in and joins the embrace. “Lili! You can’t leave!”

I pull away and lower myself a little to meet her height, our mother moving behind her. “Don’t worry. I’m going to do everything I can to not go.” I look up to my mom, “Can I skip school tomorrow? Oliver and I are going around town to find places that are hiring.” She silently nods her head and I look back down at Juliette. “Do you want to help me?” I ask.

“Of course! Anything that may keep you from leaving!” She replies, already brightening. I give her a weak smile and stand straight up, moving towards my bed.

“We can start unpacking if you wish,” mom says.

“No, we never know if I will be able to find a job in time,” I say, looking back at them. “Can I please have some time alone?” They nod and leave silently, closing my door behind them. I go to my closet, picking out some comfortable Christmas pajamas, knowing I may not be here then. I climb into them and get in bed, staring at the low, cracked ceiling. I count the glow-in-the-dark stars I put up when I was younger. After a few minutes, I get out of bed and go downstairs to the kitchen to get a snack. When I round the corner, I hear my parents speaking in Spanish, most likely so Juliette won’t understand. She’s the only one in the family who doesn’t know it.

“No es justo. ¡Mi bebé es demasiado pequeño! Apenas es una adulta.” My mother says. It isn’t fair. My baby is too young! She’s hardly an adult.

“Sabíamos que se acercaba. Debemos ser fuertes para ella.” My father replies. We knew it was coming. We must be strong for her. I don’t hear anything after that, so I walk into the kitchen. The light is blinding compared to the dark stairway and I have to cover my eyes for a moment. When I open them, I see my parents trying to act casual. My mother is washing her hands and my father is telling Juliette it's time for bed. I go to the fridge and pull out a container full of grapes. I wash them and put them in a bowl. My mother smiles at me, seeming to be happy about my healthy choice of food. I smile back and sit on the couch, scrolling through the tv channels. Landing on the news channel, I let it play to see if there’s anything important. After a few commercials, the royal family appears the king, queen, and prince. The king addresses some dumb problems with the trading routes and stuff like that. As I am about to click off, He starts saying something that catches my attention.

“In honor of our alliance with the country India, my son, Prince Alaric, prince of Opria, will be marrying Princess Ekiya, princess of India. They will be touring all the villages of Opria, starting with Eudaemonia and ending in Warlington. All presence is required unless you have a condition that prevents you from attending. Thank you for your time and I hope you all have a wonderful night.” Right before the screen goes black, I see the prince’s face shift into something that looks like disgust. What reason does he have to be disgusted? He lives the dream. I ignore it and I go back to the kitchen to put my bowl in the sink.

“Did you hear the news mom?” I ask my mother, who is at her desk reading paperwork. She looks up to nod her head. “Do you think they’ll send Tommy home for the tour?”

“Possibly. I’ll call him tomorrow to get more details. Right now, it’s time for you to go to bed. You want to be well-rested before you go job hunting tomorrow, right?” she looks toward the stairwell and I sigh.

“Alright.” I go to her, leaning over to hug her. “Goodnight.” I walk back upstairs to my room, stopping by Juliette’s to see she is reading a book. I continue to my room and close the curtains. I climb into bed and pull the covers over me. I think about Juliette, and how she’s so young, too young to be involved in all of this. I think about Tommy, who left when I was fourteen, dragged away by the royal guard. I think about my parents, who, as I’ve heard many times, were lucky enough to find a job before their eighteenth birthdates. I think about Oliver, working bright and early every morning to deliver the newspapers. He was also lucky enough to find a job before his birthday three months ago. I think about those wealthy enough to avoid it. I envy them, all of them. It’s not fair.

Author's Note

This is my first draft so it may not be the best.

Reviews

[JayG]

The problem with telling the reader a story, as against making them feel as if they’re living it, is that since you, the author, begin reading already knowing the story, the backstory, the characters, and, the situation. And because you do, you’ll leave out anything that seems obvious to you. Then, when you edit, since the missing information is already in your mind, you never notice what’s missing.

It’s part of why we must always edit from the seat of the reader, who has no context but what you provide, no knowledge of the characters, where and when we are, or, what’s going on.

It’s also why we need more knowledge than the general skills of our school days.

To better understand the problem, look at the opening as a reader must.

• The trees overhead sway as the wind blows in the chilly winter air.

Who cares? We don’t know who’s noticing this, or why it matters, so while we have data, it’s not what the one living the story is focused on, so it’s irrelevant. I hit this so strongly, because here is where a publisher will probably stop reading.

• It never snows in Larkinge, so the path is clear.

It never snows in Miami, either. So what? And “the path?” How can there be “the” path, when we know nothing about where we are? And since the reader doesn’t expect to be snowed in, saying that we’re not tells us nothing useful. Perhaps, were we to know where we are in time and space, what’s going on, and whose skin we wear, this might be meaningful. It is to you, because you do know all that. But who did you write it for? Shouldn’t they know?

• I near the edge of the trail and slow.

The “edge?” Edges of trails are the limits, side-to-side. But again, only you know where we are. You actually meant the end of the trail.

• Stopping completely, I jump off my horse, Bolt, and sit by the lake

How can you stop any way but completely and call it stopped? And: “the” lake. Where are we? What planet are we on? Doesn't it have a name?

You’re focused on visual action and describing what the reader would see, were this a film. But you mislead the reader. You opened by telling the reader that it’s cold enough for snow, but that there is none. Given that, who in their right mind would take off their boots and put their feet into the lake?

See how different what the reader gets is from what you do when you read? Our writing always works for us. But you’re missing some critical information, and it’s leading you into a trap we all fall into. So:

First is the goal of fiction, as observed by E. L. Doctorow: “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.” And you can NOT do that by having the narrator explain and report. In fact, you can’t do it with the methodology we’re given in our school days because that approach to writing is designed to explain and report. We were assigned so many reports and essays, and taught that approach, because it’s the kind of writing most employers want us to use on the job. It’s name: nonfiction.

The thing we all forget is that they offer degree programs in Commercial Fiction-Writing. And you have to assume that at least some of what’s taught is necessary. Right?

In reality, though we never realize it, we leave school exactly as ready to write fiction as to work as a machinist or a tax accountant.

Bad news, I know, but because I began writing before the Internet was a thing, I didn’t learn that till I’d written five, many times queried but never sold, novels.

The good news? One year after learning that, and digging into the tricks of fiction, I got my first yes from a publisher, because it’s not a matter of talent, or how well we write, it’s that we all begin writing fiction with nonfiction writing skills. Fix that, and…

The library’s fiction-writing section can be a great resource. Personally? I’d suggest starting with Dwight Swain’s, Techniques of the Selling Writer, which recently came out of copyright protection. It's the best I've found, to date, at imparting and clarifying the "nuts-and-bolts" issues of creating a scene that will sing to the reader. The address of an archive site where you can read or download it free is just below. Copy/paste the address into the URL window of any Internet page and hit Return to get there.

https://archive.org/details/TechniquesOfTheSellingWriterCUsersvenkatmGoogleDrive4FilmMakingBsc_ChennaiFilmSchoolPractice_Others

Try a few chapters. I think you’ll be glad you did.

I know this was pretty far from what you were hoping to see, but don’t let it discourage you. It’s a problem we all face, and it is fixable. So hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/