Chapter One: When the Sun Fades

Story Description: 

My story is about sixteen-year-old Joshua Trevor Bassett who lives with his dad and grandma. He likes writing songs and singing them at bars and diners around his town. He has to deal with his anxiety, ADHD, grief, heartbreak, and sadness as he goes through life and finds joy in the little things. 

Chapter One: When the Sun Fades

The Georgian sun was beginning to set below the grounds of the little town of Mckenna, and the sea-green moon was peeking out from the light blue sky, full and beautiful and bright. The kitchen smelled of low sodium french fries, green vegetables, and freshly cut strawberries. Our little two flat home is filled with flowers and plants. My dad, James, loves flowers and plants and so does my grandma Charlotte--she lives above us, but we visit each other all the time. 

We were eating a light dinner tonight because we planned to eat something later after my singing performance at a bar in town. I helped cook a new recipe for french fries made from freshly cut potatoes. I cooked with my dad while Charlotte enlightened me with another story from her childhood as she washed and cut the strawberries. I love her stories. Maybe sometime soon I'll share one with you. 

The dinner table was square and made of oak wood; it was dark. I was nervous. I sat on my knees on the chair which quickly became bruised. My plain white t-shirt was pushed against the edge of the table as my fingers lightly traced the cracks and bumps. I was sitting across from my dad and my grandma was on my left.

He bit onto his celery. “Mm,” He said with a smile. My dad loves his celery. 

“Dad, are you coming tonight?” I asked nervously. I started wiggling my toes that moved within my fuzzy green socks with little designs of Mike the Monster from the movie Monsters Inc. 

My dad lowered his reading glasses and looked at me. I could tell he could see the sadness in my blue-green eyes, no matter how much I tried to flush it out and away. “Of course I'm coming, bug. Always,” My dad had a thing for saying the word ‘always’. He’d say “I will always love you” or just “always”. I loved it. I loved him. 

I also love my grandmother; she is one of the most beautiful people in the world. I wanted to mention that I do have a girlfriend named Cherie and she is kind and sweet and pretty, but the only other person I have loved deeply in a much different but equally beautiful way is Charlotte, my dad’s ma. She's never been mean to me or judged me. I'm so lucky to have her and my dad. When Charlotte speaks to me, she is sometimes firm, but she doesn’t act above me in any way, even though I see her as a wise goddess, and she knows this. “Charlotte the Wise”. Huh; she is wonderful. 

We are eating food together again. I love eating meals with my beautiful family. Life is so good right now. Tiring sometimes, yes, but lovely for the most part. 

Charlotte was sitting on the left of me and she put a hand on my bare wrist. “Of course, we are coming,” She said with a smile. There was spinach in her teeth but she didn't seem to mind. 

“Grandma, I love you, deeply,” I leaned in towards her and smiled. “Dad?” He looked up with shock on his face like he forgot where he was. His back was slouched and all his focus was on his celery, his hands on the table, and his teeth munching away. “I love you deeply,” I smiled. He sat up straight and stretched his arms out in front of him, the room dim and the moon spilling green light through the windows nearby and onto our wooden floors. 

“I will never not love you, bug,” He said with a warm smile. Then he went back to his celery. 

I wonder if they thought it was cheesy for me to say these things...I don't really understand the word cheesy, so I guess I should say I hope they don't find it… fake or untrue, because I do love them. They are my rocks, besides the rock on the ring on my finger which is a blue moonstone by the way. James and Charlotte? They’re my human rocks. Human rocks for life. 

Charlotte cleared her throat and wiped her mouth with a Winnie the Pooh napkin and leaned her wrists on the edge of the table. “Is your girlfriend going to be there?” 

I blushed and looked down, a smile creeping across my face. I didn't say anything. Charlotte looked at my dad and she smiled and nodded. His eyes widened and Charlotte looked back at me. She leaned towards me, her elbow on the table. “I take that as a yes, ”  

I giggled. “Um, yes,” I said quietly, then I looked up slowly. Anxiety was filling my chest but I was also happy and excited. “Cherie is going to be there. She said she would be there. She is...” I sighed and then took a deep breath. “Magic, grandma,” I whined breathlessly as I placed my right elbow on the table and let my big head fall into my hand. I turned towards Charlotte and gave her pleading eyes. 

“What are you singing, love?” She asked gently. She always knew how to calm me down from my anxiety by speaking calmly when she felt it boiling within me. 

I took a breath and smiled. “Always,” 

“What is it about?” 

“Her,” 

Grandma smirked at me. 

“I know I’m only sixteen but she …” I took another deep breath. I lifted my head and clasped my hands together then gently hit my fingers against each other to short circuit a panic attack I could feel coming on. “There aren’t words in any language to describe how happy I am with her; no language could help me to describe how I feel when I'm with her or when I think about her. She is light, she is beauty, she is wholesome and love, she is sweetness, a kind celestial being, a breath of fresh air...she’s…” I sighed. “I’m having a hard time finding the words…” I squeezed my eyes shut..I tried catching my breath and failed, so I continued and I began to stutter. “I-I….you see, she’s never been mean to me. I mean, I love her. I can't imagine anything happening to us,” My dad smiled at me. “It hasn't been a perfect relationship--I’m not sure those exist--but it’s been so lovely and I’m lucky. So I wrote ‘Always’ for her. I wrote ‘Always’ for her,”

“Oh, son,” My dad started. I smiled at him. He was leaning back in his chair. “I’ve heard you sing ‘Always’. It is beautiful--beautifully written, beautifully played, beautifully….well, everything. You have a gift for writing your feelings. You are in love and that is beautiful,” 

I slid myself in my chair and sat on my butt. I brought my right knee up to my chest and laid my head down on it, looking at Charlotte. I smiled real big because what he said rang true and made me so happy. Most parents would have a ‘but’ after that...not him. He rarely ever did and never did when it was about my singing and songwriting. I lifted my head and smiled at him. “Always appreciated,” 

We finished eating our small dinner and prepared to go to a bar in town where I was going to sing ‘Always’. 

I really liked our dining room because it’s next to a big window where the moon joined us earlier. 

I walked to my room and I smiled tiredly. I looked at my nails. They were mint green and sparkly--two coats of nail polish. I was relieved to see they were not chipped badly. I was also excited I didn't have to repaint them...I wasn't patient enough for that if I’m being honest. I saw my clothes all set out on my bed for tonight’s special event. I slipped off my white t-shirt and put on some deodorant and my white button-up shirt with sharp collars and I tucked them into my black pants. I walked to the bathroom across from my room and looked in the mirror. I smiled. I felt tired and a bit off, but I’ve learned to go with it. I shook my head and opened the cabinet and took out a bottle. I sprayed the bottle of some mint spritz spray in my mouth, the kind that makes your breath smell all good; I smiled and walked down the hall towards the front door. My brown penny loafers were in a closet and so I creaked open the door, took them out, and slipped them onto my feet that were covered in cashmere pattern socks.

Grandma was slipping on her shoes and my dad was buttoning up his jacket. I grabbed my jacket from the coat rack near the front door and my guitar from the living room that was also right near the door. I smiled. I was nervous but excited. My curly brown hair was flopping just how I wanted it and I was grateful. Otherwise, I'd have to tape down my curls and I don't think “taped curls” is in fashion right now. 

~more will be added soon, so please stay tuned!~

Reviews

[Vertigo Cat1111]

HECK YEAH MIKE WAZOWSKI SOCKS.

Anyways, another brilliantly written story! The little details helped so well in conveying what was going on, the mood, the tone, and the energy of going to sing! A bit nerve wracking but always exciting. Also I have to mention I adore the title ‘Just Keep Breathing’. Contrary to your other reviewer, I like the details, they help us learn about the characters. The dad likes celery- the kitchen smell of LOW sodium fries- this gives off the obvious note that the family is a healthy eating family. Grandma putting on her shoes? That tells me they’re going somewhere. The gender of the character is unspecified? The gender can be whatever you damn want it to be, and search up Joshua Basset. (If this IS meant to be the actor, after all!) if you didn’t include the fact that he grabbed his jacket, how would we know what he’s wearing? Using your imagination is good, but you gave us details! And if you didn’t give us details I might as well have mentioned him walking around in a clown outfit. We don’t just need story- we need details like you are adding, that builds the characters. The character changing out of a color of a teeshirt could very well be symbolic for something, if you wanted to be, why not add it?

Those socks I so dearly love from one of the best animated movies (Excuse my love for Disney!) that could make us think, this guy still has a sense of childhood and imagination. He likes Disney. It gives us personality, it’s not just needless facts.

The other reviewer that told you might as well have just written doing something as mundane as scratching? Maybe do that then! It’ll give more personality! Small things like that help!

Beautiful writing that pulled me in and a beautiful setup from a beautifully inclusive author who can write several different things from this, to much needed LGBT+ stories!

Don’t you dare let anyone tell you what good writing is. Take constructive criticism if that’s what you want, but write what puts a smile on your face, and I can tell you, this put a smile on my face. 😄 Keep updating, keep writing and turn the other cheek to snide, snobby critics who think they know you best.

[angel frankie]

Much appreciated, Colacat. i hope to be connected to you soon. :)
have the loveliest day!

[JayG]

Some writer's quotes, and how they apply apply:

“Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.” ~ Alfred Hitchcock

• Grandma was slipping on her shoes and my dad was buttoning up his jacket. I grabbed my jacket from the coat rack near the front door and my guitar from the living room that was also right near the door.

This is detail, not story. Why would a reader want to know that someone puts on shoes to go out? Doesn't everyone? Do I care that her guitar is near the front door of a unknown house in an unknown year Do I care that her father loves celery? You might as well report that one of them scratched their a*s.

Virtually everything you say in these 1525 words (six standard manuscript pages) is trivia. Would the story change were dad not to like celery? No. So why mention that he does? Would it change were he to have eaten a carrot, or nothing? Again no. So why report him eating? Why report the shape of the table? Why report what they ate? Why report the color of the tee-shirt our protagonist changed out of? The reader can’t see it, and no one either mentions it or thinks about it. And talking about what kind of socks someone wears? Dull, dull, dull.

What actually matters in the scene?
1. The protagonist is going to perform a single song at a bar, written about a girlfriend. (That’s not how bars work, though. You play a set.)
2. Her family will be there, as will the girl.

Six pages of trivia to say that seems excessive, because we don’t learn either the name or gender of our protagonist. The nail polish seems to sat female, but the only name the protagonist is called is bug, with a lower case B, so it’s not certain.
- - - - - -
“In sum, if you want to improve your chances of publication, keep your story visible on stage and yourself mum.”
~ Sol Stein

But in his there is no one on stage but the author, wearing a curly wig and pretending to be the protagonist, lecturing the reader about things that supposedly once happened to them.

That's a report.

Look at the presentation:

• The Georgian sun was beginning to set below the grounds of the little town of Mckenna, and the sea-green moon was peeking out from the light blue sky, full and beautiful and bright.

We begin with a weather report: The sky is clear. The worst opening of all time begins, “It was a dark an stormy night…” But your people are inside, and not one of them is looking out of the window. So this is not your protagonist noting it. It’s you. And you’re not in the story.

This first paragraph is a report, presented in overview. It‘s not story.

• We were eating a light dinner tonight because we planned to eat something later after my singing performance at a bar in town.

Again, overview. And this is not first person as a publisher and reader views it. Would anything change were you to change the personal pronouns from “we” to “they” and “my” to “her?” Yes, but in only one way: we would know the gender of the protagonist for certain. My point is that this is not the protagonist living the story. It’s you talking about in the abstract. But in fiction, story happens, in real-time, as-we-read.

• The dinner table was square and made of oak wood; it was dark.

Again, a report.
- - - - - -
So why didn’t you know, or notice this? Because you’re doing exactly what you’ve been taught to do. You’re reporting and explaining, as you do in any essay or report you’re assigned, to clearly inform the reader. So if this was a report, or essay, you’d get a good grade.

But the goal of fiction? As E. L. Doctorow put it: “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 if no one tells you that, will you even try? No. But if all your writing skills are geared to informing the reader, even if someone tells you the goal, can you achieve it? No again. Not with that tool set.

Bottom line. To write fiction you need to know the skills of the fiction-writing profession. They’re no harder to master than the skills you now use, but they are massively different.

For example. Do you want the reader to know the time of day, and orient them as to what's going on? In that case, you open with something like:
- - - - -
I looked up from the sink, and the potatoes I was peeling, to study the darkening sky. The clock said 5:40. Both were reminders that my set would began in a little more then three hours. Plenty of time to finish a light dinner, change into something pretty, and for the butterflies to gather in my stomach.
- - - - -
Presented in that way, it’s her looking at the sky, with purpose, in the moment she calls “now,” and reacting to it. Without that it’s abstract, a report, dispassionately given after the fact.

We learn that her short-term goal is preparing and eating dinner, that she has a show to do, and is mildly nervous. Wearing something "pretty" implies gender. And with that the reader know who we are, where we are, and what's going on, without a narrator stepping on stage to destroy any sense of realism. She looked out of the window with purpose, and as a result checked the clock, with purpose. It's because SHE wanted to know, as against the author wanting the reader to know. And which of those would feel more natural to you?

Place the reader into her “now,” and the future becomes uncertain…and interesting. Remember, the reader learns what happens BEFORE the protagonist does because they read it first. So they'll react as either themselves or her, depending on how well we make the reader know the scene as she does. Do it well, and the reader feels as if they ARE her, and living the story. Do it poorly, or don't try, and they're reading a report ABOUT her. And which would you rather have? If you're reading a horror story, do you want to read about the shiver of fear the protagonist feels, or have the writing make YOU feel it?

What they don’t remind you in school is that all professions are acquired IN ADDITION to the general skills we’re taught in school. And Fiction-Writing is a profession. So every book you’ve read was written with those professional skills and published. You don’t see the tools as you read, and no more learn the write fiction by reading it than did you become a chef by eating. But you do appreciate the skilled use of those tools, and expect to see the result of them in what you read—as your reader expects to see that in your work. So acquiring those skills isn’t optional.

The question is: how? And the answer is as near as the library’s fiction-writing section. There, you’ll find the views of successful, and professional, writers, teachers, and publishers. And that’s what you need. The very last people to give advice on how to write for publication are people who can’t get their own work published. Right?

My personal suggestion is to pick up a copy of Debra Dixon’s, GMC: Goal Motivation & Conflict. It’s a warm easy read. For an idea of what you’ll find in it, the articles in my WordPress writing blog are mostly based on the things you’ll found in that book, and meant to give a feel for the difference in approach between nonfiction and fiction (address at the bottom).

There is a better book, though it’s a good deal harder to chew on, both because it’s university level and an older book. But still, Dwight Swain’s, Techniques of the Selling Writer is the best book on the way to create scenes that sing to the reader I’ve found. And it’s free at the address below the paragraph. Just copy/paste the address to the URL window at the top of an internet window and hit Return.

https://archive.org/details/TechniquesOfTheSellingWriterCUsersvenkatmGoogleDrive4FilmMakingBsc_ChennaiFilmSchoolPractice_Others

So I know you were hoping for “Great story!” when you posted this. But bear in mind that what I’ve said has nothing to do with your talent, how well you write, or the story. And pretty much everyone makes the same mistake when they turn to fiction. So you have a LOT of company. And of more importance, it’s fixable. There’s a fair amount of study and work involved—as there is with any profession—but the study is on a subject you want to know more about, and the work is writing stories. So what’s not to love?

So…jump in. And while you do, hang in there, and keep on writing!

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

[angel frankie]

Thanks so much :)