ever drifting

“People know what they do; frequently they know why they do what they do; but what they don't know is what what they do does.”

Michel Foucault

[SCHHHHH― sorry, Alex. SCHKHHHHH try again-ain. again.]

The blue in her hair was starting to fade. She couldn’t remember the day (or night) she dyed it, or even why. Well, maybe she knew why. It couldn’t have been long after Michael died. A few weeks, maybe months. She couldn’t be sure, not entirely.

In fact, there were a lot of things Alex couldn’t be sure of anymore. Like what day it was, really. Or how many versions of herself she'd put through the same Hell, even what her friends' faces looked like. She remembered Clarissa's red bob cut, Nona's bright orange sweater two sizes too big, Ren's dorky grin, Jonas's ashy breath. But she's lost the color of their eyes, even the sounds of their voices. They were becoming vague, distant figures in her psyche and she wondered how many times she’d have to do this before she lost herself completely.

She didn't want to think about it.

"Well,” Ren's eager voice sounded from behind the campfire (beach fire if you want to get technical). “I wanna inaugurate this b***h by checking out the caves. Nona, wanna come?"

Alex mouthed along to Clarissa's response to Nona's response to Ren, looking out into the water and wondering what would happen if she just walked and kept on walking and just never stopped. If she could just feel the ground beneath her feet fade into nothing but the depths of saltwater surrounding her. She imagined how it would feel to be completely enveloped until she couldn't feel a thing anymore. No, no, she'd tried that before, she remembered. The Ghosts didn't like that much.

"Alex," Jonas' voice interrupted her train of thought and for a second she forgot where she was. Only for a second. "You wanna check out the caves, or . . . ?" She wished that she could do it differently. That somehow her world would bend or stretch and she could just say something else, anything else. She wished she could tell Jonas, tell him how lonely and scared she's been for the past God knows how long. She wished he could remember.

God, she hated remembering.

“Yeah, let’s do it.” She didn’t always remember, though. There have been loops where she was just Alex and Jonas was just Jonas and no one knew what awaited them on Edwards Island that night. She missed those loops. The flashes of memory, vague like deja vu, were inescapable but at least she could forget. At least when she forgot it didn't hurt so much.

The Ghosts didn't seem to like that either.

Alex fastened her foot into Jonas’ open palms and grabbed the bars of the fence as he hoisted her into the air. She jumped over and landed perfectly on her feet, so many times she’s landed perfectly on her feet.

Ren ate the same 'magic' brownie he always ate and Jonas expressed the same concern he always did and the trio shared the same joke about Clarissa’s undying need to stay pissed off at someone. Alex anticipated Jonas' chuckle and there it was, same volume, same pitch, same tone as always. Ren showed the step siblings the same pile of rocks and Alex tuned into the same stupid frequences on the same stupid radio to see the same light in the same stupid cave that got them into this same stupid mess the first time around.

She wanted to tell Jonas not to go inside, beg him to stay with her on the beach and just have a few drinks and take the ferry back home before the sun comes up.

It’s not that easy, they’d say. It can never be that easy.

Alex looked up at her step brother who stood at the edge of the cave, almost paralyzed as he peered inside. This was a detail she couldn’t remember witnessing before but then again there were a lot of things she couldn’t remember. Still, she couldn’t shake the unease in the pit of her stomach. So many times she's been fooled into thinking she wasn't alone in this bottomless void. She refused to let them take control of her mind, her sanity.

“You . . . okay?” She asked. He seemed to snap out of it when she spoke and suddenly she wished she never had. Jonas looked back at Alex with a slight grin.

“Yeah, yeah . . . sorry. I just - it’s nothing, let’s check it out.” Alex’s heart leapt. He’d never responded like this before, not once. Sure, her memory was completely unreliable at this point but she would’ve remembered this. What’s changed? Better question is; what game are they playing?

Ren sat still in the sand as he tripped on his magic brownie and she had no way of talking him through it, she never did. So, as always, she followed Jonas. He always managed to get ahead of her but she always caught up right after See a Man About a Dog. But this was different. She spotted him staring obsessively at the writing on the wall, his face unreadable.

“Jonas, are you alright?” He didn’t break focus this time. Instead, he inched closer to the wall of the cave, eyes dancing around each red letter scrawled into it.

“It’s just-it’s all so familiar.” Her heart was practically pounding out of her chest now, a wave of anticipation washed over her. It couldn’t be possible. This was her purgatory, her punishment, her sacrifice. They were a lot of things, but the Ghosts couldn't be this cruel.

“How so?”

He touched the cave wall this time, fingertips grazing each letter. “I feel like . . . I mean, I know it’s crazy because there’s no way but I feel like I’ve been here before.”

It took everything in her not to burst into tears right there. Truthfully, she didn’t know what to say. How could she explain the situation to him without causing a panic or risking him thinking she’s insane or causing another damn loop.

She couldn’t bear to think about it.

Before she could muster up anything to say, Jonas let out a breathy chuckle. Alex jumped at the sound, not anticipating it. For once, she couldn’t anticipate anything he’d do or say. This was new territory.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m being weird. There was a light just this way I wanted to investigate and then we can get back to the beach.” Alex almost let a tear slip. Almost.

“Yeah, of course. Lead the way.” He buried his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“So, there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.” He starts, “You know, since we left your Mom’s place-“

“Hey, it’s your place, too.” she interrupted. He let out a nervous chuckle. “I mean it, Jonas. You’re family now, okay? So quit being weird.” She playfully shoved him and they shared a laugh, a genuine laugh, and it was the first laugh she felt in her stomach in a long time.

"Thanks, Alex." He looked up at her at last, a genuine smile on his face this time. Her heart flipped at the sight. "I guess I just . . . wanted to say thanks. You know, for - just for being cool during all this. It means a lot."

"Cool as opposed to what?" She smirked.

"I don't know. I don't know what I thought you'd be but you're, like, way better. Than that. Whatever that is." There was a silence between the two for a few more minutes as they walked into the depths of the cave and Alex found comfort in the silence. Or maybe it was in Jonas. A version of Jonas that could keep her on her toes, one that felt like Jonas and not just a simulation of him. One that could remember.

It was only a matter of time until they would take this from her, though, they always did. Just when things seem good and Alex finds herself forgetting she's just a pawn in the game of a group of emotional parasites, said emotional parasites have no problem reminding her. Still, she couldn't help but submit to their game. Laughing with her step brother, having a conversation she hasn't heard a million times before. It was nice.

After some time, they reached a wall of rock with a space at the bottom just big enough to crawl through. Despite or maybe in spite of knowing what lies beyond the barrier, Alex is itching to get it over with. She ducks down and begins to crawl into the open space, ignoring Jonas' plea to 'wait up!'

"Wow." He says as he catches up with Alex. "This is awesome!" He makes a comment about the cave water-pond-thing, the twelve foot tall crystals protruding from the ground, washes of emerald and caramel and crimson. Crimson. A color Alex has grown to despise. Just beyond the crystal next to her lies the armoire, the same one she's always seen here in the cave. Countless times she's tried opening it to no avail. Everything worth seeing, it seemed, was locked and shut away. Like her.

"Pretty incredible." She mumbled to herself.

Author's Note

Backstory: This excerpt is a short story (unfinished) based on a video game called Oxenfree. It is an exercise in exploring characters beyond their source material and fleshing them out, as well as their relationships to one another.

Aside from any technical feedback (punctuation, grammar, spelling, etc.), I'm looking particularly for feedback regarding your thoughts on engagement, pacing, writing style, and dialogue.

Thank you!

Reviews

[JayG]

Well you did ask, so… There are some issues that are having a strong impact, and I thought you would want to know—though before I begin: what I’m about to say is unrelated to talent, how well you write, or the story.

Part of the problem is that you have a degree in the fine arts, which means your literary focus has been on classics, and fiction that was primarily written for the literary genre. Added to that, your creative writing classes, if they’re like most, cover all kinds of writing in one semester, And when it’s fiction’s turn, in most CW courses, you read a dramatically condensed version of the elements of the fiction writing profession, then write a short story that’s critiqued by classmates, who knew more about writing it than does the one presenting the story. But still, because of having taken those courses, it makes sense to assume that you have a good handle on writing for publication. But:

A scene on the page almost always ends in disaster for the protagonist. Did your teachers explain why, or even that it does? Did they explain the major differences between a scene on the page and on the screen/stage, and what elements made one up? How about the three things we need to address quickly when entering a scene?

I ask, because if we don’t know those things, can we write a scene that works? That’s not to say you can’t write them, only that you may need a bit more than you currently own in the way of craft. Remember, universities offer degree programs in commercial fiction writing. Surely some of what they teach is necessary, right? After all, since the day you learned to read, you’ve been choosing fiction that was created with those techniques. So you expect the result of them in the fiction you read, just as others expect it in your work. But because of a major misunderstanding, we pretty universally screw up when we turn to recording our stories.

The misunderstanding? We believe that the term “writing, that’s part of the profession, Fiction-Writing, refers to the skill we were given in our public-education years. But in your schooldays weren’t the vast majority of your writing assignments reports and essays? And didn’t that continue through college?

The purpose of reports and essays? Like all nonfiction, it’s to to provide an informational experience. So it’s fact-based and author-centric. Use those skills for fiction and it will have all the emotional content of a report or history book. And how many history books have you heard called “page turners?”

Fiction, on the other hand has a goal of providing the reader with an emotional experience. For that you need writing techniques that are emotion-based and character-centric—a methodology not even mentioned as existing by your teachers, because only poets and fiction-writers need to know it. And those skills are learned in addition to the traditional, “Three R’s.” The Octavia Butler quote you mention in your bio is one that trips up lots of hopeful writers, because it's natural to assume that she means that if you don't give up you will become better and better. But while the quote is perfectly true, and experience does perfect, she assumes, but doesn’t mention, that you already have the techniques of fiction that the practice will perfect. Without them… As Mark Twain observed, “It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”

And because of our background in non fiction we miss another critical point, one that E. L. Doctorow nailed with, “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.”

With that in mind, look at a few lines of the story, not as the author, who knows the setting, the characters and their backstory, and the situation, before reading the first word, but as a reader, who has only what meaning the words suggest to them, based on their life-history, not your intent. Look at it, too, as someone who can’t know how the author would perform the story:

• [SCHHHHH― sorry, Alex. SCHKHHHHH try again-ain. again.]

You know what’s going on, where we are, and whose skin we wear. So only you know how to read this, and what the square brackets represent. Who's speaking? Dunno. Who are they addressing? Not a clue.

• The blue in her hair was starting to fade.

At this point, the reader can’t tell if this is a first person narration and the line refers to someone in the scene or is the narrator talking about the protagonist. So there's a 50% chance of misunderstanding.

We don’t know who the “her” is, why she had blue hair and why she let it "fade," her age and situation, or anything meaningful. As you read it you have an image of her and where she is in time and space, and know all that’s necessary to provide context. Shouldn’t the reader, too? They are, after all, the one it was written for.

• She couldn’t remember the day (or night) she dyed it, or even why.

Important point: As a reader it appears that her having some unknown hairstyle with some degree of blue involved matters a great deal. After all you devote the first two lines to it. But then, you never mention hair or blue again. So why does the reader need to know what color her hair isn’t? Why do they care what color it used to be, unless it matters to the scene?

• Well, maybe she knew why.

Here's the key to the problem. You’re transcribing yourself telling this story aloud to an audience. But can we? Here, as part of the performance, you may spread your hands, present a shrug, and add a dismissive tone to the line as you deliver it. But what does the reader hear? Have your computer read this aloud and you’ll see why we cannot use the techniques of a medium where how you speak the lines matters as much as what you say, because that’s where the emotional content comes from. Can a reader hear any emotion in the narrator’s voice? Nope. Only what punctuation and word usage suggests. Can they know the gestures you visually punctuate with; the expressions and eye movement; the body language? Not a trace.

For you though, knowing what you do and hearing emotion in the narrator's voice—your voice—the story works perfectly. That’s why having the computer read the prose back to you should be part of every writer’s editing process—as should the professional knowledge of the working fiction-writer. And that’s what we need to fix.

You have the desire, the perseverance, and the story. And, you write well, which is something I don't oftern get to say here. So the solution is simple: add the tricks of fiction-writing to the nonfiction skills you already own, and polish them with Octavia’s advice.

I won’t kid you. Simple and easy aren’t interchangeable words, so there is a fair bit of study and practice involved. But that’s true of any field, so it’s an annoyance, not a disaster—though it does mean you won’t be a rich and successful writer by Christmas, I’m afraid. Still, if you are meant to write you’ll find the learning fascinating, like going backstage at the theater for the first time. And you will spend a fair amount of time slapping your forehead and saying, “But that’s so…why didn’t I see something so obvious myself?

The local library system is filled with the views of pros in writing, publishing and teaching. For a kind of preview of the issues involved, you might dig around in the writing articles in my blog. They’re meant for the hopeful writer. Then, download my favorite book on the nuts-and-bolt issues of creating scenes that sing to the reader, and linking them into a cohesive whole. It appears to be free here:
https://ru.b-ok2.org/book/2640776/e749ea

There are three download buttons mid-page. Use the one on the left (labeled in Russian) to select the format your reader requires.

Dwight Swain’s, Techniques of the Selling Writer, is an older book. It speaks of your typewriter, and the section on research can be replaced with “Use Google.” He also has the view, common at his time, that serious writers are male. But in spite of that, it is, by far, the best I’ve found, and is the book that resulted in my first novel sale.

So…I’m pretty certain that you weren’t expecting something like this when you posted the story. And such news can be pretty brutal, like a mule kick to the chops. I know, because I’ve been there. But if it’s in you to be a writer Mr. Swain will give you the tools and the knowledge of what they can do for you.

Once you master the techniques, the act of writing becomes a LOT more fun as the protagonist becomes your co-writer, whispering warnings and suggestions in your ear. And if you’ve never had a character put hands on hips and say, “Me do THAT? Hell no. I’d never behave that way in this situation,” your characters aren’t alive for either you or the reader.

So have at it. 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/

[jo]

Thank you so much for your feedback! I didn't expect anything like what you gave me, which is to say I didn't anticipate advice that would question my very intentions as a writer. That being said, I couldn't have asked for anything more eye-opening.

It's true, I'll have to break my pesky habit of writing with a clear image in my head and assuming the reader is seeing the same performance in theirs. Having it pointed out to me now was an epiphany, the fact that I've gone this long assuming rather than providing. That's something I'll have to practice from now on; having a computer read my scene to me, that is. I'd never even thought of doing it!

Further, I'd like to thank you for the links you attached to the review. I downloaded Swain's book and will be using it to my advantage (I've read one page and can tell already that I'll enjoy this one). Perhaps I'll have a similar success story to yours one day. :)

P.S. I love E.L. Doctorow's quote about showing vs. telling — something I work particularly hard at, and something that is difficult to successfully execute. I'll have to find some good exercises that will help me improve in this area.

Excuse me as I refer back to this comment every time I start a new piece.

Thanks again!