I believe in honesty. And if an aspiring writer (such as myself) has a blog, then they ought to be honest with it. The journey I’m on right now has taken a sorrowful turn.
I received word that I didn’t make the second round in the Genesis contest. It’s a sad thing, but not a terribly crushing thing. It’s a Christian contest and my 500 word synopsis and first 15 pages did not scream Christianity, so I shouldn’t be terribly shocked by this. (Actually, it might make a red-herring plea for atheism or agnosticism, but I digress.)
Not making round 2 was sad, but nothing prepared me to receive my three scores. Out of 100 possible points, I earned 55, 56 and 60. Each category in the judging was given a minimum score of 1 point and a maximum of 5 points. This means that in an average category like Point of View, Showing/Telling, Inspirational Elements, Dialogue, etc. I received a score of 2 or 3. A 3 means average and off to a good start. A 2 means below average/major revisions needed.
And given the consistency of my scores, this means I’m at most a mediocre writer and at worst a rather poor one.
It has not been a good week.
See, I’m not a stranger to getting criticism. I’ve handed my work out to friends. I’ve gotten multiple paid critiques. Goodness, I’m even in a critique group. And yet all of my other responses have been positive. Generally, people like my work. These critiques could not be more opposite.
My writing didn’t hold their attention. My characters weren’t distinct from one another. I use too much telling. I could go on, but do we really need to rehash how awful I am? Probably not. Ugh, I’ve never gotten a response that left me so dejected.
Worst of all, the negativity is starting to take root in me. I’ve begun to wonder if maybe I’m really a pathetic excuse for a writer and no one has told me. Maybe someone should have pulled me aside at some point and said, “Look, you’ve got a great imagination. But this just isn’t for you.” Maybe no one has had the heart to tell me that there’s an inside joke—a real laughingstock—and it’s me.
I really hope those things aren’t true, but doubt keeps growing in my heart. I know writing is my life’s calling. But for right now, I have a little imp in my mind. He’s telling me to quit, that there’s no point in writing a story that no one will want to read. He’s fighting me every time I pick up a pen or sit at my keyboard.
On the same day that I received the news about Genesis, my stargazer lilies were accidentally weed wacked. Our neighbor, out of the kindness in his heart, has offered to mow our lawn this spring and summer. He also trims the side of the house. My lilies were coming up and really looking healthy. But they hadn’t bloomed yet and he didn’t know that they were flowers. So while he was intending to be kind and do me a favor, my lilies were cut down before they could bloom.
They’re supposed to come back next year, but there won’t be any stargazers this summer.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
I considered posting something seasonal and celebrating the wonderful weather we’re having in Iowa. But I wrote a short story instead, so we’re switching it up a little today. When I saw this image, it got me thinking. How many times have we heard something go bump in the night, and even as adults, we pull our covers over our head and pray ourselves to sleep? As a Christian, I know it’s the prayer keeping me safe. But the comic sparked an idea in me. What if there was a world where a blanket was all that protected you from the things that creep in the shadows?
I know you’ve been told to fear the monsters hiding under your bed and in your closet. But that’s a lie. I’ll admit they’re terrible. But your nightmares should be made of the monsters that stalk behind your curtains.
One week after I had learned to crawl, Mother took me to get my blanket. I was five months and thirteen days old. Of course, I don’t really remember that day, but she’s told the story so many times that I can picture it more vividly than a memory.
We took the steam train into town, walked seven blocks east, two blocks north, and arrived at Mole’s Blanket Emporium. It was a tiny shop, squeezed between Catherine’s Clothing Cache and Bit’s N Spit’s, common brass cog replacements. I’ve always thought of the Blanket Emporium as Mole’s Hole. Truth be told, calling it a shop is misleading. There wasn’t a sign or window front, just a foggy glass door and peeling gold letters that read, “Hipothecary Apothecary.” Mole never changed it from the last tenant.
We went in. Mother says the bell on his door has always been broken. And calling it a bell isn’t a whole truth. I think it was an old soup can that lost a fight with some exploding powder.
But I can be certain of this. Mole’s shop never changed and neither did he. The space was deeper than it was wide and taller than it was deep. It was filled with crooked shelves that were covered in blankets. Mole himself was a squinty, bald man with great big hands. I promise you, he didn’t own a scrap of clothing that wasn’t rumbled and some shade of brown.
That day, like every other day, Mole sat on his stool behind the counter. “And who do we have here?” Mole didn’t stutter or have an accent. But he clicked at his words when he spoke. “Is it a boy or is it a girl?”
Mother held me up. “This is my daughter, Renee Amily Mary Sarah Elise Yvette. But of course, we all just call her Ramsey.”
That’s right. Mother gave me a name so long and so impossible to say that everyone I’ve ever known has shortened it to an acronym. Ramsey.
“Well,” Mole said. “She’s a real looker.”
He was right. I was born with pale grey eyes and a wild mess of jet black hair that sprouted and grew like feathers. My hair never got any lighter and my eyes never got any darker.
Mother sat me on the floor and Mole came around from the counter.
He tugged a blanket out from the nearest shelf. “This one is very nice. Wool. Hand quilted. The tag says the previous owner died in his sleep from old age. Good way to go.”
“Very peaceful,” Mother said.
He put the blanket at my feet. “How about that one, little Ramsey?”
I never even reached for it.
Mole took it back and grabbed another one. “No? Maybe this? Knitted. Owner... died of… cancerous ulcers. I’ll give it to you at eight percent off.”
“That’s very generous.”
Mole put that one on my lap.
Mother says I picked it up, threw it at his feet and applauded myself.
“Do you have anything cotton?” Mother asked. “My own blanket is cotton. Perhaps she takes after me.”
“Of course. Let me—Oh! There she goes!”
Mother says I took off like there was a flame under my bottom.
I crawled to the far right corner of Mole’s Hole and dove into a pile of blankets.
“They’re all discount,” Mole said. “Blankets with some extra wear in them, had more than one owner.”
I emerged with a black and grey damask print blanket. I sucked on my thumb and pressed the blanket to my face like it had always been there to comfort and protect me.
“That was quick.” Mole said. “Must be a good match, bonded pretty strong.” He took the blanket from me and I wailed like a naked newborn.
Mole’s face went white.
“Is there something wrong?”
“I—I don’t know how this got here. Tag says the blanket failed its last owner. Woman, 32 years old, killed by a monster hiding under her bed.
I continued to scream.
Mother clutched her heart. “Ramsey chose a broken blanket?”
“I’m so sorry. We could give her another one, but—”
“But it’s too late. She’s already bonded with that one.” Mother took the blanket from Mole and rubbed the fabric between her fingers. It was ratty and filled with holes. “This won’t protect her. She’ll never be truly safe in the night.”
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to do.”
Mother gave me the blanket and I stopped crying. “What’s done is done. We’ll buy this one, but I must caution you to take stock of your inventory and remove anything that shouldn’t be given to children.”
We left Mole’s Hole. I carried my blanket and Mother carried me. She insists she maintained her composure on the train ride home and I’ve never doubted her.
And so life passed by without incident until the night I was three years, six months and two days old. Mother heard a scream from my bedroom and rushed down the hall in her puce nightgown.
When she opened the door, a shadow monster lay writhing on the floor, hog tied by my blanket. It had been hiding behind my curtains. She says that I stood above it, bolder than a bull, laughing as it couched black spots onto the floor.
She scooped me up, carried me from my room and shut my door. In the morning, the sun came and light streamed through my bedroom window. She wouldn’t let me back inside until after noon. When I went back, the shadow monster had burned away, leaving ashes on the rug. My blanket lay on the floor, still twisted up.
My name is Ramsey. This is my story as the first monster hunter.