The 3 A.M. Epiphany writing exercise, number 8

I don't know what caused me to wake up this time. The shock I experienced, however, was the fact that sleep had found me and that rest was somewhat worthwhile. Time had not been kind in the sleep department. A rough estimate would be that the last time I enjoyed a night's rest was at least five years ago. Marie would have been in my fiend of vision.

A dog barked across the side alley in some oddball pattern that vaugle sounded like a record skipping.

As my ears focused to the now present waking world, a hard rapping was inviting me to the front door. A low murmur, most likely the culprit of the knocking, silenced the noise of the knocks.

I knew a phone call was next.

In other words, I had to rise. The vanity mirror in the corner caught the hall lamp and did it's best to insult me. I suppose the hair on my face, now truly white, was there yesterday, but since I make it a point to not look at mirrors these days--the question was lost. I used the reflection to hunt for my slippers. The corner where she had left them all those years ago was bare. Barren all this time.

The phone rang. It was supposed to.

"I'm up, I'm up." I hated yelling. I did not have the energy yet to support it anyways.

Last night, I wondered if I'd ever have company again. I didn't think it would be in the middle of the night.

"I'm up, I'm up, up, up, up...."

When a house is empty, the sounds resonate. My slippers, now found and discarded made their own call as we padded to the end of the hall to the front door.

Even the light switch to the front hall decided to make an echo. The clock blurted the honest time...3:12am. The knocking started back up, probably notified by the now present light.

My gut communicated that trouble had come to find me this night and that wishing for company had very little to do with it.

I gave myself the benefit of the peephole.

It was a beat cop. My job as county coroner never ended.

Rewrite part of an old story you have worked on from third person to first person. When you are reworking, count the number of 'he's or she's and then reduce that number by half in the newest creation. Then, let that sit for a while and see if it helps the piece or not.

IF

If you could confess to any crime, what would you confess to and why? That's an easy one. Or I'm thinking it's easy. I cannot, for the life of me, think of a single crime. I've never knowingly stolen anything outright. Sure, I might avhe taken a few hearts or the occasional cookie or two. But all I can think of is lying as a child. Being a theatre kid borne and bred, my tendency to embellish has outlived it's usefulness. I quit lying many moons ago, to the point that I've gone the other direction. I tend to be blunt and profane due to it. I also, upon my marriage, swore to be honest at every turn. I made a promise in a House of God. I shall not turn against that like so many other of God's followers.

If you could work for one person for the rest of your life, who would it be? Okay, okay, okay, I'm going to cheat here. I want to merely answer "myself" as an author. But that's not to be. So may I use an 'audience?' I'm really thinking of this from the prospect of a full-fledged author. Someone who writes to clear their minds, to bare their souls and to express creativity. I suppose that isn't truly being my own boss. I'd be at the whims of my publishers and editors, but I cannot help thinking how I'd love to sit at my desk the whole day and just create, create and create. Then I'd walk the dog. Then I'd vacuum and set up the slow-cooker. Then I'd get back to writing and editing. What would motivate that? If I publish successfully. Then, as the book moves forward, I'd have that cash to kill other meadering concerns.

IF...Today's first challenge is write something to PRESENT to today's coffeehouse. My best friend is here and, since he NEVER writes...the idea is that we'll both write about an 'IF" statement and the present to the group. Since I have my laptop on the ready, I'll go ahead and do mine directly to my blog. Remember, this is unedited and written as a train of thought.

3 AM Epiphany, Exercise 7

Harold could not understand how people could eat like his family did. In his few years, he just sat back and watched in amazement how they could pack it all away. Appetizers were the biggest anomaly of all. Everyone indulged in the huge bowls of dips knowing full-well that a lasgana the size of a football field was in the oven--having been placed there by his type-A aunt long before they left to the wake.

The only difference, he noticed was the expressions on everyone's faces. Instead of raising their wine glasses high and repeating phrases like, "to die for" over and over again, they drank somber coffee and kept thinking before taking another cracker of food. It made the room dour like he never could remember.

Uncle Teddy had always been rail-thin. The family looked upon him, jokinly, as if he were the child of an errant mailman. They smirked as he tried to put down food like the rest of them, but as the family got older and rounder, he maintained the waistline of his teenage years, even though he professed a love for the family's pastas and breads. Today, he seemed to lean a bit closer to the dip then ever before. Perhaps, with his father's passing, God had granted him permission to gain weight as well as a smidgen of happiness.

The silence drove Harold bonkers and he paced before the windows of his Aunt's home. He could not understand the noises he grew up with had finally been silence. There was always a child crying some where in his Aunt's house; someone was talking about something, or yelling more like it, over the radio--which blared classical tunes. The phone would ring constantly with this person or that, wishing happy-this-holiday-or-that.

Today, the house reveresed direction. Harold felt it. He had always hate the concept of his heart being pained. It was his mind, his rational being insisted. Your heart never really hurt, per se, he pleaded.

Until today. The ache became too much. He decided to make a noise for himself. He could not have staged it better. A pile of toys, long abandoned by the now-adult children of the family, lay in a pile in a box. Another round of cleaning out Grandpa's home coming to a close. He looked at the box and pulled out a cylinder.

"You remember this?"

The sudden sound caused everyone's head to rise and look at him by the fireplace. His smirk molded to a full smile.

"Tinkertoys," Harold reminded the room, "tinkertoys! I mean, when was the last time these were made? I used to play with them all the time! Windmills, cars. We used to hang tracks over them and use them as bridges for the Matchbox cars." He began to dig further into the box to see if the cars had been retrived.

He kept his smile.

"The cardboard is finally rotting," Uncle Teddy identified.

"Huh?" Harold stopped his search and tried to find the meaning of the sentence. He looked to the bottom of the box to see if the statement was true.

"No, of the cylinder. The cylinder's bottom is rotted. Look," Teddy pointed to Harold's prop. Harold was clutching it to his chest. He removed it and looked down. Sure enough, the items that brought such happiness had left white and tan flakes on his tie and shirt. He brushed them away.

"Not totally. Besides, these must be worth something on ebay, ya know? Look at this," he looked down the cylinder and smiled broader, forgetting their purpose for the gathering and enjoying the memories the toy brought forth.

"No, no, it's rotted and no good. It's probably going to pop," Uncle Teddy rose and put down his napkin from the snacks. He removed it from Harold's grasp and put it back in the box. "No Harold, look at this stuff. No need for it now. You're grown. Your cousins are grown. Best to just get rid of this stuff. Your grandfather didn't want it."

"Then why'd he keep it for so long? There were no kids to entertain," Harold identified. He watched Uncle Teddy put the toy back into the main box. He elected not to bother his Uncle. Such a useless argument just showed how well he was not handling his own father's death. "I'll take it home. It's no big deal. You don't have to worry about it."

"I'm not worried, but you could be infected. These things are probably crawling with disease. Rot from being hoarded for so long. Dad never threw away anything, not a thing. Just his family. I mean, why would he keep this crap? In case YOU had kids? Great-Grandkids? Doubtful."

"Oh, okay, um, okay," Harold's smile gave away his inner thoughts. The expression on his face turned to a furrow.

Uncle Teddy shook his head. "Sorry, your grandfather left a lot more baggage then this, taht's for sure."

"Apparently."

Uncle Teddy leaned over and pet Harold's scalp, moving the small amount gray hairs forward for an instant.

Harold sneered.

"I just figured," Uncle Teddy identified, "I just figured he'd have cleaned up a bit more before his passing."

"I think, in a way, we all thought he might."

This is, for the first time in these writings, one that hits close to my heart and I utilized real life experience to create. Again, this is writing about a fictional family where the POV keeps shifting between different people looking at the same event. I've been rereading some of these posts as of late, folks, and I do apologize for the poor English grammar. You were warned these were unedited!

3 AM Epiphany, Exercise SIx, I believe

We entered the room with our collective breath held shut. We knew that violence had wrecked the place, but we did not expect that to still hold or be visible. Still, one hopes there's a smidgen of creepiness floating about the room. Some errand blood stain that escaped the clutches of the police investigators; some lock of hair, scraped onto a single nail on the far wall, that still held.

There was nothing. That did not mean we were disappointed. Anna entered and moved to the right, watching for image to form in her head. She remembered the details from the articles and books, we reviewed them together before heading to this haunted location.

We wanted so desparately that ghosts still existed in these walls. Of course, there was nothing we could do to bring them about; nothing to encourage them to make the walls bleed in cinematic fury. We would have to supplant the history of the house with our own imagination. And as we all know, imagination can be far worse then reality.

We creaked the floor with every step, even when having to walk on the throw rug. The room itself was something out of picture book--every bit of furtiture was in the same postion as the books mentioned. Nothing had been touched. Dust was removed. The hooks of French curls held up every arm on the couch and chairs, clawed feet supported the coffee table. Dark brown held the light lower then it should have been. The only thing missing were the shadows of twilight. And considering it was merely post-lunch, they wouldn't be coming soon.

We both circled to the bay window behind the high backed couch. There, the rug halted, the back of the divan creating a small wall. The street was empty, surprising for this rush hour. The floo's bare wood lay before us.

This was weird the corpse had lay.

"This is so cool," Anna smirked.

"Agreed. All we need is it to be Halloween and we'd be good to go for a few scary stories!"

The clock on the mantle chimed and we both jumped. Haunted houses were great fun. Even with doing nothing, we had packed a few minutes with terrific energy. We didn't want to move.

Anna's stomach growled.

"Don't you ever get enough food?"

"Nope. Should we take pictures now or after raiding the fridge?"

"We'll never think clearly if we keep going back to your stomach. Let's eat something first."

"We can only hope the kitchen looks this, ah, authentic!"

She was right.


In this exercise, apparently part of a series related to pronouns and syntax-subjects; I had to use the plural "WE." I was not to use "I" at any point.

3AM Epiphany, Exercise Five

December something or other, 2007

It's been warm this winter and I know this because not because of the weather, but because the throngs of people are still standing outside of my window. I'm writing this as a group of four are out there now. Two adults, two kids. You should see them. There they are, the dad making up some gory tale for the kids to remember the moment they stood outside the Star home.

Great way to raise your kids, bucko.

Soon he'll begin pointing to the upstairs window, the one you can see the clearest from the street below...yep, there he goes.

Proves a point. He knows nothing.

The last murder happened in the back parlour, bucko.

Now he's circling his pointed finger. Not sure what that means. Probably something about blood splatter. Thinks he's a fucking CSI member.

Decemeber, the next day.

Sorry about the swearing. I had a bad day at the call center. I started working there because the hours were so reasonable. But it seems I'm working there more then working on my novel. I guess I was further angered by that fact that I cannot enjoy my view of the Star home. I moved her SPECIFICALLY because this apartment was open and directly across from that great place. Frankly, I'd move in there if cash and fate would allow me. Not so much now. The family there is completely unaware, I can tell. They rarely have visitors. They hung a freegin macmame plant older with a dead plant off the wraparound porch. Must be from someone's Aunt Nancy.

Such disrespect to their historic home just makes a day of overtime all the more bitter. You'd think I'd be all themore happy with more cash available. No such thing.

Yeah, the boyfriend cancelled again too last night.

No, I'm not going to elaborate until I think about it some.

Journal entry several days later:

Yeah, well, fuck you too. Got into a screaming argument with the boyfriend. Yep. Me. Quiet little me. He who lets customers poop, verbally, all over me at work--because I need money--screamed back at the idiot. He called, finally, after two days of messages. FROM DeeJay's club too! He said he was waiting for the bathroom and that it was Cowboy Chris' birthday. At least the exe is getting attention I deserved.

yes, I see it. Why wasn't I invited?

Not sure. He says he tried to get hold of me. No emails in the box. No voicemails.

The bastard.

No gawkers. God must be sparing them my wrath!

I think I'll go to the corner liquour store and buy beer.

This writing exercise was a work of fiction from the perspective of a journal. The idea is that a journal has a limited reporting value that fiction, as a whole, does not. We cannot see the boyfriend's reasoning. We cannot fathom what is bothering this young man so much that it is out of proportion with what he is writing about. I am aware it is a character from another story, for those of you still reading from previously.

QUICK NOTE

There has been a comment made about why I'm posting an explanation AFTER the writing exercise. I did this for the benefit of the reader--if you come to the piece cold, your opinions will be about the writing itself and not about the specifics of the journal entry. So, I'll include the information at the END of the entry.

Enjoy and peace!

3 AM Epiphany, Exercise 4

I alway give myself time to imagine I'm famous. I watch Britney self destruct and think, 'that poor girl...fame has not done her well.' But then I think to myself, 'she just wasn't ready.'
I'm ready.
I think I can do it. I can go to the spa and handle when someone says, "he's put on weight. He's put on A LOT of weight."
I know my family trained me for my ongoing sucess. They are mean and loud and know everything about me and still love me. Imagine the world at large doing the same. I mean they seem to like me-or at least put up the facade strong enough.
I like to pretend, in my head, that I'm reading the article about myself. "Smith seemed to be prepped for fame. His mother, the very definition of a stage-mom. Only she had one difference, she wanted her kids to have a certain understanding of the world.
"John Smith was no difference. He illustrated a profound ability on the boards, being pushed onto them at the tender age of 4. He kept performing. And even in his off hours, he discussed audiences with his family so he could improve his own writing. He reported the dread of seeing an empty page and how angry he would get when he had a crisp one and the teacher would not fill it with information. So he would just jot away whatever horror or joy he felt he could cover in the five minutes of boredom the teacher handed him.
"Mr. Smith would return to the stage again and again, using huge and changing venues. He'd sometimes sing old Gaelic tunes for the local pub; he'd work out difficult Shakespeare texts with the college courses he'd suppliment his income with; he'd hold court playing a four line walk-on in whatever blockbuster was filiming in nearby downtown.
"And his writing was always ongoing," I'd say to myself, especially more and more as it came to an end, "and when his first book became a bestseller, that was his draw.
"He knew he didn't want Hollywood to maul it; he did not want to whine to the press that he once worked with about Hollywood was going to kill his characters. That was when he went into screenwriting for his own short stories."
Of course, none of it was true at all. I'd make the whole thing up. I'm an actor, but I'm a much better writer. There was no reason. But I like to think the only truth in the story is that I could handle fame better then most. I still, after all these years, feel ignored. I like to think that's why I became a teacher. It's seven scheduled performances A DAY. I gotta love that!
But I also love the fiction. So doing my own story as a writer--wow, just wow. I can only hope that is how they see me. The fact is, it's going to be more like "he's a fake with nothing to offer. A fat man who is desparate for attention of any sort."
So I gotta make sure I'm friendly with the press as soon as possible, ya know?

Here's one where I am to slip between first person and third person--this one, I believe, worked a bit better.

3 AM Epiphany, Writing exercise 3

The knocking on the cabin's door was slightly muffled by the strong wind running beside it. Mrs. Bledsoe had an incident when she was a child that resulted in her always sleeping practically fully clothed. She remembered the story briefly as she rose, paused and waited for the pounding to begin again.
She hated referring to the portal as the 'front door.' Sure, it faced where she put her car, but it was a sliding glass that resembled the back door of her house in Colordo Springs. But here, it was the main entrance. With the curtain drawn, she could11 only see the outline of a man rapping away.
Without a chain on the door, all she could do was pull back the curtain some and hope he was not strong.
He was not. He was bleeding.
"Get in here! Oh my goodness!"
The young man held his side as if a violent apendisitis had taken away his lower right half. She signaled to him to her chair and pushed her laptop and several binders to floor. Lowering them softly to the pages that had been discarded there prior she realized she was not helping the poor youth.
She had him bandaged better then she remembered.
There was a pause where it appeared both caught their breath.
"Phone?"
"Oh no, there is none, I'm sorry. See, I come up here to get away for a bit, but, well, I have a car--let's get you down to Estes. THey have an emergency room."
"No, just hold on."
"You want to tell me what happened?"
"Not really. But, I don't, I'm afraid I might forget," the wound was superficial, a scratch. He was panting some upon entry, but he gained control quickly, respectfully. But his skin was still flushed. He still looked to the windows more than at her.
"I was with, I was with this girl. And she wanted to drive up here, you know, see the mountains. And, crap, seriously, you are not going to buy this at all, but, like she made," he smiled at something beyond her," a freegin picnic. A picnic! Sandwiches and everything! And, fuck, I started eating, we watched some deer go by and," he stopped and looked out the window.
"Look, we need to get you do a hospital, make sure you're okay."
"Fuck, no, we can't, it might be too late."
"Too late?"
"She poisoned me! I burped, see, burped of all things! Over a freegin' bolongna sandwich. And when my chest, I don't know, sizzled, I knew something wasn't, I guess, right. I thought it was heartburn, but no, no, NO," he began to tear up. Beneath his red hue, the face was paled.
"What happened to you?"
"I puked! And it was all blood and pink stuff!" She stepped back and he moved his leg to the side, revealing a wet portion of his jeans that revealed technically nothing. Other then something wet happened there.
"I ran, I just ran and started chasing me, and, like, the poison was still part way in. I ran and she jumped on my back. I fell and there was a fight and..."he looked again to the outdoors.
"What, oh dear God, what?"
"and, um, are you alone?"

This one did not have the intent I was supposed to have used....that I had an unreliable narrator and I was to have him do most of the talking. But I noticed my setup took longer then the actually presentation. ARGH.

3 AM Epiphany Writing Exercise 2

Calm yourself. Remember the rules. No, you can't hit them--that's illegal, tho their own parents do it repeatedly. No it doesn't matter that he chucked his pencil at your head. All for merely pointing out that he hadn't turned in his homework again. No, you were not going to give him an A. Earn a grade you want in this classroom.
Calm yourself when call the parents. Tell them the true but use simple, positive vernacular that they have no concept of understanding. Know you are right. Know you can do this quickly if you don't say much. Know that the parents like hearing, "what else can I do for you?"
And know that you are right in heart. Relax! Give yourself a reward when you get home, something like sleep or reading a book. Stop arguing! It somehow gets done. Don't try to make them learn. Just teach what you know and hope on a bigger scale.
Know they won't change, the world, the government and the kids. Know that you can change your attitude about the whole thing.
Laugh.
Do it again and again.
Smile.
And hope.
Dress and don't mumble, but value the potential of the day. Hope again he is not in third period, but know he is afraid you will retialate. So smile big and mention his love for Halo 3, his only supposed friend. Ask lotsa questions, but mostly towards him. Teach verbs. Review nouns. And make many, many notes in your journal about the futility of remember pencils for a writing class and homework as a teaching tool and not busy work requested by parents.
And then mention to yourself that this is the onset of burnout and you really need another job. Then do the vicious cycle, the one where you talk yourself back into teaching. Pondering is permitted--dreams will help you survive just a longer then most.
Wait for the weekend and then smile bigger then you ever could, remembering that there are those who believe that it helps. Agree with them as you realize the aggravations built your house and fed your puppy. And paid for the wedding and helps keep the smile on your husband's face.
Remind yourself of the wonderful good that sits right before you that somehow escapes you in times you need it.
Return to work with this temporary fix and keep your calendar nearby to count towards summer.
Use the summer to your advantage. Get physically fit, eat right and do all the things recommended you do for handling stress. Use the open time to imagine the awards you might recieve but don't deserve and all the applause you once heard in the back of your head.
Remember those Kevins and Erics who did not throw the pencil, but said thank you. Remember the alumnai, now entering their early lives and remembering youu as being part. Try not to cry, but allow it when the time is free.
And then calm yourself again.

In this exercise, I was to create an entire five hundred word piece containing only imperative commands/sentences. Hope it worked.