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I cannot tell a lie, most of the time.

There are only two reasons to wake up early on the Wednesday after Mother Nature dumps a foot of snow in your city: you have to shovel the drive, or you can’t wait to check out the word of the day.

My husband purchased a (monster) snow blower several years ago, so a buried driveway doesn’t stir me from slumber. But, the word of the day…now, that’s excitement!

Today’s word on Wordsmith.org:

pervaricate. verb intr. to avoid telling the truth by being ambiguous, evading, or misleading.

Let’s get right down to some flash fiction business.

****

Ellen had been driving Gary crazy for the past three weeks.

Her desk sat in front and to the left of his, and every time he picked up his coffee for a drink, he saw her rolling her head.

Left.
Right.
A long, slow roll to the left again.
And, hold…back to center.

On that particular Wednesday, Ellen wore a shirt with a collar that rested three inches out from the base of her neck. With her left hand, she pulled her auburn hair around to fall over her left shoulder. The right side of her bare, sand colored, smooth neck – the side facing Gary – shimmered, open and vulnerable.

He sipped. She rolled. He shuffled papers, and sipped again. The last, long roll forced Gary out of his chair. He walked over and stood at the front of her desk. And, he waited, while she rolled back to center.

“Oh! Geez, Gary, you scared me.”

He cut right to the point. “I studied Chiropractics.”

“What’s that you said?” Ellen ran her hand down the right side of her neck.

“I know the ins and outs of the neck like you know that iPhone.”

They both glanced over at the iPhone. It flashed, with a new message of some sort, Gary could only guess.

Ellen turned back to Gary. “You’re a chiropractor? So, why are you working here?”

“There wasn’t much money in my field.”

“Really.” Ellen’s face showed doubt.

Gary started to sweat.

“Your right side bothers you.”

“Yeah,” she said. “This awful kink in my neck refuses to go away, since, like –”

“Three weeks?” he finished.

“About.” She squinted.

“I see it all the time. I studied Chiropractics. I can fix it.”

“You can fix it?”

“Your neck.” His heart raced.

Ellen paused, but then agreed to stand up. She let Gary take her head and neck gently in his hands. Her hair fell around his fingers as he guided her head through another set of rolls. Then, he put his right hand on her chin, and his left around the back of her head. He twisted and snapped.

What followed was a sucession of pops and cracks.
Then, a scream.
A punch.
A gasp.

After the commotion, Barbara walked into the office and found Ellen holding the back of her neck with both hands. Gary sucked in air as he slumped over with his hands at his stomach.

Barbara sighed. “Playing Chiropractor again, Gary?”

“Playing?” Ellen looked up and muttered several obscenities.

“Ellen, you’re still new here,” Barbara said. “I should have told you this from day one. There are three things you need to know about Gary: coffee hound, neck fiend, full of shit.”

“I know Chiropractics,” Gary groaned.

Barbara rolled her eyes. “Oh. And, Ellen. If he ever mentions podiatry, keep your shoes on.”

Barbara turned to leave but looked back once more.

“By the way, I’m going for coffee. Anybody want a cup?”

“Hazelnut,” Gary grumbled, as he wobbled back to his desk.

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The Driving Force

About every other day, I open up my novel manuscript, tinker away on my laptop and try to mold “draft one” into a much better “draft two.”

The rewrite has been slow. On the days I ignore it, I wonder if my refusal to open the file reflects my lack of faith in the story or my lack of faith in my writing.

Some days it’s the story, other days it’s my writing, on a bad day it’s both.

Recently, however, I sat down with my ego and explained in no uncertain terms that finishing the novel can be as rewarding as having it published. Amazing things happen when you let go of expectations. The story starts to flow again. I wrote over 1,400 words today, finished chapter three, and rekindled my love for the characters.

In between rewrites this week, I published a post that I consider an exercise in character development – the main character in my novel, not my personal character (unless you count that chat with my ego as “development”). I also found a great article on character-driven stories versus plot-driven stories, something I understood but needed to see again more clearly.

Elana Johnson breaks down plot versus character in an essay she posted on QueryTracker.net (you can read her post here). She says, “[t]he main focus in a plot-driven novel [is]: get out of danger. Stay alive. Accomplish something.” In a character-driven story, the protagonist – how she sees the world or how her perceptions change – is more important than the action:

“In a character-driven story, the author builds the plot around the character.”

Both character and plot interact, but one of them takes the lead. Elana Johnson ends with several questions to help determine which one the writer puts first. Question number one speaks directly to me:

“What is the force propelling your story from beginning to end? Is it the characters or what they’re going through?”

My answer to that question (the characters) sealed my understanding about the story I am writing. And, I learned that even if my fingers aren’t typing in draft changes, I am still developing the story: every article I read on the craft of writing adds meaning to my work in progress.

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Big Mouth Bass

Today’s Wednesday’s Word entry comes to you as a result of Jamie Grove’s suggestion in a recent post on what to do when you don’t feel like writing: put A to B. Get thy butt to thy chair, and write anyway.

***

The theme this week on Wordsmith.org is eponyms: words based on a person’s name. You have to be famous and/or do something really ingenious for your name to become part of the English language. For some odd reason, Wordsmith.org doesn’t acknowledge any eponym related to me. Clearly they don’t know the story of how I became a Lion’s Club member, even though I’m a woman. I only stayed in for a year, and it might be a figment of my imagination (or a nightmare), but still….

However, the name André Maginot comes into focus with today’s word of the day:

Maginot line. noun. An ineffective line of defense that is relied upon with undue confidence.

You can read about André Maginot here, and learn how his great line of defense fell short in actual protection.

Now, on to some flash fiction.

You may not know Millie. She is the main character in the novel I mention when I talk about how much I love rewrites. Millie lives alone, and she likes it that way, for the most part. She requires a large cushion of personal space, for sanitary reasons and because of her suspicion of most people. She prefers to observe life from a distance, behind a window or behind a desk or in the shadows. Over the phone, she is amicable; in person, quiet or curt.  Today, I imagine Millie and the Maginot line.

***

Millie’s best line of defense lay in tight formation along the top edge of her place mat. As she tore off bite-size pieces off her bran muffin and chewed, with purpose, she studied each pill: fish oil,vitamin E, vitamin D, and (the catch-all) Mega-Mix Iron Supplement – iron complemented with vitamins C and B12, a dash of Folic Acid and a pinch of Copper. The Mega-Mix, her mother insisted, would boost her energy and give a little color to her cheeks.

The Mega-Mix pill was the same color and length as her mother’s manicured nails, the one on her index finger to be exact. The image of her mother’s nail, in bright corral polish, pointing to and tapping the vitamin brochure, was fresh in Millie’s mind.

“You need all of these, Millie,” her mother said as she ran her finger down a list of vitamins for women over forty.

“I’m thirty-nine, mother.”

“You can never start too early. Besides, you’re pale as a ghost and you sleep too much. Get this one for sure,” she tapped over the picture of the Mega-Mix.

The vitamins came in the mail yesterday. Millie hadn’t opened them until this morning. Now, studying the Mega-Mix pill on the table, she saw it had the thickness of a marble. She was worried. She had a high gag reflex. The other three vitamins would be hard enough. She decided to take the Mega-Mix last.

She took a deep breath. Her right hand scooped up the fish oil and, like a catapult, shot it into her open mouth. Her left hand swung from the side and grasped her water glass. She flooded her mouth, so that the pill floated for a brief second. Then, she tossed her head back as if she were in a fit of laughter and swallowed, forcing the pill down her esophagus in one strong gulp. She repeated the process two more times then paused at the Mega-Mix.

Continue reading “Big Mouth Bass”