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All I need is air time.

It’s Wednesday’s Word, and you know what that means: write something – an essay, poem, or flash fiction – based on Wordsmith.org’s word of the day and post it by midnight. You can find past writings under Wednesday’s Word on the sidebar to the right.

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This week, Wordsmith.org gives us words that hint at techniques writers should avoid, like pleonasm (excessively verbose writing) and apophasis (which, when I pronounced it, made me think “preposterous!” Even after reading the definition, I had no idea what it meant) and then today’s word:

sesquipedality. noun. The practice of using long words.

Well, that’s a mouthful and a tongue-twister and a double-dog-dare when it comes to working it into this writing exercise. But, give me a second cup of strong coffee, and I’m all over a dare.

*****

Air Time

Betsy loved to talk. When she heard about an intern position at Radio Station WMRK, she printed off the application materials and sat down, that afternoon, with a fine point pen. She printed in crisp, bold letters and filled each information box full. She Fed-Exed the application and was thrilled when they called her for an interview two days later.

She phoned her mother to tell her of the news, but instead of sharing in the excitement, her mother delivered a warning.

“Speak slowly. Be concise.”

“Oh, mother.” Betsy hung up the phone and mumbled to herself as she ironed her interview outfit.

Sure, Betsy knew her proclivity towards chatter had gotten her into trouble a time or two. And, yes, sometimes when she got nervous, words rose to the surface and rushed out of her mouth so fast that a single sentence ran together like one long word. But, that’s what made Betsy perfect for the job at the radio station. Radio was all about filling space with words.

And, that’s exactly what she told Mr. Parker, the station manager, when he asked her what she knew about radio.

“It’s about information and entertainment and turning silence into sounds,” she said.

“Well, yes and no.”

“I’m just perfect for the job. I love to talk and I always have something to say and there isn’t a time when I’m at a loss for words. I’d be a superstar behind the microphone. I’m an independent learner and I’m tech-savvy. I could run a show smooth as butter. No false starts, no dead air, if you know what I mean.” Betsy took a breath.

Mr. Parker nodded. “I see,” he said.

“When I say I’m an independent learner, I mean that I practically trained myself on the cash register at Piggly Wiggly because the manager said he didn’t have time to deal with me and if I could read I could figure it out. Which at the time I thought was rude. That was one reason I quit that job — because of the manager I mean, not because I couldn’t read.”

Mr. Parker settled into his chair.

“And, when I say I can fill space with words, I mean I’m a real lover of words, as you can see from my two-page cover letter. I have a lot to say and I say it well. Not to brag, but show me one place where the grammar is questionable or a vocabulary word misused.” She inhaled. “No sir, Mr. Parker, you wouldn’t have to worry one bit about dead air time.”

“I imagine not.” He scratched his head.

Mr. Parker sipped his coffee and let Betsy go on for another five minutes. Then, he explained that he would give her the job.

“You lack experience in this line of work, but you’re definitely entertaining. However, you’ll be working behind the scenes, not behind the microphone.”

Betsy was disappointed, but she took the job anyway.

The first day at the station was magical. The morning DJ, Jonathan Quinn, introduced Betsy and gave her two whole seconds to say hello. She squeezed in greetings to her mother and a big hello to her best friend Patti who worked at Murphy’s.

“I heart the Irish!” Betsy said and laughed just before Quinn cut her off.

“She’s a live one!” He said. “I don’t know what she puts in her coffee, but toss a little in mine!”

Betsy giggled all the way down the hall from the studio to her desk.

By Friday, though, Quinn’s demeanor changed. He completely ignored Betsy. In fact, no one said “boo” to her for her entire shift that day. Not talking put Betsy in a state of panic. By the time lunch rolled around, she was about to burst.

At the end of every shift, Quinn read through the Hollywood Beat. He spoke the first line of the news stream just as Betsy walked into the studio with a last minute update. Quinn held up his index finger. That was the third time he did that to Betsy that morning, as if she didn’t see  the station light on. She glared at the back of Quinn’s head and stayed mute. That was, until he misspoke when he read the story about Regis Philbin’s latest blunder.

“Regis getting handsy with Nicki Ming.” Quinn said.

“That’s not right!” Betsy burst out.

Quinn turned around. He leaned sideways toward the microphone. “Looks like I’m getting  a little feedback here, from the intern, folks.”

“Not feedback, Mr. Quinn, just a correction.” Betsy said. The words bubbled up and she couldn’t stop them from escaping. She stepped closer to his microphone.

“It’s Minaj, not Ming,” she said. “You’re a great DJ, Mr. Quinn, but perhaps you need glasses. I mean, I don’t know exactly how old you are, though I can see the gray emerging from your sideburns – which looks very distinguished you can be sure. But, at a certain age everything changes – my mother says anyways – so that a small A and a J together could look like a G.  If I squint, I can see it, but if you’re squinting that might be a clue that glasses are in order.”

Quinn stammered through the next few seconds and put on a song. He turned off his mic.

“I’m the one who does the talking, Becky.”

“It’s Betsy,” she whispered.

“And, you’re the one who gets me the coffee.” He handed her his cup. “Black, straight up. And, hot.”

Betsy tip-toed out of the studio.  She could have kicked herself, she thought, when she saw Mr. Parker walking towards her. He took her arm, and she assumed the worst.

“Betsy, while you might not have great timing, you certainly have great appeal. In that twenty second razz on Quinn, we received several phone calls and tweets cheering you on. Take Quinn his coffee, and then come back to my office.”

Mr. Parker offered her a temporary agreement. Betsy could hardly contain herself. But, he ended his terms with a strict boundary and a timer.

“While you learn the ropes, you’ll get five seconds at a break for banter.” He handed her the timer. “Say as much as you want on air, but end it on the ding.”

Betsy held the timer, like a treasured gift, to her chest. Five whole seconds on air, she thought. On the timer, five seconds measured almost an inch, maybe half but close enough.

And, Betsy could tell a whole story in the span of an inch.

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Reflecting Life in Our Writing

I am never disappointed in The Writer magazine. True to form, when I paged through my December issue this month, I read another article that struck a chord at exactly the right moment.

I am finally – and seriously – back to work on my novel in progress, so much so that I named this draft “Signs of Life, for real this time.” It’s a story about a young woman named Gale, who’s mother is killed, and in losing family, Gale finds family – and forgiveness. I want to write this story with enough emotion but not too much, which has been one reason for procrastination: I’m afraid the story will read too dark and too heavy. I was relieved, then, to come upon David Harris Ebenbach’s essay in The Writer, “Writing Toward the Light.”

In his essay, Ebenbach focuses only on the short story, but many of his points can be applied to memoirs and novels as well. Ebenbach addresses his long-standing belief that, to be called “great,” a story must focus on “struggle and conflict” and pain. But, as he questions his own ideas and discovers several well-written and well-received stories that highlight a character’s “opportunities” instead of “struggles,” Ebenbach realizes that all writing must embody balance. He says:

“…[T]here’s nothing wrong, of course, with writing about darkness…darkness is a significant part of life. [But], light, of course, is also part of life, and as writers that ought to mean something to us.”

While definitions of literary fiction (like the one on Writer’s Relief, Inc.) say that “[l]iterary fiction tackles ‘big’ issues that are…controversial, difficult, and complex,” I need to remember Ebenbach’s point, that “difficult” in fiction (or memoir, for that matter) doesn’t have to mean all dark, all the time.

As Ebenbach says, “[readers] want to see the real world – in all its richness and complexity – reflected in literature.” And, isn’t that the way life rolls: the serious and the silly taking our focus in turns?

I know about death, about losing a mother, about the heaviness that settles and then hovers for months after. But, I also know about moments that surface during those dark times, moments that propel a person into a fit of laughter when laughter doesn’t seem possible.

Like when an overweight and messy driver ushers a grieving family into the back of a limo and then cruises down the road, from the funeral home to the church, at a high rate of speed. It’s only when he slams on the brakes and tosses the family around like rag dolls that the tension breaks and laughter erupts.

Those kind of moments in life give us a breather from a harsh reality long enough to gather strength; they are the moments that have us rolling on the couch the next day when we’re hung over on emotion.

And, those kinds of moments can turn up for the characters in our stories, as they face struggles, as well.

Ebenbach’s stress on balance in our writing gives me a broader perspective as I tackle more of this new draft, as I rearrange scenes in the novel, add new details, and weave the dark and light of emotion throughout the pages. I can’t throw in a humorous scene for the sake of “a breather” — every scene must still drive the plot forward. Yet, I shouldn’t be afraid to see the lighter side of a character’s life, even a character in pain.

*****

Ebenbach, David Harris. “Writing Toward the Light.” The Writer. December 2010: 15-16. Print.

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Keeping It Short

It’s Wednesday’s Word, and you know what that means: write something – an essay, poem, or flash fiction – based on Wordsmith.org’s word of the day and post it by midnight. Past results from this fun writing exercise can be found under Wednesday’s Word on the sidebar to the right.

~

There’s a lot to be done on the day before Thanksgiving.

Clean the house, tame the laundry, stock up on books and movies from the library. Bake a few pies, wave to the neighbors, watch the sky for signs of snow. Nevermind that it’s Wednesday, and I’m supposed to be writing.

Today’s word from Wordsmith.org:

shamus. noun. 1. A private detective. 2. A police officer

With all that’s going on in the next few days, I’m keeping this short and sweet.


An Eye for Detail

Eddie oozed “Detective.” He stood six feet tall, with broad shoulders. His hair was thick and his stare heavy. He approached everyone with the same suspicious eye.

He’d been studying the skinny kid in the corner of the room for the last ten minutes: the hair was disheveled, the hands shifted in and out of pockets, and the air smelled of stale booze. Eddie moved in.

“Robert McKenny?” he asked.

“Yes sir,” the kid stood up straight. At least the kid had that going for him.

“You were out last night.” Eddie said.

“Yes sir. To a bar. Just until midnight.” He brushed his hair out of his face.

“The bar on Fifth Street?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, yes. Sir.”

Eddie took a step closer to Robert. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“No sir!” Robert pressed his back to the wall.

“That shop was robbed twice last month,” Eddie scowled.

“Twice? What? I…no! It wasn’t me!”

Eddie’s wife, Myrna, appeared from around the corner and slapped Eddie on the shoulder.

“Oh, Eddie,” she said, “you act like he’s been brought in for questioning. Let the boy alone. Go make another pot of coffee.”

Myrna hugged Robert and kissed his cheek. “Don’t let your uncle intimidate you, dear. He doesn’t know how to drop the Detective routine.”

She’s too soft, Eddie thought, as he walked into the kitchen. He stood at the sink, with his hands behind his back, and stared out the bay window that faced their back yard. He and Myrna were hosting Thanksgiving this year, and Eddie didn’t like it. He didn’t like the crowd, the small talk, all that gratitude.

He thought maybe a walk outside would do him some good. Just before he turned away from the window, he saw movement. The dried stalks of Myrna’s wildflowers swayed and fell over in succession as something made its way across her garden. The sun was almost out of sight, and the lack of light made it difficult for Eddie to see clearly. He slipped out the back door.

From the patio, he made out the shape of a round mass that inched its way towards the corner of their house. Eddie was glad he decided to wear his moccasins for the family gathering. Myrna had waved him off in disgust when he put them on that morning, calling them “slippers, for crying out loud.” But, Eddie didn’t need formality; he needed stealth.

He slid along the side of the house, around the bay window, and stopped a few feet from the corner. The mass was gray, furry, and it was digging. Myrna won’t like that, Eddie thought. He peered down at the animal and took one more step, one step too many. A stick cracked, the animal turned, and two yellow eyes bored up at him. It hissed and it waddled – too fast – towards Eddie.

He stumbled backwards, turned and ran. Inside, he slammed the back door. He was gasping for breath.

Myrna stood in the back hall with a large knife in one hand and a fork in the other. “Eddie! I was carving the turkey and I heard such a ruckus.” She flipped the light switch with her elbow.

“A monster, Myrna! Rabid!”

“What in Heaven’s name are you talking about, Eddie, and why are you shivering?”

“I was outside. I forgot my jacket.” He held Myrna’s shoulders and whispered, close. “In the garden. I saw it from the window. I stepped outside. It lunged at me.”

Myrna cocked her head. “Here, take these.” She handed him the knife and fork. “Where’s the flashlight?”

“You can’t go out there! Look at you, savory juices dripping from your hands. It’ll eat you alive!”

Myrna marched past him. He poked his head out the door and watched the flashlight beam bounce across the yard. He cupped his hands around his mouth.

“In the corner,” he whispered.

He heard a rustle, then a hiss, and Myrna was back on the patio in a second. She was laughing.

“A badger, Eddie, a badger!” She pushed him inside and shut the door. “Look at you, so frightened. All those people out there have no idea.” She kissed him on the lips and swathed Eddie in mixture of Thanksgiving and comfort.

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