Dean Hartley – Maria S McDonald

‘Corn Cob’

November 21, 2024November 14, 2024 Maria McDonald

Following last week’s blog post about Fattening the Seeds, I have managed to work out the rest of the section. Without further ado… below is the full-blown ‘Corn Cob’.

She had become increasingly exasperated by the time she reached the bottom of the stairs. Having thought of at least half-a-dozen excuses – from a vague malady to outright I-don’t-wanna, the scenario playing inside her head involved each one being put through a gamut of tests and scrutinized under a psychological microscope before being deemed inadequate and ineffective. No longer seeing the merit of feigning anything to gain attention, she had emitted one jaw-cracking yawn after another in a slightly exaggerated manner and rubbed her bleary eyes deliberately repeatedly all throughout breakfast. Whilst she had fully anticipated utter indifference from the parent she had occasionally likened to a drill sergeant, to have her usually doting father seemingly take no notice, let alone comment on her less-than-ideal state filled her with the overwhelming urge to revert to her five-year-old bratty tendencies; from gripping her father by the shoulder and screaming right at his face to chucking the biggest hissy fit, and everything in-between.

She ground her lower jaw and clenched her fisted hand tighter as she let out a slightly huffing breath for the seventeenth time – at least – since her father backed the Volvo out of the driveway.

“You couldn’t write me a note, could you?” Lizzy asked as her father swerved the car into the nearest parking bay, the terror that had gripped her from the moment she woke up churning her stomach and prickling the hairs on the back of her neck once more.

“Excusing me out of school?”

She pried her stare away from the window, feeling her father’s eyes on her even before she cast her imploring gaze at him.

“Just for today?” Lizzy added, her voice small and fearful.

Though her mind was already reciting the gentle reminder on standing her ground against injustice that had been instilled in her since a very young age, she stoked the small flicker of hope within as one corner of her father’s lips curled up to a lopsided smile, his look every bit sympathetic.

“I would, Lizzy, if I believe it would solve all of your problems.”

The hands tightly wringing her backpack and the breath she had subconsciously held failed to soften the blow. Still nursing the sucker punch of her father’s words, Lizzy schooled every muscle on her face from scowling as her father reached across the car console and tucked a small section of her hair behind her ear. With tears glazing her vision, her customary farewell kiss was nothing more than a barely there graze on her father’s cheek before she swiftly exited the Volvo.

Should you wish to share my work-in-progress, please do so by copying the link (URL) to this webpage.

Writing

Fattening the Seeds and Writing Out of Sequence

November 14, 2024November 9, 2024 Maria McDonald

Fattening the Seeds

The author of the famous ‘Outlander’ series of books (and one of my favourite authors), Diana Gabaldon expanded on her writing process, and the reason why it would take her aaaages (say 3-4 years) before she publishes the next instalment.

She referenced the bits of the scene inside her head she could translate to written words as a ‘kernel’.

Sometimes, all I have is a seed. And when you’re a writer, even the smallest of seed is better than nothing.

Here was one such seed drumming inside my head recently.

“You couldn’t write me a note, could you?” She asked. “Excusing me out of school?”

“Just for today?” Lizzy continued as she risked a tiny sidelong glance at her father.

As seeds need water and fertiliser to grow, the above needs some fattening up to become a section.

But wait… As I re-read the above, my mind started conjuring up further ideas on how I could expand on the conversation. Like a camera zooming out, I could slowly make out the immediate surroundings the conversation took place; the feelings wrapped around the sentences. So, after toying with placing different words and sentences here and there and repeating the process a bunch of times (I may or may not have deleted and rewritten the sentences during the process!), the seed grew to become the following bud:

“You couldn’t write me a note, could you?” She asked as her father swerved the car into the nearest parking bay, the terror that had gripped her from the moment she woke up churning her stomach and prickling the hairs on her neck.

“Excusing me out of school?”

She pried her gaze from the window, feeling her father’s eyes on her even before she cast her imploring gaze at him.

“Just for today?” Lizzy added, her voice small and fearful.

Writing Out of Sequence

Unlike a landscaper methodically planting seed of flowers, vegetables or fruits, this particular seed – in addition to sprouting out all of a sudden – formed part of the end of the section.

Yet another common thing experienced by authors (Jodi Picoult and Michael Lewis have revealed how they often know the ending of their books, and have come up with the perfect concluding sentence before they even write a single word), now that I have some semblance of an ending, I need to incorporate the rest.

In addition to writing non-linearly (a topic worthy of its own blog post at a later stage), I also write out of sequence. Before I realise, the next string of sentences I have worked out was the actual end.

“I would, Lizzy, if I believe it would solve all of your problems.”

To borrow Diana Gabaldon’s analogy, I now have a kernel, after all. Hopefully this will turn into a proper, full-blown cob, when the words for the beginning and the middle (not necessarily in that order) can flow; fluidly and coherently.

Writing

Through the Lens of Babel…

October 10, 2024October 10, 2024 Maria McDonald

Barely recovering from the emotional roller-coaster two days after I finished reading ‘Babel’ by R.F. Kuang (book review published on 3 October), my niece commented so eloquently that “you can snap yourself out of Babel, but you can never snap Babel out of you.”

Whilst I have written the following section prior to ever knowing of the book’s existence, somehow, this has become even more impactful when viewed through the lens of Babel…

The ‘Grocery Store’ Incident

The Lion's Den

The ‘Grocery Store’ Incident

October 10, 2024October 10, 2024 Maria McDonald

“When you look nothing like your parent,” Lizzy began, “something as simple as going to the grocery store could turn eventful.”

She first became aware of the slight irregularities when she was five years old. Skipping alongside her father and waggling his hand excitedly, her beaming smile had frozen somewhat as a mid-forty female onlooker frowned at her. Lizzy had looked down to examine her appearance, ensuring that she hadn’t left the house wearing a pair of mismatched socks.

She had noticed this more and more with every outing. When she was out with both parents, the looks lobbed at her father made her think of Jesus descending from Heaven. In contrast, the onlookers had regarded her mother as if she was a leper, contaminating everything from fresh produce to bags of chips she had retrieved from the shelves. Never straying far from either parent, some strangers had given her a look befitting for bratty kids running amok around the supermarket aisle and rudely bumping into other patrons.

“One day, this middle-aged woman stopped my dad and I in the middle of aisle seven.”

With her frail, wrinkled hand resting against her father’s arm, the woman had flashed a courteous enough smile. Too young to recognize that even the sweetest smile might contain hidden thorns, Lizzy had reciprocated with her own wide, toothy smile.

“I must say,” the middle-aged woman had said, “I think it’s very noble of you to have adopted this girl from China.”

“Fast forward about five-and-a-half years’ later,” Lizzy continued, “imagine my mum walking into the grocery store with five-year-old Megan.”

The sight of pure Chinese Sarah Hartley guiding a fair-skinned, round-eyed child had more than raised a few eyebrows. Drawing into a conclusion that Sarah Hartley was Megan’s nanny, strangers had often stopped them in their track and demanded Sarah Hartley to provide her credentials. Some onlookers had blatantly implied that her mother had kidnapped a Caucasian-looking child from her real parents.

“Once, an onlooker even reported my mother to the mall’s security guard,” Lizzy said, nose wrinkling at the memory.

Two weeks before her eleventh birthday, Dean Hartley had collected his eldest daughter from school two hours ahead of her usual finishing time. Usually stoic and mild-tempered, the parent Lizzy had sat next to were evidently struggling to gain mastery of his emotions. With his jaw set tight, her father had also wrung the steering wheel as though the object was someone’s neck; knuckles and joints alike turning ghastly white. And when her father finally spoke, the iciness in his voice had shot straight through her spine.

Having been alerted to a potential kidnapping, two security guards had intercepted her mother and younger sister. They had led them towards the back of the mall and placed them in separate office rooms for interrogation.

Five-year-old Megan had repeatedly screamed ‘MOMMY!’ on top of her lungs and bawled her eyes out, ignoring the sympathetic female guard’s valiant efforts to soothe and quieten her.

Distraught from not being able to comfort her own child, the usually unyielding Sarah Hartley had rattled in her seat, her voice wavering as she answered each question. When ten minutes had passed and the security guard remained staring dubiously at her, Sarah Hartley had begged for her to place a phone call.

Utterly disturbed by Sarah’s tone of voice, more distressed and panicked than when she had informed him she was in labor, Dean Hartley had rushed to the mall. By the time he was led to the interrogation room and able to reclaim what was rightfully his, he had been greeted by a new set of family members. Despite her sheer exhaustion, the hiccupping little girl latching on to him had scrunched up his shirt with all her might, her face as red as a ripe tomato. The woman sidling closer to him only bore an uncanny resemblance to his wife; her face pallid, her back as stiff and tightly strung as a lamp post, her light brown eyes considerably darkened by equal measure outrage and mortification.

Should you wish to share my work-in-progress, please do so by copying the link (URL) to this webpage.