This my submission for the Extreme Writing Now Group,  Memoir Writing,  prompt of remembering fear…

When I commented on Rachel’s memoir submission, Undefineable Sound, I said I thought I was eight when that particular incident occurred. I was wrong. The memory of my first real fear has come wafting back through the filter of the dirty gauze curtains hanging over my window.

Clearly, now that I have been giving considerable thinking to this submission over the past few days, I was eleven and in the sixth grade. In fact, it was fall, and I was sitting at my desk, next to a window on the second floor of the Greek Orthodox Learning Center that was actually about a mile from the school I was attending.

Our school had become overcrowded and church classrooms were filled with the overflow.

But none of that mattered to me for about three days that fall of my sixth grade school year. It all started when I was sitting at that desk. Well, the fear did anyway. Everything that led up to that fear had been going on for at least eleven years (philosophically, I’d bet you could argue the time span to be longer).

Everywhere I looked, disaster lurked, threat beckoned, and doom was on the doorstep. For millions of children, the journey down the dead end street of life was cued up and readied to be a short trip. Everyone who had a nuclear trigger had their finger on it and were ready to apply the last half a pound on that 5 pound pull.

Don’t think we children didn’t know about the threat.

How could we not? All those ‘How to Survive a Nuclear Attack’ films we had to watch in elementary school, or how about those flicks that had just about every monster imaginable created as a result of the Nuke Kids and their happy toys? Wasn’t exactly Sponge Bob caliber stuff that infected us, was it?

And there is the fact that I was the man child of the family; not only the eldest son, but the eldest child, an honor that my parents didn’t remind me of, just my peers. I wasn’t called chubby, slim, carrot top, freckles, or dirty butt, yet the names I were called, although seemingly opposite in nature, had a similar effect. Big Al and Alexander the Great; two names that put a terrible onus on me. I wasn’t ready to shed my childhood for the responsibilities of adult manhood.

I wouldn’t allow myself to show weakness. I couldn’t tell anyone about my fears.

It is true that I had seen my first, freshly dead human body just weeks before my first encounter with fear. A body that hadn’t been prepped and put on display in a wooden box; some sort of morbid stage act produced to trick us all into believing that maybe the loved wasn’t really dead, and when the lid closes, it’s just the front door closing, “Pops will be back for more coffee tomorrow. Wave bye-bye to him.”

I was the first to see that old man dead. His lifeless body splayed out on his back lawn; still clutching the hedge trimmers that he was using moments before. One moment the clippings were filling the air at the hands of the old man’s artistic talents, the next moment, he was lying in the bed of clippings he’d made for himself.

That’s how it was for me on a particular fall day in 1969. Just sitting in my sixth grade make-do classroom, when I was struck with the omniscient knowledge of my own death. No vision of my mangled body. No prescient prediction of when I would die. Just my death.

The fear started as if someone had stretched a single strand of spider silk inside of my body and gave the thread a single ‘twang’ with their finger. The strength of the silk thread allowed it to build a harmonic resonance that grew stronger by the second; each frequency getting closer to the last, each peak growing taller until the fear was one lead filled shroud of dread.

I lost touch with everything that was going on around me. I was quaking hard at my core. I remember wanting to cry, but in no way could I even consider that, not in front of those who called me Alexander the Great. Not in front of my teacher.

I wanted to bolt from that classroom. I wanted to run and not stop until I was certain I beat death at the foot race.

I cannot recall any interaction with anyone for three days. What I do remember is sitting in my bedroom for two nights, looking out the window from the third story room and wondering where death was hiding, waiting to jump out at me. I was so torn by the weight of my fear and the resistance to tell anyone that I’m sure they fed off of each other.

That was the worst emotional onslaught I have ever experienced. The feeling that my life could be snuffed in an instant, because death liked to swing his sickle at the most unsuspecting moments, wore on me. My existence was becoming threadbare.

Then, almost to the moment, three days later, while sitting at that same desk, the fear began to slowly retreat until it was totally gone, and I was back to normal. Maybe.

Certain events occurred early the next school year that now lead me to believe that although I hadn’t allowed anyone in on my secret, somebody knew. I along with four other classmates, were ushered into several sessions with a “special” school counselor. Although I can’t recall the tone of those sessions, I do remember the man clearly as someone who looked like a participant in a Sigmund Freud look-alike contest.

That fear had remained locked away for many years, only to come knocking on my soul’s front door, not to haunt me about the one way dead end alley we are all in, mind you, but as a reaffirmation of my beliefs.

Life happens now. The moments passed belong to the memories that are lessons for the now, and the moments yet to come belong to memories not yet made. Live as wide as we can, and the clock will slow down.

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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Sunday, July 25th 2010, Extreme Writing Now went live with the inaugural episode of the Extreme Writing Now Network radio show on Blog Talk Radio. The show opened up a weekly broadcast that can be heard every Sunday at 6:30 EST (-5 GMT) at Extreme Writing Now Network.

The weekly thirty minute show is manned by Bev Owens and myself and will be a relaxed call in affair generally covering topics relevant to the EWN social network. Each week we hope to have readings from individual members of EWN, as well as a guest.

The first episode was themed memoirs and titled Writing Your Butt Off With Memoirs. Kim Ort was our guest as we talked about her vividly active group at EWN, Memoirs Writing, a group motivated by Natalie Goldberg’s book  Old Friend From Far Away: The Practice of Writing Memoir. We also featured a memoir reading by EWN member Karen W.

Kim’s group has had some pleasantly surprising impacts on the site, not the least being the opening up of the writers here. As we mentioned on the show, there seems to be an air of freedom in the writing. Almost as if the memoir prompts have given the writers permission to pour it all out.

Kim quoted Petunia with what is most likely the most on target assessment of what an impact that the memoir prompts have had on the participants:

So much more than just an exercise Kim. They started out like a lovely walk down memory lane, evoking some wonderful, touching memories from so many of the wonderful writers here.

But once you dust off those cobwebs, there’s more that surfaces. With memoirs like Bev’s and Alex’s you can feel those darker memories awakening.

With “sound” I had drafted a blithe tale of the sounds of the city, laid over sarcasm. But searching through those sounds brought up a deep buried memory that overshadowed my draft and compelled me to write about it.

Yes, so much more than an exercise indeed.

Bev recapped the last four weeks at EWN, the time span the doors have been open to the public, by listing the four contests we have held and the winners of those contests. In the past four weeks, members have won four books and the fun ain’t over yet.

There will be a week long contest this week. Keep your eyes peeled for details to be released later on today.

There was also talk about the show’s Producer, Correen, as she created a spectacular  Zazzle store for the network.

Co-producer, Kim Horton, was among the attendees of the show and her efforts at the site did not go unmentioned as we talked about her thrilling 55 word fiction series, The Long Road Home.

The chat room was visited by the likes of Mimi,  Squidrich, the ever gracious Carrie, and others.

Join us this coming week, and every week as we wind down the day in a relaxing fashion. If you miss an episode, you can catch the recorded version at EWNN, or look for a player in the side bars here at Extreme Writing Now.

Enjoy!

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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This Past Week at Extreme Writing Now

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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Usually, they try to swat me, but this Psycho was trying to stare me down.

Relatives reported that his mother was extremely tasty. Tied to that chair, she made easy pickings. A veritable feast.

Norman had his mom’s eyes – but not for much longer. Another chair awaited, and those eyes would make a fine dessert.

© 2010, squidrich. All rights reserved.

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Continuing in Memoir Writing with exercises which explore our senses, here are two more.

The first is to give a memory of sound (trying not to use the word ”sound”). Here is Natalie Goldberg’s example,

”I remember hearing the lawn mower as I lay in bed when I was twelve, reading Gone With the Wind and listening to Joan Baez on the hi-fi. I liked music and reading at the same time, but the noise outside bugged me.” Note the words hearing, listening, music, and noise all connote sound.

The second exercise is to tell about a meal you loved (or hated). Where were you? What was the weather like? Who were you with? How old were you? What about the food was memorable? What did the table look like? Goldberg says that if you are stumped begin with: I don’t remember anything about that meal except…

Write in reply to this blog entry or create your own blog entry – your choice. I love what we’ve seen so far.

© 2010, kimmanleyort. All rights reserved.

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Rising, she scanned the room. Everything appeared normal on this abnormal day. Thoughts of past happinesses flashed through her mind, but it was her angry present which now consumed her.

Minutes later, she nervously shut off the engine and checked the vest, convincing herself this was right. Closing her eyes, she muttered a last prayer.

© 2010, squidrich. All rights reserved.

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This week in the memoir writing group we will be focusing on our senses. I will add one prompt today, another mid-week, and a final one on Friday. These exercises are from page 6 (Test 1) from Natalie Goldberg’s book, “Old Friend From Far Away.” She suggests that you begin each answer with “I remember” and spend two or three minutes answering the prompt, being as specific as possible.

First up is to give us a memory of the color red. Do not use the word “red,” rather use words that epitomize red, like blood, strawberry, crimson, ruby, etc. Here is Natalie Goldberg’s example:

“I remember my mother bit the left corner of her lip when she was nervous. She wore red Revlon lipstick and when she ate Oreos the crumbs stuck to the lipstick. I always recall her lips first. She had a wide mouth with big teeth and her smile was all I longed for as a child.” (page 6)

You may respond through a blog post or on the forum at the Memoir Writing Group or both. There will be a special forum topic for this week’s prompts.

© 2010, kimmanleyort. All rights reserved.

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All good things must come to an end, and so it is for our series, Building A Short Story.

Eight weeks ago, we started with a 55 word fiction piece fully intending to  create a much larger work of fiction from the micro-fiction cornerstone. Our goal was to reach the requirements for a short story (1001 – 7500 words) by rewriting our piece with an exact word count doubling each time.

We reached short story status two installments ago when we hit 1760 words, doubled it once more to 3520, and are finishing up, without doubling, at 4548 words.

I honestly do not know what anyone else got out of this experiment, but I know I reaped great rewards. The least not being the fact that I actually helped finish something more than a flash fiction piece. Don’t get me wrong, I still think flash is ace, but writing a more substantial piece felt damn good.

Probably the most important thing I gleaned from this experience was the value of word economy at any level.  My freelance work often involves writing fluff to meet minimum word count requirements; whereas my love for writing flash, specifically the micros of 55 worders, constrains me to a maximum word count.

I like to think  the best prose written is where the author trusts the reader with the paint brush from time to time.  The trick is not the word count, but the impact that each word has on the  story; how well are we guiding our readers to their own imagination?

Without further prattling, here is the story in its entirety:

The Heart of the Hound

I was doing what I had been doing every night for the previous year when that call came in from the dispatcher; trying to choke back love by assaulting it with large doses of bourbon.

No matter how hard I tried to fight it off, love came at me with tear fueled memories that left gaping holes in my heart. Love tread on my soul with its horrific war hammer of depression. My essence screamed her name, but there was no answer.

Not since that fateful night, the year before, when my Shawna was ripped away from me by three .38 rounds while she was on her way to pick me up from the station. Damn that old truck, damn that carjacking asshole.

I swore I would never love again, yet every moment I live is torn by love.

The house was dark and cold. The phone rang and I choked back tears as I fumbled for the receiver, nearly dropping it.

Joanne,  the dispatcher on duty that night, had been with the department for as long as Denny and I had been friends. She loved us as family, often reminding one of an important calendar date for the other.  She knew exactly how men were.

Joanne called me to let me know that something terribly wrong had happened at Denny’s and I needed to sober up and get there immediately.

Joanne knew too much about me.

Stumbling to the bathroom to wipe away love’s abuse, I looked into the mirror and noticed that what were once graying temples had spread their influence all through my hair.

No time to lament on youth,  Denny was in trouble.

It is funny how an emergency can hold back the power of bourbon. Once in the city issue car and on the streets, I felt sober and my tactical thinking mind was coming into play. First I needed to go inside the scene and talk to Denny. Joanne did say that Denny was alive and, although Nora would be taken to the hospital, she would be fine. Joanne also said there was a death at the scene.

This could only mean one thing. Somehow, Nora’s life had been threatened and Denny took care of it. The love between Nora and Denny was legendary. Almost as legendary as mine and Shawna’s.

The drive took less than five minutes over the quiet streets, and I could see the aura of emergency vehicle lights well before I arrived. Pulling up to the scene, I popped two breath mints and got out.

Time to put on my work mask and suppress my own problems.

1 -2 -3-4-5- 6 >>>

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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“To have an old friend visit from far away – what a delight!” What if that old friend was you? The quote just mentioned is from the introduction to Natalie Goldberg’s book, “Old Friend from Far Away: The Practice of Writing Memoir.” It was a birthday present from a dear friend and I thought it would provide good fodder for a memoir writing group on Extreme Writing Now.

Goldberg also writes that “there is nothing stiff about memoir.” It is not a chronological listing of facts about your life; it is rather those memories that affected your senses and are still present somewhere in you – the smell of the swimming pool, bologna sandwiches made by Grandma, an old tune your mother used to hum. It’s about successes and failures and the emotions underlying them.

For me personally, many memories are vague. I need all the help I can get to bring those memories to the surface. Another book called “Writing the Mind Alive” taught me about proprioceptive writing or tapping into the emotions that are still being held in our bodies. This was fascinating stuff and I have done several exercises with this kind of writing. See my Squidoo lens – Proprioceptive Writing – to find out more.

Each week (or maybe more) I will post an exercise from the book to get you writing. If you want to share your writing, great. If not, that’s okay too. Maybe you just want to share what the experience was like. We don’t have to tell our deepest, darkest secrets to the world, but I know I could share how I used to pick a tomato fresh off the vine, give it a lick, and throw some salt on the wet spot, and then eat it like an apple. To me, this was heaven. So, if this sounds interesting to you, please join in.

At the end of her introduction, Natalie Goldberg says, “Let’s pick up the pen, and kick some ass.”

© 2010, kimmanleyort. All rights reserved.

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Rounding the corner, finding what she did, well let’s just say it was never expected.

“El Blimpo” echoes from the deepest reaches. Like looking down a dark hole, squinting the eyes to see if you can see! Suddenly a flash flying from the darkness the monster roars!

Shushing monsters, letting them flow outta the pen.

Image Credit: Broken Doll by popsurrealist on Zazzle

© 2010, Correen. All rights reserved.

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