Horses & History at Heritage Park. Image by reflectionsinapuddle

I photographed these beauties and a shy, yet happy, cowboy in our local historical village Heritage Park that showcases the West as it once was. If you happen to be in Calgary, Alberta, especially during warmer months, don’t miss the opportunity to visit the park. And if you find yourself in our neck of the woods in July, you should definitely spend some quality time at the Calgary Stampede, the greatest outdoor show on earth (so they say, but you have to see it for yourself )

More Horses and History at Heritage Park. Image by reflectionsinapuddle

Join in the A-Z Challenge this week … find an image that makes you think of an ‘H’ word and link up with Frizztext  Happy Hunting!!

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• A-Z Archive: A Challenge (nolagirlatheart.wordpress.com)
• A-Z Archive: B Challenge (2e0mca.wordpress.com)
• A-Z Archive: C Challenge (runningnakedwithscissors.wordpress.com)
• A-Z Archive: D! Challenge…Decisions (nolagirlatheart.wordpress.com)
• A-Z Archive: D Challenge (2e0mca.wordpress.com)
• A-Z Archive: D Challenge (runningnakedwithscissors.wordpress.com)
• A-Z Archive: E! Challenge (nolagirlatheart.wordpress.com)
• A-Z Archive: E challenge {Elephant Island} (filipinofestival.wordpress.com)
• A-Z Archive: E challenge {Elephant Island} (lifebydmagdalene.wordpress.com)
• A-Z Archive: F! Challenge…Flakey and Fruity (nolagirlatheart.wordpress.com)
• A-Z Archive: F Challenge- Fishing (motherwifestudentworker.wordpress.com)
• A-Z Archive: G Challenge-Grand (motherwifestudentworker.wordpress.com)
• A-Z Archive: G! Challenge…Glass (nolagirlatheart.wordpress.com)
• A-Z Archive: G! Challenge (filipinofestival.wordpress.com)
• A-Z Archive: H! Challenge…Hummingbird! (nolagirlatheart.wordpress.com)
• A-Z Archive: H Challenge-Hand (motherwifestudentworker.wordpress.com)

Liam Neeson, The Grey

After I watched The Grey a week ago, I kept asking myself: what if I found myself stranded in the Alaskan wilderness with a bunch of roughnecks for company, ravaged by the cold, hunger and exhaustion, and chased by a pack of wolves — would I have the will to survive? At what point would I break and succumb to despair? Of course, no one knows for sure what’s going to happen until it actually happens. But I’ve got a sneaky suspicion I wouldn’t last long.

The plot of the movie is straight as an arrow: a severe storm leads to a plane crash, which leads to a group of survivors being isolated in the wilderness infested with wolves, which leads to the predators attacking the group and culling its members one by one, which finally leads to survival of the fittest (or most spirited) of the group. Simplicity of the plot, however, doesn’t take away from the story, which is told with great detail and mastery. In the centre of this character-driven tale is John Ottway (Liam Neeson), whose personal drama unfolds, as we follow the survivors in their man-vs-wild ordeal.

The Grey poses yet another question: what moves Ottway? At the beginning, he is determined to take his own life, because, as we infer from his flashbacks, he’s lost his beloved wife and is haunted by the memories of her. It doesn’t seem like he’s got a life to come back to. Yet, he puts his rifle down, when he hears wolf howls and recalls his father’s poem, which becomes a leitmotif of the movie:

Once more into the fray
Into the last good fight I’ll ever know
Live or die on this day
Live or die on this day

Ottway’s determination and physical strength sees him through the ordeal and even the final battle with the alpha wolf. The final scene — after the credits — suggests he’s survived. From online sources, I understand the battle between Ottway and the wolf was actually filmed, but, for whatever reason, it didn’t make into the final version of the movie.

In a nutshell, if I were the Academy, I’d give Liam Neeson “the best actor” for this role. The movie is definitely worth watching, that is if you are not scared of a big grey wolf.

The Grey Black Wolf

And here is where the “wild” part of the story kicks in. Not only are the wolves in the movie portrayed as ferocious predators (which they certainly are), they are also heavily CGI-ed, and, as far as I am concerned, they don’t look like real wolves, rather, in some scenes, they look like nightmarish prehistoric dire wolves. (Truth be told, I’ve never seen wolves in the wild, so I might be wrong on that account.) They are also set on chasing and killing the prey that fights back and is not an easy kill, while they have an abundance of corpses left after the plane crash. We are also led to believe they might be doing it out of spite or revenge, and, as an almost afterthought — maybe because they don’t want the humans near their den (no pups in the den though, as far as I can tell). All I am trying to say, the wolves in the movie are not as convincing as Liam Neeson. They would get no Oscar from me.

As far as real wolves are concerned, biologists maintain the animals tend to be shy and avoid humans at all cost. As other top predators, they may still attack people, but in North America there were only two documented fatal wolf attacks on humans.

Finally, with all the bad rap wolves are getting, it’s good to keep in mind that wolves are essential to healthy ecosystems and biodiversity.

Why Restore Wolves in North America?

Related articles

• The Grey Leaves You Thinking About Survival (blazingminds.co.uk)
• Spoiler Alert: On The Grey and The Punching of the Wolves – TIME (entertainment.time.com)
• 25 Questions: ‘The Grey’ (news.moviefone.com)
• The Grey: Wolves Near a Plane (entertainment.time.com)
• Normal Movie Review: The Grey (daysofdocs.com)
• ‘The Grey’ Survival Guide: Do’s And Don’ts In Wilderness Movies (moviesblog.mtv.com)
• The Grey (myhappydance.wordpress.com)
• Liam Neeson’s ‘The Grey’ is a mostly satisfying action film (csmonitor.com)
• Liam Neeson fights rogue wolves in ‘The Grey’ (abclocal.go.com)
• From Screenplay To Screen: The Grey
• ‘The Grey’ Director Talks Characters, Locations And Protesters 

Each week Jakesprinters suggests a theme for creative inspiration. You can post your response to the theme on your blog anytime before the following Sunday when the next theme is announced. Your response can be either a photo, a video, music or a piece of writing. Remember to post your link in the comments section of the weekly challenge.

This week’s prompt is: Colourful

I absolutely love this theme, especially because I’ve got some colourful shots in my photo archive.

Colourful Ukraine: Europe Day Celebration, Image by reflectionsinapuddle

I took these photos less than a year ago, on a nice summer day in Kiev (capital of Ukraine), during the Europe Day celebrations. Each European country was represented by a group of kids dressed up in that country’s traditional costumes; the kids danced and sang. It was quite a production! (I wish I knew which costumes were which country…)

Image by reflectionsinapuddle

Image by reflectionsinapuddle

Image by reflectionsinapuddle

Going down the Nohoch Mul Pyramid in Coba, Mexico

We took this photo two years back in Coba, Mexico: people are making their way down on Nohoch Mul, one of the largest ancient pyramids in Coba rising 137 feet (42 meters), and if you can’t tell from the picture, going down is quite a feat. Here is a second pic to provide some perspective.

Looking down the Nohoch Mul Pyramid in Coba, Mexico

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• Weekly photo challenge: Down (jmsimpson.wordpress.com)

Jeannie

Once in a while every city gets a dog-related story. This week we’ve been shaken by two, one on the heels of another. The first story is a heartbreaking tale of a dog with a missing leg. The second… an unfathomable tragedy that affected the entire community.

Good dog, poor dog

Yesterday, a story ran in our local paper about a young dog that apparently got caught in a leghold trap and chewed her own leg off to break free. The dog was named Jeannie. (read full story). It sounds like Jeannie’s troubles are far from over: she is extremely emaciated, has mange, and suffers from several open and infected wounds. Although her leg (or what’s left of it) needs to be amputated, the animal is too weak to undergo a surgery. They want her to put on some weight and get a little healthier first. Jeannie’s treatment  is expected to cost a pretty penny, and AARCS (The Alberta Animal Rescue Crew Society) is asking for donations.

Update on Jeannie’s story

Family dog gone terribly bad

Today’s story was about a tragedy in a community just north of Calgary. A family husky attacked a newborn; the little boy didn’t survive the attack. Not much is being said about what provoked dog’s aggression. All we know at the moment is the dog didn’t have a history of violence. (read full story)

My heart goes out to the family who have suffered this unimaginable loss. It’s also a reminder to all of us, canine aficionados, that dogs have teeth, and they can bite.

————————————————————————–

As Cowboy pointed in his comment to this post, the article (and the organization behind it)  is against pitbulls. I have nothing against pitbulls and I don’t believe in “aggressiveness” of certain types of dogs. I believe it all boils down to a responsible dog ownership, although “ownership” is not the best word either to describe our relationship with our beloved four-legged “kids.” Please also note, in the 2nd case it’s a husky. And the circumstances of the attack are likely still under investigation.

Advice from DogsBite.org

Staying safe

Most dangerous situations

•     Leaving an infant or toddler alone with any dog breed
•     “New” situations involving children and aggressive dog breeds
•     Approaching a chained dog, especially if it is male and unaltered
•     Encountering a group of loose dogs. Like the human “mob” mentality, normally obedient dogs often become violent when part of a pack
•     Inserting yourself into a dogfight, especially when pit bulls are involved
•     Approaching a vehicle with a dog inside (or in the bed of a truck)

Always remember

•     Do not pet a dog without first letting him see you
•     Do not lean your face close to a dog
•     Do not tease a dog, especially if it is chained
•     Do not startle a sleeping dog
•     Do not bother a dog that is eating
•     Do not disturb a dog that is caring for puppies
•     Do not turn your back on a dog and run away

If you think you may be attacked
Guidelines from the HSUS

•     Never scream and run
•     Remain motionless, hands at your sides, and avoid eye contact with the dog
•     Once the dog loses interest in you, slowly back away until he is out of sight
•     If the dog does attack, “feed” him your jacket, purse, bicycle, or anything that you can put between yourself and the dog
•     If you fall or are knocked to the ground, curl into a ball with your hands over your ears and remain motionless. Try not to scream or roll around

Related articles

• Children often most vulnerable to dog attacks

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Chip Livingston

Chip Livingston  is the author of the poetry collection Museum of False Starts. His fiction and non-fiction are also widely published, in journals including Ploughshares, Cincinnati Review, Potomac Review, Court Green, Subtropics, and Crazyhorse. He holds a BS in Journalism and a BA in English from the University of Florida, an MA in Fiction Writing from the University of Colorado, and an MFA in Poetry Writing from Brooklyn College. He teaches creative writing, poetry and fiction at Gotham Writers’ Workshop, where I am currently taking creative writing 101. I asked Chip if he could do a short interview for my blog, and he kindly agreed. Some of you submitted questions for Chip; they are included in the interview. I appreciate your participation very much. I would also like to thank Chip for his insightful responses.

Natalie (reflectionsinapuddle): Do you write for a specific audience? If so, how would you describe your ideal reader?

Chip Livingston: Usually I don’t write with a specific audience in mind. With poetry, I keep in mind that not all my readers are poets or even poetry readers. I don’t want to deny anyone access to my work, so I hope I am making myself as clear as possible.

There are times when I’ll see a call for submissions from a literary magazine I admire having a special themed issue, and sometimes this will spur me to come up with something appropriate to the theme, but that’s not a common inspiration. Usually I just try to write what I think will translate to the page.

N: What are you working on right now?

ChL: Right now I’m proofing the layout of my new book of poetry, “CROW-BLUE, CROW-BLACK,” which will be published May 1, 2012 by New York Quarterly Books. I’m writing new poems for the eventual third poetry collection. And I’m trying to revise an old novel manuscript to see if it’s salvageable. And constantly working on short fiction. I’ve always got a couple of stories in process.

N: Could you tell us more about CROW-BLUE, CROW-BLACK?

ChL: CROW-BLUE, CROW-BLACK is a project I’m really proud of. It’s poetry, and the book is divided in two sections, Crow-Blue, which covers the southerner’s experience in New York City, and Crow-Black, which covers the experience of the North American in South America. The first section is strongly influenced by the New York School of poetics, whereas the second section is more influenced by Native American and South American literature.

Catherine: What are  your suggestions on getting published. In your experience, what was the best route to take? What were some of the challenges you faced?

ChL: Catherine, the best way for an unknown writer to publish a book is by getting it in the hands of someone who would seriously consider it. In poetry, the typical route is through “first book contests” run by small, independent or university presses.

Usually, the manuscripts that win these contests contain poems that have already been published in literary magazines, and especially when sending a manuscript to a press for publication consideration in a non-contest scenario, being able to mention that you’ve previously published some of the contents of the manuscript individually can help you get your work a more serious look. The best way to get individual poems and stories published is to read and submit to literary journals. There are many hundreds, if not thousands, of literary journals in print and online that accept submissions from writers, and these are usually the first places beginning poets and prose writers “emerge.”

Catherine: How do you feel about self publishing now that companies like Amazon and Apple make it possible to do?

ChL: Another good question. I think electronic books and the ability to distribute them through Amazon, Apple and other outlets allow for a lot more writers to have access to sharing their words/works, and there are several well-known examples of these self-published titles getting such a record of sales and recommendations that they catch on to big presses and get the book put into ‘print.’

The drawback [of self-publishing] is advertising and distribution. If a writer self-publishes, how does he/she let the world know that the book exists. Traditional press publishing comes with some plan of media promotion and the press has contacts at bookstores across the country or world as well as access to online and electronic sales.

If you want your book to change the world, you need an agent or publisher with a network of connections to get your book to the world.

Malena: My question is about the roles of writer and author. When is it that one can say he/she is an author?

ChL: Malena, the way I think it’s generally accepted is that an “author” is a writer who has published a book. I think of the ways authors and writers are written about in bios in literary magazines and blurbs, and if they have published books, the bio will generally refer to the writer as “The author of __.”  Or “Jane Doe has authored five books of poetry.”

N: You travel a lot. Do you find your inspiration in discovering new places?

ChL: I absolutely attribute much of my inspiration to new places and new things in new places, new perspectives. And learning and speaking Spanish has also given me a lot to think about in terms of sentence structure and the ways words can combine to modify each other.

N: Have you ever experienced being “chased” by a poem or a creative idea?

ChL: Yes, there have been times, even with the writing of “Yesterday my father was dying,” where the words themselves rattled in my head over and over until I had them on paper, though the initial impulse was witnessing the ants carry the cricket like pall bearers carrying a coffin.

And I had the experience of having the ghost of a poet follow me around and whisper poems to me. It was a once in a lifetime occasion. A professor loaned me a poetry collection by Tim Dlugos because she said she saw something similar in my recent work to his poetry. I became obsessed with the poet, felt like his presence was literally following me around, and I asked the poet Kenward Elmslie, who was the owner of the building I lived in, if he knew anything about Dlugos, and he told me that Dlugos had lived in my apartment twenty years earlier.

N: Sounds like a great idea for a novel! Speaking of which, your first novel is unpublished, but won numerous awards. Can you tell us more about it?

ChL: Yes, it’s the project I’m thinking of returning to. It won a contest from University of Arizona Press, but the press had a very similar manuscript under contract (two gay Creek Indian novels) and they worried the two titles would compete with each other. My agent at the time didn’t want me to sell it to a university press, so we agreed not to publish it with Univ. of Arizona. It won another contest as a short story collection, because much of the novel had been published as short stories, but the contest press said they thought it was a novel and not a story collection, so they withdrew it from consideration. I took a lot of the material and turned them into poems that went into my first poetry book, and lent its title, MUSEUM OF FALSE STARTS. But I worked so hard taking it apart that when Univ. of Oklahoma asked me if they could read and consider it a few years ago, I felt it was unpresentable. Now I have it in mind to see if I can put it back together again. Wish me luck.

N: Good luck with your novel! I would really like to read it some time.

N: We often hear that a writer has to ”show-up” to do his or her work. But what about talent? Do you think it can be taught?

ChL: I think talent can be taught. Ideas can be nurtured and texts can be studied as examples. I don’t think any writer starts out great. It takes practice and practice and practice and practice, and then editing and editing and editing and editing. I don’t think it takes any special gene or gift to make something artful, but it’s not easy. It takes showing up for the work and the prewriting (of reading) and postwriting (of editing). I absolutely believe that everything I know about writing has been either taught to me by my mentors and professors or has been taught to me by the authors of the books I read.

N: What was the best piece of advice you received from your mentors? And what is the best piece of advice you can give to your students and aspiring writers?

ChL: The best piece of writing advice I received was from poet/novelist/memoirist Linda Hogan, who remains my all-time favorite writer in any genre. She told us in a fiction workshop to always try and “write two pages past what you think is the end of the story.” I particularly had the tendency to end the story right before the punchline, so it was good advice for me.

My advice to aspiring writers: Read good literature and study it. Don’t give up.

N: Once again, thank you very much for the interview! Maybe you could share with our readers one of your favourite poems by Chip Livingston?

ChL: My favorite poem so far is from my first book. It was first published in Ploughshares literary magazine.

Burn
poem by Chip Livingston

That owl was an omen
Driving home from the airport
Not once but twice
It rose in my headlights
From rain black asphalt
Great white wings nearly touching
Windshield wipers    that low flying escort
Stretching sixty miles toward Alabama
The owl was always right
Something died and something else
Was just about to
I checked my daughter’s red-eye slumber
In the rearview mirror
No need to worry her with divination
An hour drive delayed by rain
And now this trepidation on the slick black road
Certain as miscarried fortune
Her coming home to Mama in an autumn storm
And no such thing as California
Just a red clay creekbed down the road
From the house I birthed her in
Filling up to bathe away a sorrow
Blinking lights behind us
Before I hear the sirens
Firetruck passes on the narrow bridge
Then Crabtree Church in flames beyond the graveyard
My daughter wakes and guesses lightning
But I never heard the thunder crack
And only saw the lightning white of dreaded wings
I pull in   step out   open an umbrella
Stand with the firemen    watch the frame fall down
The Marshall asks if we saw anything
Like kids driving away in a four-wheeler
They found tracks in the mud
Whiskey and beer bottles    a gas can
Burn!  All those years of homecoming
Annual dinners on the grounds
Hymns around a weather-warped piano
Burn!  My granddad’s Indian education
Walls that heard a thousand lessons
A thousand prayers in high soprano
Burn!  Fifty paper funeral parlor fans
Cokesbury hymnals and sixteen pews
Reduced to flakey carbon tamped with rain
The death of wood and glass
And half a baby’s ashes in my daughter’s pocketbook
All the little names we’ll never sing
I aim to find that messenger again and scare him off
Litter the road with his insolent feathers

I wrote this short story for my creative writing class. The rule was to use an opening line suggested by the instructor. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

———————————————————————————————

Chris began to question the wisdom of this trip. First, nothing went to plan. Second, his plane crashed.

It all came back to him now: the smell of burning rubber in the cabin, shrieks of a woman two rows behind him, cries for help, a deafening BANG! and an endless gut-wrenching scream above the din.

He jolted in his seat and gasped. Someone was tapping him on his shoulder. Chris opened his eyes. A young flight-attendant`s face was hovering above him.

“Are you Okay, sir? Would you like some water?”

Chris nodded, his heart still in his throat. The flight-attendant rushed to get him water.

“A bad dream, hon?” A soft voice asked.

He turned his head: a benevolent-looking elderly woman was peering at him from above her reading glasses. He recognized her at once. She was the old woman with the cat, and she was responsible for this mess. When they boarded the first time, the stupid cat ran off and hid in the cockpit among some stupid wires where no one could get at it for several hours. And when they boarded the second time, Chris was seated next to the woman, with her stupid pet tucked in a cat carrier under the front seat.

“I get them sometimes. Nightmares,” The old woman continued, ignoring Chris’s resentful stare. “I even scream in my dreams.”

The woman gave him a reassuring smile. Her teeth were white, in stark contrast with her saggy wizened skin covered with brown age spots. Dentures, no doubt. She looked like she could be 80 or 100. Her eyes though…

“Your water, sir,” the pretty flight attendant was back with a glass.

Chris swallowed water in one gulp and felt almost himself. He glanced furtively in the old woman’s direction. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but he couldn’t place it. He decided, she looked like a really aged Mary Poppins from the old musical. Besides, she had this really odd looking bag, and sticking out of the bag was today`s paper with the front page headline  “HUNDREDS DIE IN A HORRIFIC PLANE CRASH…”

“Excuse me, sir?” The flight-attendant was back.

Chris turned toward her. Why did she have to be such a nuisance?

“Would you like some lunch, sir? We have chicken and vegetarian lasagna.”

“Chicken, please.”

Now everyone was busy eating lunch. Chris searched for the bag with the newspaper, but the woman must have put it away. He ate his lunch, stealing glances at his neighbour, while she was daintily picking at her vegetarian lasagna, smiling to herself, as if it were a funny joke, her cat getting into the cockpit and causing all the commotion and delays. There were a lot of angry and tired people, who had missed their connecting flights and had been late for their meetings and conferences — all courtesy of the stupid feline. Maybe after this incident, they will ban cats, or any pets, in the cabin.

As if she’d heard his thoughts, the old woman dabbed her lips with a napkin, and said,“You are not a cat person, are you?”

“No, not particularly.”

“Are you a dog person then?”

“Uh… don’t know, never had a dog.”

“Would you like to meet Casper?”

Before Chris knew what was going on, the old woman looked around to make sure no one was watching, then reached under the front seat and pulled out the cat carrier.

“Casper – Chris. Chris – Casper.”

The carrier inhabitant was snow-white and fluffy. He gave Chris a cursory glance, squinting his bright-blue feline eyes, and yawned wide showing all his sharp teeth and a pink tongue. Then he rearranged himself inside the carrier, so Chris could only see his rear end with a bushy tail, which meant the audience was over.

“He is a special kitty,” the old woman said, putting the cat carrier back under the front seat.

“Oh yeah? What’s his specialty?”

“Oh…” The old woman suddenly looked hesitant. “He can perform… tricks.”

“Like the one he pulled off just several hours ago? How many hijacked planes does he have under his furry belt? And how do you know my name? I don’t think I’ve introduced myself.”

Oddly, the woman seemed relieved with the new turn in conversation. She produced a business card that read “Chris LaLonde, Business Development.” It was his business card.

“I must have dropped it,” Chris took his card and put it back in his pocket. He already regretted his angry outburst. Besides, the old lady and her fluffy, if a bit snooty, friend, radiated such peace and tranquility that his anger melted away.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s been a long day and I feel exhausted,” he said.

“No worries, hon. No worries.” The old lady purred.

Chris closed his eyes. Although he was quite spent, he didn’t want to fall asleep, lest he had the same horrible dream and screamed again. The dream seemed so vivid though, almost real, and the acrid taste of burnt rubber was still flickering on his tongue. Deep in his reverie, he missed the point when his thoughts turned from his nightmare to the old lady. Why was she traveling alone? Why would she bring her cat along? Wouldn’t it be better for everyone, including the cat, if it had been left at home? Cats can do that; they are not as attached to their owners as dogs are. Maybe the woman was moving in with her children, or grand children, and couldn’t leave her beloved cat behind. Something about her was still tugging at Chris. It must have been her eyes, so blue, so clear, so young, so out of place on her wizened face.

***

By the gate, waiting for him was Irene, young and pretty, beaming with joy, her lovely blue eyes deep with love and affection. She kissed him passionately and hugged as if they haven’t seen each other for an eternity.

“Let’s go home. I’ve a surprise for you.”

When they got to their little cozy apartment on a quiet street, Irene opened the door with her key, and asked Chris to cover his eyes. He heard rustling in the kitchen; then Irene moved to the living room and called out softly; then she was back and instructed him to open his eyes. He did. Staring at him were two blue buttons on a tiny ball of white fur. The furball yawned wide showing his pink tongue and tiny sharp teeth.

“Casper – Chris. Chris – Casper,” Irene announced and kissed the cute little creature on its face. “I found him on the doorstep last night. He is a very special kitten.”

***

Later that evening, when things quieted down a bit, and Irene was in the kitchen, doling out treats to Casper-the kitten, Chris searched the Internet for the news of today’s plane crash, the one he saw in the old lady’s paper. There was no mention of any plane crash on the Internet though. The only big news today was that of a cat wreaking havoc with the air traffic in early morning and delaying hundreds of passengers. One news website featured a photo of a white cat. It was Casper all right. And although the media said the cat was “scared and miserable,” he looked quite satisfied, almost smug.

Photo credit: Mait Jüriado (Creative Commons)

Have you ever killed a story? A story that you are trying to tell. I bet you are thinking, why on earth would I want to kill my story? Really, WHY? Yet, many people do that every day. They write their stories (articles, news releases, novels, reports, essays, blog posts etc.) and kill them on the spot.

There are so many ways to kill a piece of writing, it would take a book to discuss all the killing implements and methods. But the most common one is death by drowning. Drowning in verbiage.

Guess, how I know that. Correct. Guilty as charged. My excuse is, or rather, was – I tend to overwrite. In the creative writing course I am currently taking, my weekly assignments are limited to 500 words, and sometimes 250 per piece. Up until now the very idea of a word count limit in creative writing made me cringe, because like many beginners I mistook verbosity for eloquence.

From discussions with my classmates, I gathered that most of them were also wrestling with the word count limit. So I decided that “overwriting” wasn’t such a big deal and my pieces were fine. Then I read a comment from another classmate who said,”I am actually enjoying the challenge of the word count.  I am finding that the word count pressures me into finding the “best” word possible.  Additionally, I suspect that it mirrors how writing for publication in the real world works!”

That little comment hit home and got me thinking. I re-read what I’d written and found that my stories were not that interesting after all. They lacked panache. They were ridden with run-on sentences and wordiness, and I’d exceeded the word count limit before bringing the story to its conclusion. So, I re-wrote my pieces cutting ruthlessly everything that didn’t add to the story or the character and found better words and metaphors. Doing just that improved the flow and made the narrative a lot more entertaining and dramatic.

As I am not ready yet to share my pieces here, I thought I’d share a short short story that our instructor posted on the discussion board, to demonstrate how much can be said with fewer words. Enjoy!

——————————————————–

CRAZY GLUE
by Etgar Keret (700 words)

She said, “Don’t touch that.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s glue,” she said. “Special glue. The best kind.”

“What did you buy it for?”

“Because I need it,” she said. “A lot of things around here need gluing.”

“Nothing around here needs gluing,” I said. “I wish I understood why you buy all this stuff.”

“For the same reason I married you,” she murmured. “To help pass the time.”

I didn’t want to fight, so I kept quiet, and so did she.

“Is it any good, this glue?” I asked. She showed me the picture on the box, with this guy hanging upside-down from the ceiling.

“No glue can really make a person stick like that,” I said. “They just took the picture upside-down. They must have put a light fixture on the floor.” I took the box from her and peered at it. “And there, look at the window. They didn’t even bother to hang the blinds the other way. They’re upside-down, if he’s really standing on the ceiling. Look,” I said again, pointing to the window. She didn’t look.

“It’s 8 already,” I said. “I’ve got to run.” I picked up my briefcase and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll be back pretty late. I’m working –”

“Overtime,” she said. “Yes, I know.”

I called Abby from the office.

“I can’t make it today,” I said. “I’ve got to get home early.”

“Why?” Abby asked. “Something happen?”

“No . . . I mean, maybe. I think she suspects something.”

There was a long silence. I could hear Abby’s breathing on the other end.

“I don’t see why you stay with her,” she whispered. “You never do anything together. You don’t even fight. I’ll never understand it.” There was a pause, and then she repeated, “I wish I understood.” She was crying.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Abby. Listen, someone just came in,” I lied. “I’ve got to hang up. I’ll come over tomorrow. I promise. We’ll talk about everything then.”

I got home early. I said “Hi” as I walked in, but there was no reply. I went through all the rooms in the house. She wasn’t in any of them. On the kitchen table I found the tube of glue, completely empty. I tried to move one of the chairs, to sit down. It didn’t budge. I tried again. Not an inch. She’d glued it to the floor. The fridge wouldn’t open. She’d glued it shut. I didn’t understand what was happening, what would make her do such a thing. I didn’t know where she was. I went into the living room to call her mother’s. I couldn’t lift the receiver; she’d glued that too. I kicked the table and almost broke my toe.

And then I heard her laughing. It was coming from somewhere above me. I looked up, and there she was, standing barefoot on the living-room ceiling.

I stared open-mouthed. When I found my voice I could only ask, “What the hell . . . are you out of your mind?”

She didn’t answer, just smiled. Her smile seemed so natural, with her hanging upside-down like that, as if her lips were just stretching on their own by the sheer force of gravity.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you down,” I said, hurrying to the shelf and grabbing the largest books. I made a tower of encyclopedia volumes and clambered on top of the pile.

“This may hurt a little,” I said, trying to keep my balance. She went on smiling. I pulled as hard as I could, but nothing happened. Carefully, I climbed down.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll get the neighbors or something. I’ll go next door and call for help.”

“Fine,” she laughed. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I laughed too. She was so pretty, and so incongruous, hanging upside-down from the ceiling that way. With her long hair dangling downwards, and her breasts molded like two perfect teardrops under her white T-shirt. So pretty. I climbed back up onto the pile of books and kissed her. I felt her tongue on mine. The books tumbled out from under my feet, but I stayed floating in midair, hanging just from her lips.

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• Suddenly, a Knock on the Door by Etgar Keret : review by Toni Whitmont (booktopia.com.au)

Before I delve into the review proper, I have to tell you this. Don’t make a mistake I’d made when I picked up this book from a bookstore shelf, lured by a sticky note “staff’s pick.” Do your homework: Read the reviews. Or if you tend to read the reviews only after you’ve finished a book, like I do, heed my advice – GET KLEENEX. Under no circumstances read A Dog’s Purpose while enjoying a ride on public transit. Have pity on fellow commuters — don’t put them on the spot with outbursts of laughter followed by uncontrollable sobs. Don’t read this book before bedtime, because you’ll wake up in the middle of the night wondering whether you’ve got four legs or two and get all bent out of shape to discover you’ve only got TWO and NO TAIL TO WAG.

Don’t take me wrong. I am not saying you should not read the book.

You should read the book if you love dogs.
You should read the book if you have a dog.
You should read the book if you are thinking of having a dog.
You should read the book if you are thinking of never having a dog.
You should read the book if you are afraid of dogs.
You should read the book if you don’t have dogs, will never have a dog, and couldn’t care less if there were no dogs in the entire universe.

I am afraid you are not getting my subtle message.

GO READ THE BOOK!

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• My Favorite Dog Books (walking-with-dogs.com)
• Domenica More Gordon LOVES Dogs! (thissydneylife.wordpress.com)
• Review: The New Work of Dogs (thedoggerel.wordpress.com)