Bruised

My hometown has had a tough time over the last year. Summer isn’t even here yet and we’ve already had a major brawl in a public park that left one young man dead. There have been multiple pedestrian deaths, shootings, and overdoses. In recent months we’ve become deeply divided by a vote over a proposed casino. This past Friday, 170 teachers were laid off—that’s right one hundred seventy.  If Brockton were a person, she’d need a hug and a double shot of whiskey. 

I’ve lived here my whole life and I’m no stranger to strings of bad news like this. Poverty and crime are a daily struggle for many in Brockton. But there are always moments—moments  that stick in my head and make me think maybe this place isn’t so bad after all. I witnessed a moment like that today. 

Every Saturday in the Spring and Fall there are kid’s road races at the local park. It’s a volunteer-run program. More than 100 kids show up every week, pay a dollar, and run. It’s a 2.2 mile loop through a wooded park. A lot of parents run with their kids (I do, but I get left in the dust—I am NOT faster than a 5th grader). For those that don’t, there is a path through the woods that leads to the 1/2 way point in the race. You can cheer your kids as they start the race, cheer them half way through, and get back to the finish line so you can see them cross. I love the kid’s road races. It’s outdoors, low-tech, lots of fun, inexpensive, and run by people who really care—just what a town like Brockton needs more of. 

I was running with my older son Owen this morning. James and his dad were way ahead of us. We had passed the half-way point when a boy in near us stumbled and fell. He landed hard, face down. Owen and I, and a couple of other adults and I checked on him. There was a nasty abrasion on his knee and blood trickled down his leg. One women offered to walk him back to the parking lot through the short cut. But he shook his head and said he wanted to finish the race. He started jogging really slowly—obviously in pain and holding back tears. Periodically I looked back to check on him. Sometimes he was walking, sometimes he was jogging, but he never stopped. 

He met up with his brother and they crossed the finish line together shortly after Owen and I did. The concern on his parents’ faces was obvious. I went over to them and told them how brave he was—how he got right back up, determined to finish the race. The concern on his dad’s face turned to pride and he said to me, “He’s very strong.”

That little boy is Brockton. Bruised and bleeding, but strong enough to keep going. 

Where's Michaela?

 

            Yesterday was "39 For the First Time’s" second blogiversary. I started blogging for a few reasons—to force myself to write on a regular basis, to record the journey into my forties, and to tell stories of my kids. I didn’t plan on posting fiction. These days though, I post fiction more than anything else.

            Last year I heard of this crazy project called NaNoWriMo. People all around the world pledge to write a complete novel in the month of November. I decided that setting an insane goal like that was just the kick in the pants my writing needed. By the last day of November I had finished a 51,000-word novel about a character named Michaela. It had a beginning, middle and end. It had likable characters and a complicated but happy ending. When finished, I had the most peculiar feeling. It was like the aceing the hardest exam of your life combined with watching your child walk into kindergarten for the first time. Pride. Elation. And a profound sense of “now what”?

            I had it printed out  and put it into a giant blue binder. But I decided to let it settle for a month so I could tackled it with a clearer mind. But while it rested, I started writing about a new character. Her name was Karen and she was infinitely more interesting than Michaela. Michaela’s story began to fade into the background.

If fiction writing was a dance, Michaela was the girl who brought me and I ought to be dancing with her. I learned so much about writing while I created Michaela. It’s time to give her story some attention. So I declare October NaNoEdMo—National Novel Editing Month. It’s time to take that big blue binder and turn it into a novel.

This week’s prompt from Write on Edge was to take break from fiction and spend some time exploring our writing ambitions and goals.

Fiction Friction

 

            I haven’t written much this week. I don’t have writer’s block. I know exactly what I need to write and I don’t want to go there. Last week I wrote a storyline in which my new favorite character Karen sleeps with her boyfriend Henry. The timing was right. The poor girl had been through so much and needed some comfort—a moment of joy in a tough life.

            But now I have this fear. Remember how the sitcom “Cheers” turned lame after Sam and Diane slept together? The writers kept introducing new characters to make things interesting. Same thing with “Moonlighting”. That show was great until Maddie and David “did the deed”, then it sank like a stone. Sexual tension creates humor and drama. What have I done? What have they done?

            Here’s the other thing. Karen was born after an interaction I had with an unpleasant customer. I started writing about what led this person to become the grumpy older woman who reported me to a manager. The more I delved into her past, the more I liked her. Karen’s story starts with a childhood in which she faces many trials, but she keeps on going. Pour on the heartache and she’ll work hard to get past it. But we know it doesn’t go on forever. Right? The very first pieceI wrote about Karen was a Christmas dinner she shares with her neighbor in the elderly housing complex. We know this doesn’t happen if she has a country club wedding with Henry. We know something dark has to happen soon.

Damn. I really wanted her to be happy.