As The Day Winds Down - A Front Porch View

Well, I am really slacking off with my serial story, “The Red Sweater”. But I’m on vacation, down at the Jersey shore and the sun, sand, and ocean breezes have taken me elsewhere for a while.
The house we rented for the week has a deep covered front porch with white wicker furniture.  We are about a block in from the ocean.   Even though we don’t have a beach view,  we are on a peaceful street with only the occasional walker or jogger passing by. The bushes and shrubbery planted along the front of the deck are mature and provide some privacy.   The perfect retreat in which to nap, drool, and dream.
We arrived yesterday in a driving rain storm which lasted all night and into the early morning.
But, then, as is typical on an island, the wind changed direction chasing the clouds the other way. The rain suddenly stopped and the sky transformed in an instant from dusky gray to brilliant blue.
I made a pact with myself to walk three miles every day while I am here.   I was pleasantly surprised when my granddaughter, Bella, agreed to accompany me this morning.
Bella is a gangly 11 year old.   We definitely were not on the same stride.  It was three of my short legged steps to a single lanky one of hers.
Four of my other grandchildren are also here with us.  Four boys.  Two seven year olds, one six year old and a barely two year old.
The three boys were playing paddle ball on the beach this afternoon.  Ryan got a little too close to the paddle.  He is nursing a fat lip.  Poor kid.  
It was breezy down by the water.  The ocean was rough.  Probably remnants from the storm.  As the waves broke on the shore, the wind carried shoots of mist high into the air swirling them around like mini tornados.   The life guards called out to the swimmers with their shrill whistles, waving them  into shore.  The tide has changed, they warned.  It was not safe for anyone to go out as far as they had been.
It’s quiet now.  Their parents have taken the kids to the boardwalk.
The day is winding down.

Look Ma, I’m Writing

For the past six weeks I have been writing a serialized fictional piece.  Once a week I have posted a part of the continuing story here.  If you have been following along, you know that I am a novice fiction writer.

As I mention at the beginning of each post, "During the month of April I participated in the A to Z blogging challenge.  A first for me, I attempted fiction for the first time.  I had such fun with it that I decided to give it another go.  This time I will be writing a serial type of story.”

It’s been an interesting project.  The process has certainly been enlightening for me.
As I was instinctively calling this a “serial”,  the first thing I did was look up the meaning of serial fiction.
I wanted to make sure that I was using the correct term by calling it a serial.


According to Wikipedia:  
  “In literature, a serial is a printed format by which a single larger work, often a work of narrative fiction, is published in sequential installments. The installments are also known as numbers, parts, or fascicles, and are either issued as separate publications or within in sequential issues of a single periodical publication.”

Yes, that’s what I was intending.

Part One was easy.  I had an idea for a beginning, the introduction of a few characters, a vague idea of suspense, and a tease at the end.
When I started writing Part Two, I instantly became aware that logistics were crucial to the story line.
Questions like, “Wait a minute,  where did I leave Rachel in part one?”  “How old are Rachel and her sister when the story takes place?”  “When were they born?”  “Let’s see that must make their mother…”
I couldn’t keep all this straight in my head, especially if the story was going to continue for weeks, so I started a word doc with a list of characters, their birth dates, relationship to one another, etc.  Like I said, I am learning as I go and this one was an important lesson.  As I continued on with each part, my word doc became more detailed and a reference document.

One of the most fascinating experiences for me was how immersed I became.  As I was writing, and thinking and plotting,  my imagination grabbed me and plopped me right into the middle of the story.

I promised a six week (or maybe more) story. A challenge to be sure.  Where was this story going? More importantly, how would it end?  Didn’t I owe an ending to my reader(s)?  Which by the way, includes me.
But then I remembered an incident that happened when my mother was living with me.  It was during the last months of her life.   The incident proved to be a revelation for me and it had an impact on how I thought about life.
One of the things that would have brought peace to my mother was to know that her son, my brother, was going to be okay.
The last hours of her life were spent in a non responsive state.  The hospice nurse told us that it seemed as though she was hanging on, not wanting to let go.  “Perhaps she was waiting for someone?” the nurse asked.
We immediately thought it must be my brother.  We called him.  We put the phone up to her ear, and he told her that he loved her and that he was going to be okay.  She passed a few hours later.
Of course, I knew that he wasn’t okay.  And that’s when it struck me.
I thought about all the worrying I do, especially about my own children.  But truly, none of us ever really gets to know the end of every story.  You know, Life Goes On.   That became starkly evident to me after my own son passed away.   There should have been so much more to his story.  After all he was one of the main characters.

Perhaps that’s why I chose to do a serial.  I, at least, have control of how this story ends, or not.

By the way, once I publish a part, I have difficulty not going back and editing it.    I will re-read a section and think, Darn, I should have had Rachel go here instead of there. 
But, that’s life!

Stay tuned for Part Seven of “The Red Sweater”.

Part Six of “The Red Sweater” - A Serial

During the month of April I participated in the A to Z blogging challenge.  A first for me, I attempted fiction for the first time.  I had such fun with it that I decided to give it another go.

This time I will be writing a serial type of story.
As I meander through my imagination, I expect an episode to take shape in time to be posted each week.  

If you would like to catch up, simply click on the “Red Sweater Serial Tab” at the top of my blog. 

The Red Sweater

Part Six 

Rachel brushed past Roz on the stairs mumbling, “Sorry.”  She fumbled in her purse for the key to her room.  Her hands were shaking as she struggled to get the key into the lock.  Once inside the room, she closed the door and leaned up against it.
It was now dusk.  The window shades were drawn, darkening the room but she did not turn on a light.    Her legs felt rubbery.  She slowly sat down on the edge of the bed.  With a rigid arm on either side of her body, and her palms pressed into the mattress, she tried to steady herself.
She slowly shook her head back and forth and began to cry.  She turned and crawled on all fours up to the head of the bed.  She sank down onto a pillow, pulled her knees up and hugged them tightly into her chest.  She tried to make sense of it all.  She had many questions and most of them began with “why”.
Earlier in the day, mid morning, right after breakfast, Rachel got into her rental car, typed an address into the car’s navigation system and started on her journey.  She wasn’t sure what to expect, but she felt she had no other choice.   The weight of uncertainty was suffocating.  Her episodes of panic and anxiety were becoming more frequent and intense.
Evie told her she was becoming obsessed with the whole thing.
“You should move on, Rach.   Dwelling on the past is not helping.”
She hated when Evie talked about moving on.  What would she know about it?
That’s not fair, Rachel thought.  Evie has been through difficult periods.  She knew her sister was only trying to help.
According to the GPS she would arrive at her destination in less than two hours.  During the first part of the trip she traveled on rural single lane roads.   Under different circumstances she would have been able to appreciate sitings of long neck herons as they skillfully tip toed their way through scenic grassy marshes.
This morning, though, her thoughts were narrowly focused.
Rachel vividly remembered the day she found the document.
It was a Sunday afternoon.  Her mother called to ask if she would help her clean out Rachel’s father’s study.  It had been two years since he passed away.  Actually the day her mother called was the two year anniversary of her father’s death.  With the exception of an occasional dusting, the room had remained exactly as it was when Rachel’s father was alive.  It had been his refuge.
“It’s time, Rachel,” her mother said.  “Evie and Ed are out of town.  It will be just the two of us, I’m afraid,” she added.
The room was small,  but her father had made efficient use of the space.  There were floor to ceiling book shelves along opposite walls.   Two club chairs were placed in front of a double window which looked out onto the street in front of the house.  Her father started out each day sitting in one of the chairs sipping on his coffee. He liked looking out the window, watching the early morning walkers and joggers as they passed by.  His desk and computer were situated along the other wall facing the center of the room.
The two women spent the afternoon sorting through papers they found in her father’s desk.
“What are you going to do with the desk?” asked Rachel.  It was an old worn oak piece.
“I was going to give it to the second hand shop.  You know, the one affiliated with the church.”
Rachel said, “I would like to have it, Mom.”
“This old thing?” her mother exclaimed.  “It’s full of nicks and scratches.”
“I know,” Rachel said.  But, it was Dad’s.  And look, here’s where Evie and I carved in our initials, she said pointing to the side of the desk.”
When her mother tried to open the center drawer, it stuck.
“It seems to be locked,” she said.
“Here let me try,” said Rachel.
Rachel tugged, but it wouldn’t budge.  She pushed it in and then pulled on it again and it gave way.
That’s when she found it.  An envelope, yellowed with age.
“Emma’s Birth Certificate” was hand written on the front of the envelope.  She recognized her father’s distinctive script.
Confused, Rachel’s eyes narrowed,  her brow knitted.  “Who is Emma?” she asked.