NaBloPoMo#14 The Air Force and Daffodils

An USAF C-54 Skymaster (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Royal portable typewriter (Photo credit: alexkerhead)

My first story was written  by hand and then typed on a small, Royal portable typewriter.  I lived in Spain at that time, in an apartment  just outside the gate of Torrejon Air Base. My husband was in the U.S. Air Force and with our children we lived in a three-bedroom, second-floor apartment. My story was based on my experience of living the nomadic military life and my concern about its effect on our children. At that time, we had a son and a daughter; later we had another son and another daughter.

My first title to that story written in Spain, was “A Home for Jimmy.”  It has not been published. Markets for that type of story changed before I had a chance to offer it for publication.  When I entered it in a contest, I titled it “The Air Force and Daffodils.”

Still in my files, this story has a home somewhere — perhaps it will help fill the pages
of a collection of Short Stories by Freeda Baker Nichols.   That’s my aim. 🙂

http://www.blogher.com/blogher-topics/blogging-social-media/nablopomo

Which One Am I— a Blogger or a Writer?

parts of a short story-in-progress . . .

Red coals glow among gray ashes in the fireplace. A log tumbles and sparks flame into an orange blaze. Suddenly the room is filled with a warm, tranquil atmosphere. I don’t feel warm or calm, right now.  But I realize why I came back to San Saba.  I came to end something . . . so that I can begin my life anew.  Without Whit.

From this day forward . . . without you, Whit Langley,  I promise–I’ll get by.

© Copyright, 2013 Freeda Baker Nichols

(from my short story or novelette)

(Images are from Wikipedia , through  Zemanta)

Quoting the Experts

“No writer sitting down at his typewriter can be absolutely sure what will emerge.” Quote by Foster-Harris, from The Basic Patterns of Plot, the University of Oklahoma Press.

The small hardback copy has a wealth of information that has continually inspired me. Out of print now, my copy I treasure and still love reading it.

Recently, a minor character in my short story (or novelette)  took on a mind of her own and was conversing quite beautifully with the protagonist. “Whoa!” my critique group said.  They advised deleting part of her conversation, changing it in a major way. That’s my favorite passage,  I thought. But our critique group’s rules frown on arguing the point. Finally, I  agreed and worked in the changes.

Somewhere I have heard or read that a good rule to follow is: cut your copy even in the sentences you first believe are your very best!  Listen to your reader. After all, isn’t your reader the person to whom you are writing?

© 2013, Freeda Baker Nichols

Related articles

• Excerpt from my story (freedanichols.wordpress.com)

Excerpt from my story

The main character in my short story is Calypso, an artist from Texas, who has lived in California for nineteen years. The story is told from her viewpoint, and in present tense. The following lines are Calypso’s thoughts as she walks along a beach.

(The ocean fascinates me.  Growing up in Texas, I seldom ventured to the coast.  The first time I came to California, I fell in love with the blue, lapping waves. I love to smell the wet sand and to search for unusual shells.  Sea gulls and sandpipers are so much fun to watch.  Moving about on wiry legs, the sandpipers peck and probe into the sand with their short bills.  When they take flight, they sound a piping-like cry of ‘twee-wee-wee.’ The gulls glide majestically above the water.  Marine life is interesting, too. And snorkeling is still an adventure for me.  Critters of all kinds swim in close to the shore.)

© Copyright, 2013, Freeda Baker Nichols

Calypso — middle part of short story.

There’s no return address on this letter. I rip it open. A check! One thousand dollars written on a Virginia bank. From Whit! I look closely inside the envelope for an explanation, but there’s nothing. Not one single word.
A while later, Layton comes by and we sit at the table on the patio. I try to put my thoughts about the check aside for now.
I’m glad Layton is here. Does he know how happy I am to see him? I try not to show my feelings. We talk a few minutes about many things, but nothing in particular. Chit-chat.
“Calypso, tell me how you got your name.”
I laugh. “My dad once met Jacques-Yves Cousteau.”
“The ocean researcher?”
“Yes. Dad went aboard his famous ship.”
“I’ve heard of his ship. He called it Calypso, didn’t he?”
“That’s right. Dad was impressed with Cousteau and he really liked the name Calypso. When he suggested the name to Mother, surprisingly she agreed. I would have thought she would give me a dripping-sugar Southern name.”
“So you are named for a ship. Suppose that’s why you love the ocean?”
“Actually, I’m also named after Cousteau himself.”
“How’s that?”
“My middle name is Yvette, the feminine form of Yves.”
“Calypso Yvette. Pretty name.”
“Thanks. I’ve been told it fits an artist.”
“You are a very good artist.”
“So good that thieves steal instead of buy?” I try to make light of the horrible theft, but Layton is not smiling. “Whit liked to tease me about selling the seascape when our bank account got low but he knew I’d never part with it.”
“That was a beautiful painting. I’m sorry it was stolen.”
“If you’ve never had anything stolen, you can’t imagine how vulnerable it makes you feel.”
He nods. “Do you mind telling me how long you and Whit were married?”
“Nineteen years.”
“And you? How long were you married?”
“Thirteen years,” he says and looks away.
“Any children?”
He shakes his head.
“Whit and I never had children, either. If we had, I wouldn’t be alone now.”
“Do you think you’ll ever see Whit again?”
“I don’t know.”
“A few days ago, you mentioned getting a divorce. Do you plan to go through with it?”
“Yes.” I can’t even imagine how devastating that will be.
Suddenly Angelique’s red Mustang whips into my drive and comes to a quick stop. She gets out and strides over to the table. Layton–gentleman that he is–stands until she is seated.
The sun’s rays slant through the leaves of the pepper tree and brighten the table top. Angelique pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head. Her thick blonde hair cushions them. Layton shoots her an admiring glance. She is attractive. I recall telling her she should spend some time looking for Mr. Right. She always came back with, “He doesn’t exist. You’ve already got him.”
I clear my throat and shut my eyes tight. I don’t have him anymore. When I open my eyes, Layton smiles at me. I force a smile and turn to Angelique. “So how are things at the sheriff’s office?”
“Usual stuff. At least, we’ve not heard any more out of you. So that means things are okay?”
I nod, not trusting my voice to sound reassuring. Things have quieted down though. Rex Gentry unnerved me but I haven’t heard any more from him since he bought the painting. And I’ll be getting a report from the detective soon.
Angelique looks at Layton. “I have a habit of dropping in to check on my best friend. I hope I’m not interrupting your visit.”
“Oh, no. It’s nice to see you again.”
Angelique turns to me. “When did you say your Aunt Helen will be here?”
“Next week.”
“She’ll be good for you. Her sense of humor will definitely lift your spirits,” Angelique says.
I turn to Layton. “Helen is my favorite aunt. I want you to meet her.”
“I’d like to meet her.”
After a time, Angelique leaves. A short while later, Layton says, “Time for me to leave, too. Is our date at the beach still on tomorrow?”
“Yes. I’ll be there mid-morning with my canvas and paints.”
“I’ll bring our lunch and see you at noon.”
When I’m alone, I look at the check again. The familiar signature of Whit Langley brings to mind how much I loved him. Love him. Maybe he still loves me. He sent this check for some reason. Didn’t he?
Don’t count on it, Calypso.
But why did he send it? Why? After all this time. I’m getting by, selling a painting now and then. My savings account though is dwindling. I need to look for a job. Or maybe I should sell this house and move back to Texas. Back to the cabin.
The cabin and acreage would bring a good price. Maybe I should sell the cabin. I don’t think I’ll ever want to go back there to live.
I wouldn’t be happy far away from the ocean.
I wouldn’t be happy.
I wouldn’t.

© Copyright, 2013, Freeda Baker Nichols

(This is a middle portion of my short story-in-progress)

A Character called Calypso–(From the Files)

(Journal entry) Thursday, November 17, 2011, 2:50 P.M.

As I write this in the barn studio at the Hemingway-Pfeiffer Museum and Educational Center, the sun is shining.  The weather is cool. I’m at the Fall Creative Writers’ Retreat and for the fall session, Roland Mann, of Oxford, MS,  is the Mentor. Most of the attendees are writing in the Educational Center.  (Roland’s Ramblin’ Weblog may be read at www.rolandmann.wordpress.com )

One other retreat attendee is here in the barn studio, also writing.  Her name is Kayla. I’ve been here before and I’ve written here before but today I want to write something about Calypso for my short story.  I want to write at least one line for that story as I sit here in Hemingway’s restored studio. (End of Journal entry)

February 27, 2012.

I completed one chapter of the story and that portion of the fiction piece was printed in the anthology  “New Thresholds,” November 14-18, 2011.

I’m writing this story in first person, present tense, using the viewpoint of the main character, Calypso.  She is an accomplished artist who has never sold or even given away any of the paintings she’s created over the past twenty years. There comes a time in her life when she must sell some of her art work. When her favorite painting is stolen, Calypso sets out to find the thief and discovers a trail that leads her into a life-threatening situation. My story is getting a life of its own and leaning toward a mystery. New to me but it’s beginning to be fun to write.

In Calypso’s story, after an intruder leaves her house, she finds a crumpled piece of paper.  On it these words are highlighted: Her hair is brown, lined with copper stripes; she will disappear, too, just like the dew on the red, red rose at the Villa Claire.

 So, that is a peek into my files and a glimpse of my true sentence.

cCopyright, 2012, Freeda Baker Nichols