Untitled, Unfinished Speculative Fiction Piece - not sure if short story or novella - 1st look - NEED CRITIQUE!

[Diane]

The young woman shuddered as she pushed against the large, splintery door. She had mustered all the strength possible to get here and now it was quickly dissipating. The room she entered was brightly lit and smelled of old books and number 2 pencils. At least she imagined it did. This was a stately and historic elementary school, albeit a bit shabby from all the years. It was unyielding to its age however. It still served quite a community purpose as a common meeting place, and the city’s politicos often used it whenever a proper photo op was needed. The surrounding neighborhood had long since fallen to the increased burden of poverty stricken residents. Yet the stately school remained – solid and unwavering to change.

Tonight it was hosting the widely acclaimed science fiction (so many say science fact) writer Hexana Steward. A fiercely proud and dedicated woman, she stood 5 feet and 11.5 inches – often looking down on all of the hand shakers that greeted her at these events. She was here to promote writing among the young, to create more like herself she often thought. Writing and reading can help you escape anything was her mantra. They provided many escapes that she often utilized. However today she was escaping nothing. She was happier than she had ever been – the flight into the city was short, the lunchtime meeting with local writers was stimulating, the menu was an epicurean delight, her drive to the school passed through several neighborhoods that sparked the idea of a new story. Every step she took so far today was brimming with satisfaction and possibilities. Life was good. So far.

“This can be your ship to untold lands” her booming voice filling the auditorium, turning every face toward her so no one noticed the tired figure entering the room. “You set sail when you dream – whether day or night” she continued. The young woman moved skittishly at the back of the room. “She’s so loud” she thought, “louder than necessary. It’s hurting my ears.” This last thought was aloud and her anonymity was instantly lost. A standing parent quickly shushed her. This made the young woman stand straighter and walk forward along the rooms’ wall. She was determined to get closer. She had to get closer. She must catch Hexana’s eye.

Hexana continued with her mundane speech, noticing and saying nothing out of the ordinary. She could do this in her sleep. The only reason she didn’t were the smiling round faces in the front row. She was speaking to them in hopes that one or two would find their own personal power in words. As she went on about the importance of reading, she noticed an eleven year old girl with untidy clothing in the second row. That visage was so much like the girl I used to be . . . What is that? Hexana stiffened but still seamlessly continued to speak. “Readers write, and writers read.” The young woman had plopped next to the child in the second row. She looked haggard and drawn and was visibly shaking, much like everyone’s vision of an addict without her drug of choice. This made Hexana extremely uncomfortable, but she knew no reason to be so. What? Who is that? The child’s parent? They both look like something the cat dragged in.

With that thought she immediately ended her 30 second intro to her book, Design Life. She knew it needed more of an explanation, but suddenly she no longer wanted to share her words. I must leave. Now. “Thank you so much for inviting me to your school. Good Night.” She quickly removed herself from the safety of the podium and whisked across the stage. What is wrong with me? I haven’t had a bout with stage fright in over ten years. Audience members began to swarm her way, her agent looked apoplectic. “You can’t be finished! That was only 15 minutes! Get back up there! Oh no, the mayor is coming over! Here – get to this table and sign autographs. Hurry!” the harried agent hushed violently while harshly holding Hexana’s hand and fiercely guiding her to the table stacked with books.
Hexana knew only one thing – she desperately needed to be out of this place. What was it about those two? She shuddered as she thought of them, the pen in her hand nervously scratching her name on a book that was shoved in her view. I need water. My throat is dry. My mind is racing. My heart . . . my heart. “I need water. I must take a quick break.” “Now?” squealed the exploding head that was previously her agent. “Here.” Taking a deep breath, the agent pulled a sweating bottle of spring water from her carry-all. “Please, just take a few more minutes to meet and greet. You were doing so well today – this week – this month. I’m afraid to ask what happened.”

Well aware of her commitment, Hexana opened the bottled water and drank it down in what seemed like one gulp. “You know, this bottle will last for a thousand years in a landfill if it isn’t recycled into something else” she said to no one in particular. She was calming down, the room didn’t seem so crowded, but there was still something. It was as if the air in the room did not fit. It’s space was off. The people seemed real enough, adults and children jockeying in line just to shake her hand and pick up an autographed book or bookmark and receive a bit of literary encouragement. All real. Yet. Ethereal.

“I liked your book about the lizard wizard, I brought it with me.” “Thank you, I’m so glad you enjoyed it. Oh, I see you must have read it many times. That’s good.” She was getting into it again. Children always made her feel better. She talked and signed and signed and talked and shook many hands. “I’m going to be a writer just like you!” “Oh, I think you will be a whole lot better because you are going to begin right now. With practice and patience you will be a great writer. I can’t wait to come to your first book signing.”
And so it went for thirty minutes. Until.

“You must help me. I want to write. I don’t know how.” That sounds familiar. The crowd had curved around the shabbily dressed eleven year old from the second row like a mini amphitheatre. She was alone, no guardian in site. Her words, tone and the sight of her quickened Hexana’s heart rate yet again. “I, I, How, um, what do you want, I mean need? Want?” Stammering didn’t become her and Hexana nervously looked around to see if anyone else had noticed the change in her speech. The air was moving again. Like the lines that indicate a strong aroma in a cartoon. Waves. The room is flowing.
“Do you have a book? Would you like a book?” she reached under the table to get a copy from the box that was brought especially for children like this girl. “No. I don’t want your book. I want to write. How do I do it?”

“Yes, yes. Writing, yes.” She looked toward the girl and past her so it would seem as if she were looking at her directly. “Well you have the very first thing you need, an overwhelming desire to write down your ideas. I suggest that you write down everything you can think of, nothing is too trivial. Eventually you might want to keep it all in a journal or note book. Do not worry if it is short or long, just write. Feel the pen in your hand, the keys beneath your fingers. Create. This is the how. The third thing you must do is to continue to read. Take in as many books as you can and visit those worlds. They will take you to a place that you might find one of your pages fit into like hand and glove.”

The girl was gone.
The aroma waves were gone.
The few left in the crowd were listening intently as if she were delivering a private lecture just for them.
The school’s principal finally noticed that something was not quite what it should have been and quickly thanked the remaining audience and ended the signing. Ms. Steward’s assistant and agent gathered her things, while she bolted for the door. She stumbled through the swinging doors asking them where the ladies room was. They didn’t answer, but a teacher who had been on the other side and heard her, pointed her down the dimly lit hallway. “Don’t take the one on the left – that’s the girls’ room. You might stumble over the sink.” He said while quickly realizing that that was not a joke. “The teacher’s lounge is 2 doors past that on the right.”

Water. Water on my face. Get with reality. There’s nothing wrong. The girl was just rude and left. I don’t know why I didn’t see her leave. I guess I was just focusing so much on looking past her and trying to make sense. Maybe I have some sort of food poisoning. My stomach doesn’t hurt. Maybe I have a fever. She felt her forehead, then turned the faucet on and thrust her face into the stream of water. Got to sit. Down.

She walked into a stall and sat down. Uncomfortable, she thought of the small couch in the lounge. She walked into the lounge and turned on the wall light. It was small, a couch on one wall, a long table in the middle, window on the right, a mini kitchen on the left – well really just a microwave and a sink with a dorm room sized refrigerator. We really need to treat our teachers better. It was times like this that she wished she smoked, or something. But alas, she had no disgusting habits. They had all cost too much to acquire when she was growing up and attending college. She would just as soon have a thick, medium rare burger with all the trimmings than a pack of nicotine sticks.

Oh well. She would be out of this city soon enough and on her way across the states to her home. Home. She hoped Snuffy Smiff was behaving for the neighbors. He had a really annoying habit of leaving unwelcome floor packets for unassuming feet when he was not happy about his circumstances. The vet said he just had extreme separation anxiety, but that habit also kept him from accompanying her on her travels.

Hexana was now relaxing calmly on the couch with her eyes shut. Sensing the time, she slowly swung her feet to the floor. Eyes still unopened, she noticed the scent. The aroma. The waves had a scent now. She opened her eyes to see those waves dancing from wall to wall. She rose to leave and then noticed the frail young woman walking into the room. She let out a muffled scream, her throat unable to release the sudden fear her body felt.

Whatever it was about this woman, she was not trying to find out about it now. She moved to the other side of the long table so it was between them. The young woman blurted “I’ve come so far just to see you! I don’t want to hurt you. But I do have news for you. But first you’ve got to help me. Please help me.”

“Help you to do what?” the words eased around the table as Hexana moved her body toward the exit. “Please help me. This keeps me up. It’s ruining my life. I can’t get it out. Please. Help me write it. I need to write it. Let me write it. With you. You have to help me write. You have to help me tell my story. You must tell my story.” She’s right about one thing, I must. I must get the hell out of here. Maybe I can talk my way out of the door. “Don’t let the words ruin your life” inching closer to the opening, “Just write them and get it over with. Write them and store them on disk. Write them and print it out.” Just about there, Hexana lunged for the door.

“No! Don’t run! You’re going to die and I’ve got to get my story done. Please! Stop!” the young woman yelled after Hexana, her words barely touching her heels. Die? Oh, no. not another crazy. “Help me! Somebody, please help me! She’s trying to kill me! Help! Hexana made it to the hall and ran toward her assistant whose arms were full with books and a bag. A uniformed guard ran toward her “What’s wrong? Who is it? Where?” “In the teachers lounge. There’s a woman, talking about how I’m going to die. I’ve got to get out of here! Where’s the limousine?” She turned and saw the driver helping her agent put packages in the back and headed straight for them. The guard returned to the dim hallway with a perplexed look.

Hexana rushed toward the car. That smell! There it is again! Where is it coming from? What is it? Not bad, not good, not flowers, not fruit. . . The aroma! The waves. What - She didn’t make it. The concrete reached her head before her feet could arrive at the open car door. Who are you? What do you want? “I want my story to be told by you. I need your help.”

[Diane]

So -

Am I spending too much time telling and not enough showing? Is it slow moving? Not weird enough or too familiar?

Be brutal.

Just not ugly - lol.
Thanks,
diane w.

[Rhonda Johnson]

Hey Diane,

I did not have a problem with your balance of showing vs. telling. What I did find confusing was the view point. You open telling the story from the view point of the young woman then for the rest of the story you do it from Hexana's view point. In a novel you can have different sections focusing on different character's viewpoint but to switch from one paragraph to the next should not be done unless you have an artistic reason for doing so and can do it without confusing your reader unless you are intentionally trying to create a sense of confusion. I don't want to set down rules about never do this or never do that because it all depends on your intentions and how skillfully you can carry them out.

You'll want to write more of this story and make some decisions about what you want to happen and whose viewpoint you want to use. Then come back to the beginning and edit it based on those decisions.

[Diane]

Ahh . . . I see what you mean. I guess I got stuck with that ever present 'narrator' in my head who was telling the story and never stopped to think about voice.

This piece was the result of a dream and was written immediately upon waking in the morning. I was very anxious to get down the 'bones' without thinking it through. I have to learn a bit more about voice and view point (and so much more, sigh).

Thank you. This helps me so much.

[Rhonda Johnson]

Gosh! A dream? Well you did an excellent job of getting it down on paper. If your first draft is this good I can't wait to see the finished product

^5

[Greta Chapin-McGill]

Diane,
There is a problem with when the story is taking place. When you use the word "was" that denotes that an action or a thought is taking place in the past. If it actually taking place in the present then that makes the story loose its' focus. In my opinion the words "that", "was", "there" and a few others really should be used with a very small spoon. Point of view and tense are very important factors.
I hope that I am not being negative, I don't mean to be, just helpful.
Greta Chapin-McGill

[Diane]

Negative can be very good (I love a good paradox). That's the reason I posted here. I need input other than my dawg (he thinks I'm wonderful and can make food appear from the car).

Thanks for the import - I do struggle with tense, voice and sense of place.

[Diane]

Thank you, this is very valuable. I'm working on the rewrite now.

[Diane]

You've definitely made a difference in my story. Thanks for the input. I'm starring at my outline now - thinking that perhaps this is a short story and not a novel. I guess my characters will tell me eventually.

[Brent Mason]

I like how it begins telling a scene setting of a school that represents a stable past to a dying community. Started with third person narration.
Agree with Rhonda and Orean. First and third person usage is confusing. You may also want to break the dialogue away from the narration as well. It gives the work more structure and makes it appear longer.

“No! Don’t run! You’re going to die and I’ve got to get my story done. Please! Stop!” the young woman yelled after Hexana, her words barely touching her heels.

Die? Oh, no. not another crazy.

“Help me! Somebody, please help me! She’s trying to kill me! Help!

Hexana made it to the hall and ran toward her assistant whose arms were full with books and a bag. A uniformed guard ran toward her.

“What’s wrong? Who is it? Where?”

“In the teachers lounge. There’s a woman, talking about how I’m going to die. I’ve got to get out of here! Where’s the limousine?”

She turned and saw the driver helping her agent put packages in the back and headed straight for them. The guard returned to the dim hallway with a perplexed look.

Hope this helps.

[Diane]

It certainly does help. It's interesting that voice has often been my chief bugaboo, even in technical writing. I guess I have this thing about being the 'omnipotent one'. LOL.

The story is jammed together because that's exactly the way I wrote it upon waking. I didn't give any mind to structure or readability, I just wanted it out of my head. So often I have had great premises, but they never see the light of day (or even the LCD monitor).

I've got a lot of work to do.

[Cee Brooks]

What I read was good but there are a few things that confused me...
1. The switch between the woman and Hexana was a little confusing. I thought I was reading about the woman but it turned out to be Hex.
2. The part when the man tells Hex. wher ethe bathroom is to her turning on the water... seems like something is missing. You then give details aboutthe lounge. I thought... when did she get to the restroom faucet? Was she relieved, was she alone, did she have to past thru the lounge, how did she see the lounge in the first place?
3. One thing I noticed is that there is no clear sep. of who says what and how? Some quotes have no end (check the second and third to last para.), I am not clear who they are saying these lines. What is the lady doing in the 3rd to last para?
4. i was confused i nthe beginning but I eventually caught on... what type of book is this going to be?

[Diane]

Aha! An assumption on my part. I'm so used to folks knowing that some teacher's lounges have the restroom inside of the lounge, not next to it. Bad assumption.

I see the missing quote between 'Help!' and Hexana, can't find the other.

Not sure if this will be a book or a short story. I'm leaning toward short story. Once my characters get talking again, they will tell me. It's a speculative fiction piece - not quite traditional sci fi - more Outer Limits or Twilight Zone.