Categories
Short Fiction Writing

I Need Advice…

skak.gifI don’t know whom to credit for this fabulousness, but I “stumbled” upon it HERE. Shame I can’t get much of anything else out of the site…

I’ve been busy, busy of late. Writing more – and posting more often, which actually seems to work against me, as far as interaction from my readers, so I may slack off a bit again.

I thought I was “blocked” again, but after much internal examination of the inside-my-head filing cabinets, I think I just have too many projects on the go. So I’m going to ask for a little help, here.

I’ve decided what to tackle next, which is Part V of “The Waitress, the Whiskey, & the Handcuffs.” It’s closest to “done”, and I’ve finally located the half-finished thing and believe I know where it’s going to finish up (provided “Fictional” Ruby’s mother doesn’t go AWOL or change lanes without signaling). It’s time to take that one off the stove – it’s cooked.

My problem is, I want to know what to do after that, and I’m stymied.

Do I get back at the third (and hopefully last) draft of my very first screenplay…? I mean, it’s been waiting around since 2002, and I still think there might some hope for it.

Do I jump all over the second draft of my first finished novella..? That one is only a year old, and although I’m not comfortable with the genre, I think it’s a good story.

Do I hack away at finishing one of the many screenplays I’m in the middle of first drafts of…? And if so, which freaking one?!

….the one about the whack-job bisexual rich girl with the wicked weird life, which takes a left-turn part-way through when the viewer realizes it’s not even about her, but about her ultra-fave girlfriend…?

….or the one about the two brothers who hate each other, only to discover they just don’t know each other, which sounds boring when it’s put that way, but really is an interesting story, especially when one considers the working title, which is “Billy the Jerk”…?

….or the freaky-deaky horrorish one about the ancient witchy broad who can control the weather and turn people into sand when she’s pissed at them…?

….or the fuzzy little romantic comedy, if only because it’d probably take less than a week to write…?

Or…

Do I bite a bitter bullet, and delve deep into a once-dear-to-me past project and change the format from a situation comedy into either a novel or a feature-length made-for-tv movie – a project that I’ve been avoiding working on because I’m nervous it will send me down that nasty rabbit-hole of depression I fought so hard to crawl out of a while back…?

A little help from my friends would be much appreciated, guys. What are your thoughts?

Random Song-for-the-Day: “Too Much Love Will Kill You” – Queen

Categories
Oh Mother...!

Great Aunt Emma

"Emma's Knight"Taken October 20, 2007 with Canon PowerShot A550
“Emma’s Knight”
Taken October 20, 2007 with Canon PowerShot A550

I must apologize to the memory of my Great Aunt Emma, for this horrible photo of her painting. It’s a water-colour, framed behind glass, hanging in an awkward niche in my parents’ small space. To get the shot at all, I had to jam myself between the fake gas fireplace and the stereo stand, straddling something or other – it might have been a speaker; I don’t remember. I imagine Emma, if she could somehow see them, would marvel at both the fireplace and the electronics in the stand, not to mention the annoying blinds that caused me problems with the reflection shining on her painting, 70-odd years after her death.

The knight in the painting is Emma’s depiction of a Crusader, having his sword blessed before setting off to convert the heathenish sinners into unwavering faith in a God they’d never heard of.

And if you can’t convert ’em, hell – run ’em through.

When I was little, I used to stare at Emma’s painting for hours at a time. I thought, then, that it was Joan of Arc. I used to imagine that maybe Emma felt a little like Joan: misunderstood… ostracized… martyred. Well… “martyred”, I guess, came later for Emma.

She was my mother’s father’s sister, one of three. As you can see, Emma was an artistic soul, at a time and in a place where that was unusual. The time was the late 1800’s or early 1900’s, and the place was a teeny-tiny farming community on the Manitoulin Island – a community of hard-working, God-fearing, good people. “Haweaters”, they still proudly call themselves, and I’m just as proud to be descended from them.

Emma was a “difficult” girl. She was not exactly… dependable. Her moods were sometimes… erratic. Her actions often confused people.

Sometimes, she could be extremely morose. Depressed. Her family worried over her. At other times, she became violently angry, and frightened them. There were days that she was giddy, and loud, or just plain “odd”. There were also days, and weeks, and probably whole months at a stretch that she was just plain “Emma, herself”, and they would be relieved and nervous at the same time, wondering which Emma would be there next, and hoping by some miracle that her “fits” had passed for good this time.

My mother believes, now, that Emma might have had Bi-Polar Disorder, or what at one time was called Manic Depression. I think my mother might be right, but that was an unheard-of condition way back then. And I’m guessing you have a pretty good idea where Emma ended up.

It must have been a difficult decision, sending her away. Committing her to an asylum. The Nut House. Booby Hatch, Funny Farm, Loony Bin. Horrible, terrible names, I know. Back then, though, they were horrible, terrible places to be “institutionalized” – places where, if you were shut up into them, whether by your family, or by a magistrate, you would be shut up with other people that may very well have started out with troubles similar to yours, but over time had really been driven literally mad. By the time you met your fellow inmates, most would be dangerous, psychotic, unrecognizable versions of themselves. And you would probably end up the same way. And back then, they almost never let you out.

Emma’s sisters, Marjorie and Lavinia, would go and visit her when they could afford the trip to Toronto. Sometimes, she didn’t care if she saw them or not. Maybe during those times, she didn’t realize who they were. But there were also visits when Emma was “Emma, herself”, her perfectly normal “self”, the sister they loved. Those visits were especially hard for Marj and Vine, because Emma would cry, and beg them to please, please, just let her come home. She hated it in the asylum. The other patients frightened her. She was going crazy. Please, please, just take her home. But they couldn’t take her home, and they would have to say good-bye and leave her in that awful place, alone.

After awhile, they didn’t visit anymore.

Emma died some time during the Great Depression. My mother doesn’t know if she was still in that asylum or not, but she was still in Toronto when she died. No one had any money then. No one could afford to travel.

There was a man who came from the Manitoulin, who lived in Toronto at the time. He saw Emma’s obituary in the newspaper, and recognizing the family name, he decided to go to the funeral. He knew Emma’s people, and he wanted to give his condolences. He wasn’t able to.

He was the only person there.

Not-So-Random Song for the Day: “Eleanor Rigby” – The Beatles