Writer In Motion Forum

I'd like to thank Izzy Varju, Susan Burdorf, Tyler Zeoli and Jeni Chappelle for their CP and editing skills on this project. I have enjoyed reading the stories by the other writers-in-motion. Some were incredibly original, some were lyrical, some stirred heart memories. I wish everyone the best in their writing endeavors.

Thank you to Izzy and Susan for critiquing my story. Here is my week 3 revision.



Hartley didn't trust the air mattress. He'd swept the rough wooden floor free of dirt and dead bugs as best he could and spread a tarp on it, but still. Air mattresses had a way of springing a leak just when you'd snuggled in and gotten comfortable. He'd purchased a cheap sleeping bag that he'd laid atop it. It wasn't the Hilton, but it would do.
                                                                                                     
Outside, daylight lingered but crickets were already scrubbing their wings together. Some called it night music, the racket they made; Hartley called it a bunch of horny insects. He was a city boy at heart, always would be. Well, suburbs anyway. That's all he'd ever wanted: a nice house in the right neighborhood, decent cars in the garage, a family. Same thing his old man had. Same thing everyone said he was supposed to want.

White smoke from a cigarette he'd placed on the card table drifted through the open door. Hartley couldn't bring himself to actually smoke the damn thing and the smell was making him sick. He'd quit a ten-year habit seven years ago. Janie had been on him.
 
"We've got a son now," she said. "Do it for him." So he had. He'd given up cigarettes for Hartley Junior and Janie and the family life everyone told him he was supposed to have.

Except he didn't have a family anymore. Janie had up and left him for a woman she'd met on the internet. And don't that beat all? Don't that just take the fucking cake? He'd come home from work and there was a handwritten note, discarded clothes thrown about the bedrooms and money missing from his bank account. Just like that, Hartley was erased from his own life.
 
His grandfather had called this place The Lighthouse. It was an old wood cabin Granddad had covered in stucco and that his father always said he would restore and never did. When the sun set the whole building would light up, glow soft and golden. Looked like the kind of place that could lead a man home. Keep him from dashing himself against the rocks.

It was the first place he'd thought of when he needed to get away, when he knew he couldn't stay in that house haunted by scented candles, throw pillows and Thomas Kinkade paintings a minute longer. He'd considered ripping and shattering them all, just leaving them torn and smashed on the floor as if a thief had broken in, rifled through his belongings, taken everything of value and destroyed any hope for what was left. But Janie might come back and if she did, Hartley Junior could get hurt. A man protected his child. And Hartley Pierson was a man.

He would fight for HJ. Of course, he would. He would fight for custody with everything he had. He was his son, dammit! You don't take a man's son! He'd believed every word Janie had told him. She'd had that damn woman in his house, eating at his table! Janie said she was part of her online writing group. They critiqued each other's stories. She was helping her be a better writer, she said. But the only thing that bitch helped was herself to what was his. Now she had his wife, his son and half his cash. All he had left was the sad and sorry story.

Hartley got up and walked outside. His stomach felt sour and he needed fresh air. About a hundred feet behind the cabin was a sheer drop-off. Hartley walked to the edge, inhaled and closed his eyes. His mind settled on a memory of him standing out here as a little boy with his grandfather, his hand in the old man's, staring at the mountains and the river flowing like time beneath them. The view was breathtaking, but a part of Hartley was always afraid of falling. He'd squeeze his grandfather's hand and Granddad would tell him that one day this property would be his and a man could never be afraid of what was his. A man had to claim it and own it. His grandfather was long dead and his own father had died two years ago in a car accident. This belonged to him now.

Hartley stepped closer to the edge and flung his arms wide as if to embrace it all. He swayed, his ankle turned and loose rocks skittered out from underneath his shoe. Arms flailing, he stumbled backward, lost his footing and fell hard on his backside. Overhead, a lone vulture tightened its circle, momentarily blocking the sun. Hartley scrambled to his feet and limped back to the Lighthouse.

He'd bought a bottle of Jack Daniels when he'd gone shopping for supplies. He wanted to cry and thought the JD might help. Men didn't cry. At least not a sober man. A drunk man might be forgiven for crying. A drunk man might be forgiven for a lot of things. Janie had told him she loved him all those nights--years--she had lain beneath him. She'd called it love so he'd called it love and believed it like a good man was supposed to.

The sun was sagging in the evening sky. Hartley slumped in the Lighthouse glaring at labels on cans of baked beans and Vienna sausages he'd hauled up the mountain. Soon he'd be alone in the darkness and quiet. The dark would close in on him, the quiet would be deafening and his own thoughts would gnaw at him until they ate him alive. Savage ghosts--bearing faces he loved--would chase him around the room, scarring him with their claws as they drifted forever beyond his reach.

Outside, in the fading light, shadows lengthened as the stucco walls turned from gold to rust. Fireflies dipped and sparked among the Senna Alata like pinpricks of hope. Inside, Hartley Pierson lit a candle and put it in the window. 

Thank you, Vicky! I will gladly take all hugs on Hartley's behalf.

I just realized we're supposed to speak to our editing process here. Here's mine: I don't have one. I read the work aloud over and over again until I hate every sentence. Then I try to figure out which ones I can alter so that I like them more or that I can cut altogether. I keep only what I believe moves the story forward or elicits an emotional response from the reader as this is a story about hurt. Since the vast majority of the action is internal, I try to keep the reader right there with the pain, invite them to sit with it, force them to confront it. I actually have a few less words than my first draft even though I've added new sentences. As a writer all one can do is her best and hope she has hit her mark. I leave it up to my readers to tell me if I succeeded.         

   




Hartley didn't trust the air mattress. He'd swept the rough wooden floor free of dirt and dead bugs as best he could and spread a tarp on it, but still. Air mattresses had a way of springing a leak just when you'd snuggled in and gotten comfortable. He'd purchased a cheap sleeping bag that he'd laid atop it. It wasn't the Hilton, but it would do.
                                                                                                     
Outside, daylight lingered but crickets were already scrubbing their wings together. Some called it night music, the racket they made; Hartley called it a bunch of horny insects. He was a city boy at heart, always would be. Well, suburbs anyway. That's all he'd ever wanted: a nice house in the right neighborhood, decent cars in the garage, a family. Same thing his old man had. Same thing everyone said he was supposed to want.

White smoke from a cigarette on the card table drifted through the open door. Hartley couldn't bring himself to actually smoke the damn thing and the smell was making him sick. He'd quit a ten-year habit seven years ago. Janie had been on him. "We've got a son now", she said. "Do it for him." So he had. He'd given up cigarettes for Hartley Junior and Janie and for the family everyone told him he was supposed to have.

Except he didn't have a family anymore. Janie had up and left him for a woman she'd met on the internet. And don't that beat all? Don't that just take the fucking cake? He'd come home from work and there was a handwritten note, discarded clothes thrown about the bedrooms and money missing from his bank account. Just like that, Hartley was erased from his own life.
 
His grandfather had called this place The Lighthouse. It was an old wood cabin Granddad had covered in stucco and that his father always said he would restore and never did. When the sun set the whole building would light up, glow soft and golden. Looked like the kind of place that could lead a man home. Keep him from dashing himself against the rocks.

It was the first place he'd thought of when he needed to get away, when he knew he couldn't stay in that house haunted by scented candles, throw pillows and Thomas Kinkade paintings a minute longer. He'd considered ripping and shattering them all, just leaving them torn and smashed on the floor as if a thief had broken in, rifled through his belongings, taken everything of value and destroyed any hope for what was left. But Janie might come back and if she did, Hartley Junior could get hurt. A man protected his child. And Hartley Pierson was a man.

He would fight for HJ. Of course, he would. He would fight for custody with everything he had. He was his son, dammit! You don't take a man's son! He'd believed every word Janie had told him. She'd had that damn woman in his house, eating at his table! Janie said she was part of her online writing group. They critiqued each other's stories. She was helping her be a better writer, she said. But the only thing that bitch helped was herself to what was his. Now she had his wife, his son and half his money and all he had was the sad and sorry story.

Hartley got up and walked outside. His stomach felt sour and he needed fresh air. About a hundred feet behind the cabin was a sheer drop-off.  Hartley walked to the edge, inhaled and closed his eyes. He remembered standing out here as a little boy with his grandfather, his hand in the old man's, staring at the mountains and the river forever flowing like time beneath them. The view was breathtaking, but a part of Hartley was always afraid of falling. He'd squeeze his grandfather's hand and Granddad would tell him that one day this property would be his and a man could never be afraid of what was his. A man had to claim it and own it. His grandfather was long dead and his own father had died two years ago in a car accident. This belonged to him now.

Hartley stepped closer to the edge and flung his arms wide as if to embrace it all. He swayed, his ankle turned and loose rocks skittered out from beneath his shoe. Terrified, arms flailing, he stumbled backward, lost his footing and fell hard on his backside. Overhead, a lone vulture tightened its circle, momentarily blocking the sun. Hartley scrambled to his feet and limped back to the Lighthouse.

He'd bought a bottle of Jack Daniels when he'd gone shopping for supplies. He wanted to cry and thought the JD might help. Men didn't cry. At least not a sober man. A drunk man might be forgiven for crying. A drunk man might be forgiven for a lot of things. Janie had told him she loved him all those nights--years--she had lain beneath him. She'd called it love so he'd called it love and believed it like a good man was supposed to.

The sun was sagging in the evening sky. Hartley slumped in the Lighthouse glaring at labels on cans of baked beans and Vienna sausages he had hauled up the mountain. Soon he would be alone in the darkness and quiet. The dark would close in on him, the quiet would be deafening and his own thoughts would gnaw at him until they ate him alive. Savage ghosts--bearing faces he loved--would chase him around the room, scarring him with their claws as they drifted forever beyond his reach.

Outside, in the fading light, shadows lengthened as the stucco walls turned from gold to rust. Fireflies sparked among the Senna Alata like pinpricks of hope. Inside, Hartley Pierson lit a candle and put it in the window.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

I knocked my first draft out quickly. It just seemed to flow as if I were there with Hartley, experiencing what he felt (I love when that happens). But I think I will be among the last each week to post my revisions simply because that is the hardest part for me and the time when all the doubts about my writing creep in. I look forward to learning from my fellow writers-in-motion how it's done.

So much story here. Wonderfully executed.

Be Elly.

Absolutely delightful!