I wrote this scene nearly two years ago and have been thinking about it recently. I have thought about doing a companion piece, but know that it is a finished story and that any continuation would only take away from its power.
I have decided to post it again because I've been very concerned with Gilbert lately. I've just been thinking about him alot. I can't understand why he ripped up the letter. When I wrote this, I remember that more than anything, I wanted him to open it.
Daily Mail COPYRIGHT ANNA BURKEY 2010
Dan-A friendly mailman
Gilbert-A poet who has given up
(Dan knocks on the door of Gilbert’s home repeatedly. Gilbert finally opens the door.)
DAN
A package and a letter from your friendly neighborhood mailman.
GILBERT
I hate mail. I don’t sign for it. I don’t accept it. I have no need for it. Please don’t come here again. I am moving to Texas.
(Gilbert slams his door. Dan knocks on the door again. Gilbert opens it again.)
DAN
I’m sorry to hear that you hate the mail. But I have to deliver this, sir. It’s my job.
GILBERT
I will take the package. I have no need for the letter. (Signs for the package) Good day to you.
DAN
(Looking at the signature) Wait a minute, you’re Gilbert Dugburn?
GILBERT
Unfortunately.
DAN
Dan Fitz. I’m a huge fan. (Reciting) “Oh summer, Oh spring. What love I sing. I yearn for Autumn, the joy it bring.” You’re the reason my wife fell in love with me!
GILBERT
Congratulations. I am overjoyed to hear that my worthless prose has impacted the lives of two like souls and brought them together in merriment for as long as you both shall live.
DAN
(Not catching the sarcasm) I have all your books! Poems for the Eastern Plains is my favorite. Say, I haven’t seen any of your new stuff. When is it coming out?
GILBERT
Never. I haven’t been published in nearly four years.
DAN
Oh, I see. Writers block is a nasty predicament. I know. I used to write myself. Don’t worry. It’ll come back to you.
GILBERT
I have no need for it to come back. I am moving to Texas where the rejection letters can’t find me anymore.
DAN
(Glancing into his house, seeing that only a suitcase and box remain) You sure travel light.
GILBERT
All a man needs is the clothes on his back. That and the fish tank that Myra hated. Nothing to remind him of the woman who left.
DAN
Oh, I see. I’m sorry.
GILBERT
Don’t be. It’s my own fault. She hated this house. I told her it gave me inspiration, the view cleared my mind. This house was surely conducive to my writing. Turns out it wasn’t the house, it was her.
DAN
Does she know that?
GILBERT
Wouldn’t know. We haven’t spoken in four years. Thought I couldn’t live without poetry, turns out the poetry couldn’t live without her! (Takes from behind him a stack of rejection letters) Rejection after rejection. This one was my favorite: “Dear Mr. Dugburn, I don’t know how you lost your sense of rhyme, but maybe you shouldn’t waste my time. Retirement is really not so bad. Perhaps your poems were just a fad.”
DAN
Harsh.
GILBERT
Bah, no use in mulling it over. I’m moving to Texas and leaving it all behind me.
DAN
Hey, don’t listen to those publishers. I’m gonna read your poetry to my children some day.
GILBERT
Thank you. (Gilbert slams his door. Dan stands for a moment, processing the fact that the door has just been slammed on him. Dan begins to exit with a sense of loss, he looks down at the letter that he did not deliver. He reads the name on the address.)
DAN
Myra?
(Dan goes back to the door excitedly. He knocks with purpose. Gilbert opens the door.)
GILBERT
What now?
DAN
I think you’ll want to read this letter. (He hands him the letter)
(Gilbert rips up the letter without looking at it)
GILBERT
Don’t you get it? Acceptance or rejection, published or not, I don’t care! The only reason poetry was worthwhile was because I had someone to read it to! I am moving to Texas! You inform that Post Office of yours that this house will not accept any more mail!
(Gilbert slams his door)
END OF SCENE
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
A continuation
This piece is a continuation of a speed writing exercise I did a few weeks ago. I used a passage that I had written while speed writing to write a "what happened next."
Next night, the man wrote the letter to himself again, only this time, when he finished, he began pulling at the sections of his hair until they came out. The man screamed in pain as a rather large clump at the back of his head was extricated. After which, he calmed down and put the clump of hair in the trash can. He then began again, pulling at his head, hobbling around the basement until the hair released.
Pulling at a rather difficult piece, the man screamed and fell against the side of the boxes in agony. This was a mistake. The box in the very center of the pile shimmied and shook until it fell from the pile. Like a Lou Goldberg machine, each box stacked on top followed, always releasing its bit of paper before falling to the ground. As the man looked up to the top of the pile, he was hit over and over again with the phrase “Am I happy?” and then the answer “yes” “yes” “yes”. This happened several times until almost all the boxes had fallen.
Peeking over to see what hid behind the boxes, the man screamed. It was a truly terrible sight. So terrible in fact, that the man passed out. This also was a mistake.
Written on the whiteboard in his basement was another note he had written to himself: “Never pass out without a dumbbell.”
Next night, the man wrote the letter to himself again, only this time, when he finished, he began pulling at the sections of his hair until they came out. The man screamed in pain as a rather large clump at the back of his head was extricated. After which, he calmed down and put the clump of hair in the trash can. He then began again, pulling at his head, hobbling around the basement until the hair released.
Pulling at a rather difficult piece, the man screamed and fell against the side of the boxes in agony. This was a mistake. The box in the very center of the pile shimmied and shook until it fell from the pile. Like a Lou Goldberg machine, each box stacked on top followed, always releasing its bit of paper before falling to the ground. As the man looked up to the top of the pile, he was hit over and over again with the phrase “Am I happy?” and then the answer “yes” “yes” “yes”. This happened several times until almost all the boxes had fallen.
Peeking over to see what hid behind the boxes, the man screamed. It was a truly terrible sight. So terrible in fact, that the man passed out. This also was a mistake.
Written on the whiteboard in his basement was another note he had written to himself: “Never pass out without a dumbbell.”
Monday, September 27, 2010
As promised, another one
This was the speed writing exercise for the night. I wrote about a page and this is just a small excerpt. I have no idea what the story is about, so I just posted the part that made the most sense.
And then Fimble showed the girl where the stairs were taking her and she understood why she had to leave him. So she tied her shoelaces, and straightened her back and prepared to walk the staircase.
Again putting out her foot, the girl stopped. She understood why. Of course she understood why. She had always understood why if she really came to think of it. But there was one final question. A question that loomed so certainly in her head, she knew she had to ask it of him. And looking at him again, she saw that he understood what she was about to ask him. And then she knew that he wouldn’t tell her. But she said it anyway.
“Will I be happy?”
And then Fimble showed the girl where the stairs were taking her and she understood why she had to leave him. So she tied her shoelaces, and straightened her back and prepared to walk the staircase.
Again putting out her foot, the girl stopped. She understood why. Of course she understood why. She had always understood why if she really came to think of it. But there was one final question. A question that loomed so certainly in her head, she knew she had to ask it of him. And looking at him again, she saw that he understood what she was about to ask him. And then she knew that he wouldn’t tell her. But she said it anyway.
“Will I be happy?”
Oh the places I want to go....
The need in me to travel is burning. With every floor I mop, I remind myself that I am one step closer to getting out of Arvada, and out of the country for that matter.
PLACES I WANT TO GO:Haiti
I know, it's a mess. It's dangerous. And for these reasons, I feel it all the more important that I go there.
Russia: I just think it would be cool to go. How many people can say they have been to Russia, after all.
Thailand, maybe because my mom went. Or because Jessica and Jordan went.
And then there are a million other places I want to go: try all of Europe, parts of Mexico, Canada, Australia. Why must traveling cost so much??!! And then it hit me: Peace Corps. Worth looking into??? Perhaps. Perhaps.....
PLACES I WANT TO GO:Haiti
I know, it's a mess. It's dangerous. And for these reasons, I feel it all the more important that I go there.
Russia: I just think it would be cool to go. How many people can say they have been to Russia, after all.
Thailand, maybe because my mom went. Or because Jessica and Jordan went.
And then there are a million other places I want to go: try all of Europe, parts of Mexico, Canada, Australia. Why must traveling cost so much??!! And then it hit me: Peace Corps. Worth looking into??? Perhaps. Perhaps.....
Monday, September 13, 2010
Fable
I usually stay away from fables because my biggest flaw as a writer is that it can border on corny. (I should note that lately, I believe my biggest flaw is that it borders on boring)...
Anyhow, for this reason, I stayed away from fables for a long time because I believed them to be a perfect lure for cheesiness. However, I was inspired recently and wrote one. I don't hate it. The beginning is below:
Many years ago, in a country that no longer exists, there lived a very rich nation that flourished in everything it did. The inhabitants of this place enjoyed their lives, and shared their blessings with everyone they knew. Food was abundant, crimes were nonexistent, and life itself was generous and peaceful. There weren’t many problems, because everyone seemed to get along.
It just so happened that none of the people who lived in this land had eyes.
Eyes had been heard of, of course. But at this point in time, they were merely something to be murmured about. Someone would bring it up at passing, or while out to dinner with friends. “Have you heard about this new invention?” “Sounds like a right nuisance to me.” It was rumored that the trend had begun in the neighboring country, though only the elites had used them.
These people didn’t need eyes, after all. They heard with their ears, smelled with their noses, touched with their skin. Their biggest problem used to be that they were constantly bumping into each other, but that had changed with the invention of the energy sensor, an object that attached to the hip and buzzed the skin in the direction of oncoming energy. It could also give direction, record the location of objects, and warn of things in motion. While it may now sound archaic, the people had become quite well adjusted to walking in this manner. In fact, watching them walk, a person of today might be fooled into thinking that these people did in fact have eyes.
For this reason, most in the country felt that eyes were best left alone.
Anyhow, for this reason, I stayed away from fables for a long time because I believed them to be a perfect lure for cheesiness. However, I was inspired recently and wrote one. I don't hate it. The beginning is below:
Many years ago, in a country that no longer exists, there lived a very rich nation that flourished in everything it did. The inhabitants of this place enjoyed their lives, and shared their blessings with everyone they knew. Food was abundant, crimes were nonexistent, and life itself was generous and peaceful. There weren’t many problems, because everyone seemed to get along.
It just so happened that none of the people who lived in this land had eyes.
Eyes had been heard of, of course. But at this point in time, they were merely something to be murmured about. Someone would bring it up at passing, or while out to dinner with friends. “Have you heard about this new invention?” “Sounds like a right nuisance to me.” It was rumored that the trend had begun in the neighboring country, though only the elites had used them.
These people didn’t need eyes, after all. They heard with their ears, smelled with their noses, touched with their skin. Their biggest problem used to be that they were constantly bumping into each other, but that had changed with the invention of the energy sensor, an object that attached to the hip and buzzed the skin in the direction of oncoming energy. It could also give direction, record the location of objects, and warn of things in motion. While it may now sound archaic, the people had become quite well adjusted to walking in this manner. In fact, watching them walk, a person of today might be fooled into thinking that these people did in fact have eyes.
For this reason, most in the country felt that eyes were best left alone.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Hadn't tried this one before
Here's an interesting writing excersise: Open a book, any book, and find a random passage. Then use that passage as inspiration for a few paragraphs.
I opened Cyrano De Bergarac by Edmond Rostand. I chose it precisely because I had never read it and have no idea what it is about.
The drums are beating, and the regiment arms for the march.
Secretly, I remain here in the convent. I have disobeyed
I shall be with you soon. I send this first by an old monk
As simple as sheep. Who understands nothing of this.
Your smile is more than I can bear, and seek no more.
Be alone tonight, waiting for one who dares.
To hope you will forgive.
The resulting paragraph:
I should like to think that guilt sounds like a beating drum. Infact, I don’t just like to think this, I know this because as I stand here, my heart feels like someone is beating a club against my chest. The man holds up a bible and I am told to swear by it. The man reminds me of a sheep. He is wearing an ugly wool coat and he follows the ugly bailiff as if drawn to him like magnet to metal. I try not to think of the letter remaining under my rucksack as I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So help me God, and I mean that part.
So help me God, that maybe by some miracle, the letter was burned. So help me God, my perspiration be attributed to the heat and not to the lie kept so vulnerably at the forefront of my brain. Thy will be done, if only Jemeny comes back to me. On earth as it is in heaven, where my poor and foolish father no doubt looks down on me shaking his head.
Curse my father! I almost shout as the judge hits his gavel to the wood. If only by faith able to move mountains, I could move the swinging pendulum of the clock, and go back and kill my father before he muttered those fateful words that changed everything: “Esau have I hated!”
Interesting results. Like I said, the random passage is meant purely to inspire words to come to you. It is not meant to necessarily make a story right away. Nothing can do that. Except for pure, unadulterated magic.
Check back for the next blog...I had an inspired idea about pink flamingos as I was about to go to bed last night. Haven't written comedy in awhile. Excited.
I opened Cyrano De Bergarac by Edmond Rostand. I chose it precisely because I had never read it and have no idea what it is about.
The drums are beating, and the regiment arms for the march.
Secretly, I remain here in the convent. I have disobeyed
I shall be with you soon. I send this first by an old monk
As simple as sheep. Who understands nothing of this.
Your smile is more than I can bear, and seek no more.
Be alone tonight, waiting for one who dares.
To hope you will forgive.
The resulting paragraph:
I should like to think that guilt sounds like a beating drum. Infact, I don’t just like to think this, I know this because as I stand here, my heart feels like someone is beating a club against my chest. The man holds up a bible and I am told to swear by it. The man reminds me of a sheep. He is wearing an ugly wool coat and he follows the ugly bailiff as if drawn to him like magnet to metal. I try not to think of the letter remaining under my rucksack as I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So help me God, and I mean that part.
So help me God, that maybe by some miracle, the letter was burned. So help me God, my perspiration be attributed to the heat and not to the lie kept so vulnerably at the forefront of my brain. Thy will be done, if only Jemeny comes back to me. On earth as it is in heaven, where my poor and foolish father no doubt looks down on me shaking his head.
Curse my father! I almost shout as the judge hits his gavel to the wood. If only by faith able to move mountains, I could move the swinging pendulum of the clock, and go back and kill my father before he muttered those fateful words that changed everything: “Esau have I hated!”
Interesting results. Like I said, the random passage is meant purely to inspire words to come to you. It is not meant to necessarily make a story right away. Nothing can do that. Except for pure, unadulterated magic.
Check back for the next blog...I had an inspired idea about pink flamingos as I was about to go to bed last night. Haven't written comedy in awhile. Excited.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Tricks
Blurb from a short story I've been tweaking:
They’ve been tricking me. The magicians in the next room. They will tell you they are not magicians. Understand that they don’t believe they are magicians. They will try to hide their juggling act. They’ll stuff the blindfolds under the mattresses. The blindfolds they use when they’re about to walk across the tightrope about seventy feet in the air. You won’t be able to hear the pigeons because they will have killed them by the time you get here. They don’t want anyone to know what they are.
Remember, they won’t tell you they are magicians. It is important that you understand this, lest they try to hypnotize you. They are good at what they do. They know what they are doing. They have years of practice.
This much I have gathered about experimentation in hypnotism. Forgive me for the mere fact that the only real knowledge I have on the matter comes from something I learned before I entered the military. It never posed a real threat to us. Hypnotism hasn’t been used as a form of torture since World War II, or so I remember. At first, I didn’t understand that they were magicians. Captives of war are usually tortured by other means. Usually, we’re dead within the first twenty-four hours. They didn’t send in the magicians for the other two.
They’ve been tricking me. The magicians in the next room. They will tell you they are not magicians. Understand that they don’t believe they are magicians. They will try to hide their juggling act. They’ll stuff the blindfolds under the mattresses. The blindfolds they use when they’re about to walk across the tightrope about seventy feet in the air. You won’t be able to hear the pigeons because they will have killed them by the time you get here. They don’t want anyone to know what they are.
Remember, they won’t tell you they are magicians. It is important that you understand this, lest they try to hypnotize you. They are good at what they do. They know what they are doing. They have years of practice.
This much I have gathered about experimentation in hypnotism. Forgive me for the mere fact that the only real knowledge I have on the matter comes from something I learned before I entered the military. It never posed a real threat to us. Hypnotism hasn’t been used as a form of torture since World War II, or so I remember. At first, I didn’t understand that they were magicians. Captives of war are usually tortured by other means. Usually, we’re dead within the first twenty-four hours. They didn’t send in the magicians for the other two.
Organized room
I rearranged my room and it looks SO much better! First off, it looks like I actually live here and not like I'm temporarily staying. Second, I got rid of SO much crap and clutter. Old journals from middle school, my broken video camera, clothes I never wear. ECT.
You have no idea what a clean and organized room can do for your moods!
Race bibs
My bed
Bookshelf and dressers.
Bookshelf. I have read most of those books. Nerdy. I know.
You have no idea what a clean and organized room can do for your moods!
Race bibs
My bed
Bookshelf and dressers.
Bookshelf. I have read most of those books. Nerdy. I know.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Speed Writing
It is my firm belief that some of the best creative ideas come from speed writing. That is, writing the words exactly as they come to you. I tried this technique recently to some interesting results:
He sent a letter to himself. And the letter contained only three words. And those words were:
Am I happy?
On the back of the letter, he wrote one word.
Yes.
He sealed the envelope and put it in a small box that he taped shut with packaging tape. He then hid the box in the place where he hid the boxes because he knew if he ever needed to get to the other side of the boxes, he would open them first. And if he opened the boxes, he would find the letters.
And then, if you can believe it, the man bashed his head against the wall several times. Once he was dizzy and disoriented enough, the man picked up a ten pound dumbbell and swung it against the side of his forehead. Though he was dizzy and confused, he had enough practice to know where to hit his head so that he would still wake up in the morning.
Indeed, when he came round the next morning, the man had no memory of the letter, or the box, or the dumbbell. All that remained was a large bruise on the side of his forehead, a splitting headache, and an inability to multiply fractions.
For the bruise, an icepack was applied. For the headache, asprin. And as for the fractions, there were always calculators.
I don't know that anything will come from this story. But I was extremely interested in this man and what he was doing. Any feedback is greatly appreciated.
He sent a letter to himself. And the letter contained only three words. And those words were:
Am I happy?
On the back of the letter, he wrote one word.
Yes.
He sealed the envelope and put it in a small box that he taped shut with packaging tape. He then hid the box in the place where he hid the boxes because he knew if he ever needed to get to the other side of the boxes, he would open them first. And if he opened the boxes, he would find the letters.
And then, if you can believe it, the man bashed his head against the wall several times. Once he was dizzy and disoriented enough, the man picked up a ten pound dumbbell and swung it against the side of his forehead. Though he was dizzy and confused, he had enough practice to know where to hit his head so that he would still wake up in the morning.
Indeed, when he came round the next morning, the man had no memory of the letter, or the box, or the dumbbell. All that remained was a large bruise on the side of his forehead, a splitting headache, and an inability to multiply fractions.
For the bruise, an icepack was applied. For the headache, asprin. And as for the fractions, there were always calculators.
I don't know that anything will come from this story. But I was extremely interested in this man and what he was doing. Any feedback is greatly appreciated.
Beginnings
It has been a year since I left Greeley and moved back to Arvada. I guess the good news is that I get 40 hours/week, I'm working at the Arvada Center, and that I'm at least beginning to "start" this adventure called life.
The bad news is that said adventure is met with a lot of uncertainty about where my life will take me, fear about not using my abilities to their fullest potential, and whether I'll ever move out.
We'll start with the good
I love working at the Arvada Center. While it isn't EXACTLY what I want to do with my life, it is a beginning. A start. If nothing else, I get to go see theatre for free. Besides that, I'm surrounded by art and people that have a passion for art.
Next, I'm growing my hair out. I would like to take this time to mourn for the suffering my hair has endured over the last year
God I'm sorry hair. Chopping it off and dying it blonde ranks as one of the worst fashion decisions of my life. If it is any consolation, I was playing the ugly card in the acting program during that time.
Hair as of now:
Lastly, with working so much, I will be able to afford to take some trips. Which is awesome since that is what I initially wanted to do after graduating. I've been looking into going on a group trip. My mom informed me of a Haiti mission trip. Also a Russia trip that friends of hers do every year. Definitely something I am interested in.
Now for the Uncertainty:
Other than travel, I don't really feel like I have anything to work FOR. I don't have a mortgage, a family, or debt. I have plenty of passions and talents, but I have yet to discover just HOW to use them. Plenty of people seek only money. Others seek glory or power with their work. Others still just pursue things they love. I, like most I would say, seek fulfillment. And thus far, I don't feel like I have EVER felt that way. That says a lot coming from a double major. An exclusive acting program. Dean's List. Academic Achievement. Scholarships. And so on and so fourth.
BTW: I have just as many failures. Try getting rejected a billion/zillion times in said acting program. Plenty of sucky scene work. Sucky auditions. Ect.
Anyhoo....I think it first hit me back in 2008. I was working in Picnic and was so happy because I had worked so hard to get it and was doing exactly what I loved. But at the same time, it struck me: I couldn't do this with the rest of my life. Because while it felt so great, it also felt so incredibly empty.
So I gave it up.
I was thinking about it the other night. How we kind of drive our lives. But aren't our lives supposed to drive us just the same? And if that's true, why do I constantly feel like I'm stuck in neutral????
The bad news is that said adventure is met with a lot of uncertainty about where my life will take me, fear about not using my abilities to their fullest potential, and whether I'll ever move out.
We'll start with the good
I love working at the Arvada Center. While it isn't EXACTLY what I want to do with my life, it is a beginning. A start. If nothing else, I get to go see theatre for free. Besides that, I'm surrounded by art and people that have a passion for art.
Next, I'm growing my hair out. I would like to take this time to mourn for the suffering my hair has endured over the last year
God I'm sorry hair. Chopping it off and dying it blonde ranks as one of the worst fashion decisions of my life. If it is any consolation, I was playing the ugly card in the acting program during that time.
Hair as of now:
Lastly, with working so much, I will be able to afford to take some trips. Which is awesome since that is what I initially wanted to do after graduating. I've been looking into going on a group trip. My mom informed me of a Haiti mission trip. Also a Russia trip that friends of hers do every year. Definitely something I am interested in.
Now for the Uncertainty:
Other than travel, I don't really feel like I have anything to work FOR. I don't have a mortgage, a family, or debt. I have plenty of passions and talents, but I have yet to discover just HOW to use them. Plenty of people seek only money. Others seek glory or power with their work. Others still just pursue things they love. I, like most I would say, seek fulfillment. And thus far, I don't feel like I have EVER felt that way. That says a lot coming from a double major. An exclusive acting program. Dean's List. Academic Achievement. Scholarships. And so on and so fourth.
BTW: I have just as many failures. Try getting rejected a billion/zillion times in said acting program. Plenty of sucky scene work. Sucky auditions. Ect.
Anyhoo....I think it first hit me back in 2008. I was working in Picnic and was so happy because I had worked so hard to get it and was doing exactly what I loved. But at the same time, it struck me: I couldn't do this with the rest of my life. Because while it felt so great, it also felt so incredibly empty.
So I gave it up.
I was thinking about it the other night. How we kind of drive our lives. But aren't our lives supposed to drive us just the same? And if that's true, why do I constantly feel like I'm stuck in neutral????
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