Freeing herself

A young woman finds the courage to free herself from her captor.

Head high, she swept out of the room. A second later, head even higher, she swept back in, snatched up the money and was gone again. The men surrounding the table in their fine suits of silk and cashmere still held their cards staring after the young woman in shock. No woman was supposed to know this game even existed. Who was she and how did she find them? 

You can do this amelia. Her breath came fast as she rounded the corner at the end of the hall and down the stairs to the almost deadly silent saloon below. Most of the patrons left hours ago and the few that were left sagged in their chairs and leaned heavily against the walls to keep their clumsy bodies upright. No one noticed her as she held the bills between the folds of her skirts. Exiting through the swinging doors that creaked with resistance as she pushed them open she slowed down so as not to alert any lawmen to her appearance. Who knew who she could trust in this town any one of them could be in Sir Alec’s pocket. Her dark brunette hair and slim figure covered in a black dress that she had long since outgrown hid her well in the dark shadows that hung heavily in the alley next to the building that had held her captive for so many years. She whistled a soft short sound 2 times and waited quietly. Hearing one long whistle slash through the air she breathed a sigh of relief. Meeting the young boy just deep enough to go unnoticed by any passerbys she took the small bag he held out to her. 

“Thank you timothy now run home and remember-”

“I never saw you and I was home with my pa all night.” The boy of 15 cut her off as she cupped his cheek pushing back the tears that flowed fourth. 

“I’ll come back soon I promise and when I do this town will finally be free again.” She gave one swift nod before turning around and walking back to the street husting quickly now as a screech rang through the air and stomping feet scurried down the stairs within the building. As she sunk down in her seat on the train staring at the window she saw 2 men step out of the doors of the saloon eyes scanning up and down the street. 

They will never lay a hand on you again. She thought confidently as the train lurched forward and began speeding down the track. I’m coming home.

For the first time in two years she felt her muscles relax and she leaned back against the soft velvet headrest. Allowing herself to think back on the events that led her to this moment; two and a half years ago when she lost her parents to some freak accident on their way home from town she had been consoled by her brother, Victor. As he comforted her following their parents funeral they were approached by a man claiming to be their uncle whom neither had met but their father often mentioned a man he considered a brother when he was growing up. As the two gentlemen spoke she had slipped away for a moment alone to dry her eyes and silently say goodbye to the people who had loved her most in the world. The next thing she knew she woke up in the basement of The golden egg saloon and fun parlor. She shivered at the memories that threatened to overwhelm her wrapping her arms tightly around herself to ward off the chill that ached deep in her bones. Sir Alec had she had discovered her “uncle” to be was an evil loathsome man who took advantage of every person he came into contact with. It took months but she soon learned the goings on of the building above her but she soon fell into a routine. Marking the days on scrap of paper given to her by one of the men that came to visit her. The first time had been the worst as Sir Alec had said he needed to “break her” and he did, she had bled for days her hips bruised and painful. She numbed herself more as time went on separating her soul from her body as soon as she heard boots on the stairs. Then one day Timothy came down the stairs she stared in shock at the young boy.

“Uncle Alec asked me to come down and take your dress from you, says you’re starting to smell.” She had resisted the urge to sniff in indignation but she took the brown dress from the boy waiting until he turned his back before she rushed out of her mourning gown the burlap fabric itched against her skin but she was too relieved to be in new clothes to be bothered to car. 

“Thank you.” She whispered meekly handing the black ball of fabric to the boy who hesitated for just a moment before disappearing again. Over time she saw him more and more as he ran small errands for the man he called uncle alec. She didn’t talk much anymore but he started to talk to her every chance he could about his father and how he had become indebted to the man he now called Uncle Alec. The hatred he held for the man rolled off of him in waves. A friendship or at least a confidante was found in each other so when she was eventually moved up into a room in the main house Timothy was a regular visitor and when he couldn’t find an excuse to visit her he would kick notes under her door in passing. Thats how tonight had  come to fruition. Timothy’s dad had been invited to some secret meeting on the top floor of the saloon but when he couldn’t attend due to an illness that befell the old man Timothy came to deliver the message stumbling in on a game of cards with more money on the table than the boy had ever seen. He was immediately pushed out but it was enough to start scheming and planning. 

Finally, she was free. She sent a prayer up to the Lord for the boy and his ailing father. Lord please keep them safe just give me a few days. As she finished praying she squared her shoulders holding he head high once more as the sun broke over the horizon illuminating a town, her town. It was only a few miles walk to her family's ranch where she knew victor would be waiting for her. She grinned triumphantly, Victor was just the man to right the wrongs the wretched man Sir Alec had done to the small community she hours down the tracks. She would see him brought down to his knees and punished for his ways, his hold on the quiet people he had used to do his bidding would be broken. She would save them all.

Reviews

[JayG]

You know the story. So... Before you read the first line you place yourself into the scene, physically and emotionally. But can the reader?

You know the backstory. Before you read the first line you know the protagonist’s history, her goal for the scene, her personality, where she is in time and space—and why. But does the reader?

For you, every line acts as a pointer to images, events, history, and everything needed to present context for the scene, all stored in your mind.

The reader? They can hear no emotion in the words that’s not suggested by the punctuation and what they already know of the story. Have your computer read it aloud to hear how different what the reader gets is from what you intend. Readers can take only the meaning suggested by their background and experience, not yours, or your intent. So let’s look at the opening, not as you intended, but as the reader will see it based on what’s on the page:

• Head high, she swept out of the room.

An unknown female, in an unknown place for unknown reasons, with good posture, left an unknown room because…umm….

• A second later, head even higher, she swept back in, snatched up the money and was gone again.

So this female returned to this unknown place, for unknown reasons, stretching her neck, somehow, and took an unknown amount of money from an unknown place that she apparently forgot when she left the first time, then left again.

In short: You're thinking cinematically in a medium that reproduces neither sound nor picture. The reader has no context to make your words meaningful. Why? Because for the reader, every line acts as a pointer to images, events, history, and everything needed to present context for the scene, all stored in *YOUR* mind, not theirs. Can that work?

What you’re doing is trying to place the reader into the story, and make it seem exciting, by describing what’s happening, moment by moment, as a camera. But instead of giving the reader the picture, you talk about what’s in it, as though the reader knows what's going on it. But we don’t know where we are in time and space. We don’t know what’s going on, or what happened that led to what’s going on. And, we don’t know whose skin we wear. We just have a list of events, plus authorial comments on them.

You’re working hard, and it’s certainly not a matter of good or bad writing—nor one of talent. It’s that like everyone who turns to writing fiction you assume that we learned to write in school, and that writing-is-writing. But is it? Through your school years you wrote lots of reports and essays. But while your teachers were explaining how to present the subject of the reports, did they spend even a minute on the niceties of presenting a conversation, and using tags to best advantage? No. Did anyone explain why a scene on the page is so different from one on the screen, and why that must be? How about what the elements of a scene on the page are, and how to manage them?

My point? If we don’t know what a scene is, and why; if we don’t know why it needs to end in disaster for the protagonist; if we don’t know the three things a reader needs you to address quickly on entering a scene, and how to use the short term scene goal, how can we write a scene?

The short version: Professions are learned IN ADDITION to our schoolhouse skills, and fiction writing is a profession. So…. You want to write fiction. That’s great. You’ve demonstrated the necessary perseverance. Great again. But to write fiction you need to add the special knowledge and skills of the fiction writer because the approach to writing, and the techniques are very different because the goal is to provide an emotional experience, where the report only informs. And the place to find those skills is in the library’s fiction-writing section. Lots of viewpoints and suggestions to be found there. And while you’re there, look for the names Dwight Swain, James Scott Bell, or Debra Dixon on the cover of a book on fiction-writing technique. They’re gold.

I know this is horrible news when you had fingers crossed, hoping for a “well done.” But on the other hand, as Mark Twain put it: “It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.” So now, knowing something that most hopeful writers never learn, you’re in a position to fix the problems you weren’t aware you have. In in relation to creating fiction that sings to a reader, that’s good news. And if you are meant to write, the learning will be fun.

So dig in. And while you do, hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/