Recently I wrote about a true moment. A moment that I witnessed of a girl crying in her car. It happened. It was REAL. I didn't write anything but what I saw, and I was told in a workshop that the whole scene was cliche and needed to be cut. As a writer I saw what was meant. As a human I thought, "We can't cut this shit. This is real. This has happened to all of us." I rewrote the scene tried to make it better. Less cliche. Less sentimentality. I don't know if its good. Not everything I write will be good. In fact, most of it might be bad, but then someone who reads my blog regularly asked me if it really happened. When I answered, "Yes" I saw the face of someone who might have been there, who related for that instant that they read my words, the flurry of emotion in brown eyes, and I felt like I did something, like I had done something right.
Most of the time when I write a scene in my head it is one where I, the character, etc, have been put into a situation of vulnerability. (We don't write the comedies of our lives for Christ's sake!) And hell, sarcasm comes out of me so easily I don't think I could write fast enough. I think about the scenes where people are waiting for an answer, having conversation with subtext, the stuff that makes us squirm a little you know? Stuff that makes all of us squirm I suppose. "Will you give me a raise?" "Did I get in?" "What are your plans for the future?" "Where do you want this to go?" "Do you love me?" Sometimes these conversations are even with ourselves and that's what makes them harder at times. What do we say to ourselves when we ask, "Do I love him/her?", and the answer is not the one we wanted...
Perhaps, I should stick to what I know. Writing scenes for my characters....
"So where should I take her?" he asked phone held with his shoulder as he looked at the shirts he held in each hand.
"Um, I'm not sure where did you go last time? Dinner right? But, where?" The T.V. changed from channel to channel as she listened.
"That new little bistro place on Commerce. You know they did a spread in the paper about it. She dug it,
but thinkin' I should go a little more low key. You know?"
She nodded even though he couldn't see.
"Then do low key. But don't over think it 'cause then you'll go in a circle. I mean, dude, if she's going on with you again then she digs something about you. Not sure what, but you know roll with it."
The lines of her body completely relaxed as she was captivated with the painting before her. She was so enthralled she never noticed the people standing behind her, nor the man who came behind her and whispered in her ear.
“This was my favorite as well.”
Her back stiffened slightly, but her gaze did not leave the object that seemed to inspire a blossoming of passion.
“It’s beautiful,” quickly she licked her lips, “I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve—well I’ve simply never.”
“Girl meets art,” he whispered.
“Have you done the deed yet,?"
A stout keg of a man stared down at the pubescent kid in front of him, the five o’clock shadow a dark contrast to the smooth creamy skin of his fact.
Bruno shook his head and looked down, afraid it was the wrong answer.
“Well, you’ve met Rosie and her five friends?” the man looked at him the caterpillar brow above his eye raised. Bruno watched as his uncle wiggled his thick fingers.
“Y-yes,” he replied eyes cast down, dark lashes casting a shadow.
“You know how you feel when you’re about to cum? That’s how I feel when I fuck someone up.”
"Do you know what you want?" Her eyes downcast afraid to meet his gaze, but as he looked away it gave her the courage to hold her head up. Chin jutted out slightly.
"What do you mean? What do I want? From what? From this?" He motioned his hand between the two of them.
She looked down at her shoes. The couch. The dirty biege carpet. Anywhere but his face, to avoid the way he couldn't say us.
"I don't know what you want me to say. I'm not sure where..." he trailed off, "I'm not sure where... Can't we just talk about this later. Right now it's just you and me, you know?"