My good friend and blogging buddy, Priya, recently sent me the beginning of a story she wanted to write. She asked me to add a few paragraphs, then send it back to her. The idea was that we would continue taking turns extending the story until it was finished, like a single plant growing from two sets of roots. We discussed the plot only briefly along the way, and made a few minor revisions. Other than that, the story that follows seemed to write itself. Priya’s part is in black, mine in this other color. The story also appears as her post on Partial View, with her own layout and pictures.
While we collaborated on this in every sense, the original idea and the characters were Priya’s creation. For that reason, I think she deserves any comments you might want to leave. (She’ll hate me for saying that last part, but then, I wanted to delete the mention of cottage cheese from the story, and she refused.)
* * * * *
The list seemed determined to disappear beyond where Jade’s fingers could reach, or her eyes could see. Where had she put it now? The heat and fatigue had been taking their toll on her, and the weary fan above, dripping air like it was doing the room a favor, was no help. She needed that slip of paper because it identified the things that were finished. And those that were still pending.
Spent with frustration, Jade looked around the room, now filled with strips of late evening light. The week had gone in a flash. She hadn’t given herself a chance to see the house, to allow its being to enter her weary heart and pluck at its strings. She didn’t have time for all that. But this room called to her as she plopped on the beige sofa. She looked at the yellowed wallpaper with the white roses. Her lips curled at the memory of her six-year-old fingers trying to pick them out, but never quite managing to. The net door was keen to sway with the elusive breeze; the mosquitoes were raring to come hunting with the setting sun. Her eyes moved to the painting hung next to her father’s antique binoculars. It was older than she was, a rushed watercolor impression of a distant sea, with words calligraphed on the left side of the canvas:
End
The winter
Before the birds
Hasten to distant skies
Hurry
Her mother had painted it long before she was born. She had never come to know whose words they were, but they had always reassured her. They seemed to be keen to make amends, to quickly heal wounds, to avoid losing some treasure.
The last month hadn’t been easy. Jade’s career as a graphic designer in a ruthlessly competitive city was promising to reach giddy heights, when it became clear that she couldn’t avoid going to her parents to help them move. They were both fifty by the time she, a child conceived as an afterthought, was born. Nancy and Blake were eighty-two now, and much as Jade liked to deny it, they needed her help in leaving this house, battered by time.
Jade spotted the list on top of the bookcase. She must have placed it there while trying to open the window, hoping to inject some spirit into the lifeless draft. She grabbed a chair and slid it across the room. It was a timid piece of furniture, made when people required less support. Not sure it would carry her weight, Jade put one foot into the center of the seat and pressed down with a gradual effort, rising into the warmer air near the ceiling. Careful to avoid the fan’s rotating blades, she reached for the list resting in a dusty nest on the top shelf of the bookcase. It was only then that she noticed the slim volume lying on its side, so nearly covered with forgotten years that its title was all but invisible. With the list in her left hand, she reached for the neglected book and turned it over, blowing the dust away.
“If Only A Second Chance.”
It was an odd moment, an unseen push from the side that almost knocked Jade off the chair. She had read the book’s title in her head, but the words had been spoken by her mother’s voice. Turning to the right, she saw Nancy standing in the doorway, her tiny figure looking even smaller from the height of the chair.
Jade lowered herself to the floor.
“How did you know the title? It looks as though it’s been up there for years.”
“More than thirty,” said Nancy. “Look at the author’s name.”
Jade turned the book around to read its spine, because much of the cover had surrendered to mildew. She inhaled deeply to make up for the skipped heartbeat. And then, she read it again. This time slowly and out loud, “Sandra Kitchener.”
She placed the book on the tall side table, her anger evident only when she swatted at the palm fronds caressing the table top.
“Will she never go away?”
Jade really did want this question answered. It was high time. Sandra Kitchener had taken a lot away from her parents, and from her.
Nancy turned from Jade and chose to look at the lint on the sofa, picking at it with her trembling fingers. It wasn’t an easy question to answer.
“Well, I tried, didn’t I? Put the book up there, where we couldn’t see her name,” said Nancy, still unable to look at her daughter. “If only a second chance, indeed.”
“I suppose you did your best,” said Jade. “And he remembers nothing?”
“He didn’t. We don’t talk about it anymore. Haven’t. It’s been years.”
Jade sat on the old chair and stared at this collapsed core of a woman, this person who had given her life, and whose own life had once been so expansive. Almost all of her mother’s connections were severed, shriveled, lost, or forgotten. Her world had shrunk, so that it barely extended beyond the boundary of her tired body. She was like a stove, once pulsing with heat. These days, you had to put your hand almost right up to her skin in order to feel any warmth. She had told Jade the story, once, and answered a few questions on several occasions after that. But always, she cut the conversation short.
“He used to say that he never would have done it. That wasn’t him. Especially for a poet. He hated poetry. Always had.”
“Then where was he going that day?” asked Jade. “Where does he say he was going?”
“It was all erased. When he regained consciousness in the hospital, he had no idea where he was or how he’d gotten there.”
“What about the car? How did he explain that?”
“He didn’t explain it. He thought I’d been driving, that I was the one who’d hit the tree.”
“But he was going to find her. That’s what you said.”
“He read that book. Every page. He’d put it back on the shelf each time, but I’d check, and the slip of paper was always in a different place.”
“This hater of poetry.”
Nancy looked hard out the window. Even now, thirty years later, she seemed bewildered by the entire incident. “Turning fifty did something to him. Scared him. He said he was afraid he was running out of time. That he’d wasted his life.”
“But that isn’t the father I know.”
“No. In a funny way, the accident changed him. Made him more aware of himself. More sensitive. By the time you came along, he was a different person.”
“But the damage had been done.”
“He was going to leave me, Jade. He was going to find this woman he’d never met. A woman he said touched his soul with her words.”
“After fifteen years of being together with you, he decided that a faceless woman had touched his soul with poetry? Poetry, Mom?”
“It does have a way of getting inside the hardest of hearts. With time. And your father had a soft heart to begin with. You know that.”
Jade hadn’t come here to rake up old earth. She wanted her mother to know that she understood, but without trying too hard. The dam had burst, let out the emotions it had stored, and was ready to get back to work.
“I’m eighty-one now,” Nancy said. “Nothing much stays inside when you’re that age.” She had put her frail fingers on Jade’s arm, hoping that her daughter didn’t feel like she was out in the cold.
“I know,” said Jade. “Yet, a lot does. And you’re eighty-two.”
Jade looked her mother in the eye, and smiled. Then she said, “Come on, we have an old man to feed.”
They made cottage cheese pâtés and cherry tomato salad. Blake would be shuffling in any time now. He’d gone to the general store just across the road to get batteries for his flashlight, and some orange juice.
As if on cue, Blake stepped into the kitchen. “Hey, love,” he said, surprised, when Jade gave him a spontaneous hug. Nancy looked at the two of them and pretended not to see. She was setting the table. The blue-and-white striped tablecloth smelled of a distant sun. Blake poured juice for everyone. It had always been his little girl’s favorite with dinner. The glasses clinked, the cutlery felt safe and familiar. Everything was all right.
Jade rose earlier than usual the next morning to make sure she had done most of the work before Nancy woke up. She decided to begin with the huge tool wall Blake had maintained for years.
On a shelf nearest to the stairway, she found an old carton held together with twine. Inside was an envelope bearing their home address, and a postmark dated September 21, 1980. The sender was a J. Gilbert from Summer Wings Publishers.
“Dear Ms. Kitchener,” the letter began.
Later, while Blake fiddled with something in another room, Jade confronted her mother.
“I don’t even know where to start,” she said, holding the letter at arm’s length. “What’s this about?”
“It’s about poetry,” said Nancy. “That’s all. Something I once did. Something I was proud of, but at the same time, had to hide behind.”
“No one.”
“How could you stand it? That nobody knew?”
“I knew,” said Nancy.
“But this woman. Sandra Kitchener. You allowed me to despise her. And it was you all along?”
“I’ve accomplished three worthy goals in my life, Jade. I published a book of poetry. I raised a magnificent daughter. And I salvaged something that seemed intent on destroying itself. As far as I’m concerned, everything else is just details.”
Jade moved to put her arms around her mother, when Blake appeared in the doorway. He was holding the watercolor painting of the sea.
“Would you like to keep this, Jade?” he said. “It has that poem scrawled on it, which I’ve never quite understood. But the picture is nice. We picked it up many years ago, at a flea market, I think.”
Blake set the painting on the floor. Then he looked around for a vase in which to place the white roses he had just picked for his wife.
Priya
September 21, 2011
You’re right. I do hate that last line in your intro.
And you are a cheapster.
LikeLike
bronxboy55
September 21, 2011
Yeah, well, at least I don’t eat cottage cheese. Or write about it.
LikeLike
willacepn
October 23, 2011
I agree. Like taking 2 year journey, only to find out at the end, you could have reached your destination in 1 month by alternate route
LikeLike
Lenore Diane
September 21, 2011
Charles, this is wonderful. As I told Priya, I really enjoyed the ending. Pleasantly surprised at the fact that Nancy was the poet. A wonderful collaborated creation, Charles. I look forward to the next one. (Seems I’ve said that exact same thing in the past.)
LikeLike
bronxboy55
September 24, 2011
Thank you, Lenore. You always find something nice to say. (And in that case, repeating yourself is okay, too.)
LikeLike
souldipper
September 21, 2011
Great collaboration, Charles and Priya. I enjoyed the unfolding characterizations, the surprises and having a chance to say to myself, “could I have done this?” I really liked reading this a bunch! Plus, I love the fact that you two are such good-and-saucy friends!
Priya – cottage cheese pate? Really? Must be an old, old, old person’s pate…??? 😀
I’ve wondered about trying this, but couldn’t talk any of my reading-addicted friends into doing it! You two pulled together a great little story.
A group of us tried to write chapters – we made the mistake of also becoming our character. I think we became burdened with trying to play the roles! It didn’t come together. But! One of the women changed her name to the one she gave her character. She changed from Lynn to Cayt.
LikeLike
bronxboy55
September 24, 2011
I think you should try again, Amy. Maybe you had too many people involved? It’s tricky, even with just one other person, because you don’t know where they’re going to take the story.
LikeLike
Regina
July 9, 2012
Yes, I also agree about it.
Actually, base on my own experience its really hard to get a a partner for perfect collaboration.
Please cliquez ici to check also my blog. Feel free to tell me something to get some improvement..
Regina
LikeLike
Joseph Gilmore
September 23, 2011
Top-notch tandemness. 🙂
LikeLike
bronxboy55
September 24, 2011
High praise from a story-teller such as yourself. Thank you, Joseph.
http://rootgilmore.wordpress.com/2011/09/18/his-name-is-sam-©/
LikeLike
wordsfallfrommyeyes
September 23, 2011
What a brilliant way to write a story! Well, only if you have a capable friend, that is. Great story, both.
LikeLike
bronxboy55
September 25, 2011
It definitely wouldn’t work with just any two people. I’m glad you think it worked this time. Thank you for taking the time to read and comment.
LikeLike
magsx2
September 24, 2011
Hi,
What a fantastic story, how well you both did on this, 10 out of 10. 🙂
LikeLike
bronxboy55
September 25, 2011
Thank you, Mags. You always say something encouraging and supportive.
LikeLike
Earth Ocean Sky Redux
September 24, 2011
It’s remarkable that two people who have never met share such an extraordinary blog bond, to the extent that you can co-create a story. It’s unique that one writer is willing to give up some control, but two?
It’s like you and Priya are connected on another plane, some mental spatial level. I have trouble even when Mr. EOS shares a post with me. His style is different than mine, not better, not worse, but different, so to make this story work so well, and it does, I hope you both are giving yourselves a huge pat on the back.
LikeLike
bronxboy55
September 25, 2011
It’s fun to do something like this, EOS, and a little scary. I appreciate your positive feedback, and would certainly welcome any constructive criticism. I’m sure Priya feels the same.
LikeLike
Ursula
September 25, 2011
A brave venture indeed, Charles and Priya. Not one that I would attempt. I can’t see the purpose in it. Writing “in tandem” is a bit like dancing the Tango. And few dances are more cursed than the Tango. However, providing the man leads, you may be just fine. Lean back, look fierce, enjoy. And hope that your audience is sizzled.
Leaving cottage cheese aside; and why would one want to fashion it into a pate anyway? I am an accomplished cook but I do know my limitations. Yes, co-writing. Feeding off each other as it were. Truth be told and it is a most unpalatable one: There will always be one of the two who is by far the better writer (even if he does dumb it down). However, I think it most commendable to encourage talent. And that you most certainly have done, Charles.
Sweet and sour greetings,
U
LikeLike
bronxboy55
September 25, 2011
Thank you for the thoughts, Ursula, both the sweet and the sour. Collaboration is difficult, and with most people, nearly impossible. And as you suggested, the result is usually something less than the sum of its parts. But it can work, especially if both participants are willing to leave ego behind and focus on the writing itself. The finished product will likely not be great literature, but the effort can be appreciated for its own sake. To borrow from figure skating terms, the artistic presentation may be compromised in some ways, but the technical merit makes up for it. I think that’s what most readers recognize.
I’m not sure what you mean by dumbing it down or encouraging talent — that sounds patronizing and condescending. This isn’t dancing the Tango. There’s no leader and no follower. You may argue if you wish, and I expect you will, but you’ll be mistaken, again.
LikeLike
Ursula
September 25, 2011
How well you know me, Charles. Argue I will – not for argument’s sake but because mind and knives need to be kept sharp at all times (not least when making pate). On a side note: It’s my number one gripe with blogs’ comment boxes that the general consensus/etiquette appears to be: Say something ‘nice’ or keep shtumm. What’s the point in that? Blame my father, but I prefer people who give me hell instead of a plaster.
One of your attractions to me is that you are able to say what you want to say without kicking the other in the shin. An art I am still trying to refine.
I salute both of you that you are willing to experiment. The “dumbing down” was uncalled for, and I do apologize. However, Priya will be the first to concede that you are the better writer. Mainly because you are a very good writer. End of story.
And I have nothing but admiration for Priya that she had the courage to put herself at risk.
As to being condescending: If my memory serves me right (I did read Pryia’s ‘about” section) you very much encouraged her, instilled confidence, in her wish to write. That’s what mentors, good teachers do. Few will take the time (particularly not with an EGO to stand in their way) to do so, be generous enough to let their own compost fertilize another mind. It’s great. You make a phantastic friend on that score alone. If I came across as condescending/patronizing then maybe it’s because I am or because I did not express myself well. For that I only have to blame myself; since, with little regard, I just slam myself and a minute’s thought on the page. No editor on my back, little EGO and neither my blog nor my comments a showcase for my talents. I write but I am not a writer. Just as I clean the house but wouldn’t call myself a cleaner. In danger now of doing what I do so well: Veering off the subject.
And yes, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I myself wouldn’t love being challenged by you; not so much in the writing stakes but in arguing a thought. Still, we are not characters in a Maupassant or Balzac, pistols drawn at dawn, Bois de Boulogne, Paris. I like fencing; but prefer to study my sparring partner first.
U
LikeLike
bronxboy55
September 25, 2011
We’ll be good friends yet, Ursula. I still must disagree with your description of me as mentor. Yes, I have encouraged Priya, as she has encouraged me. Colleagues and peers do that, too. And even if I were to accept the role of mentor (which I don’t), it’s been true forever that almost all of the great successes in history had them, as well. In most cases, we remember the student and not the teacher.
You’re right about one thing: Priya would say that I’m the better writer. But I would say the same about her. If we’re honest, we’d all admit to admiring the work of others while dwelling on our own flaws. I think it’s because we’re familiar with the process we go through to create something, while with others, we usually see only the finished product, all sparkly and beautiful.
One of my teachers once said that every piece of writing is unique and could only have been created at that moment and by that author. I never forgot it. Priya can’t write what I write, I can’t write what she writes, and this rule holds true for every one of the talented individuals I’ve had the good fortune to meet while doing this weird blogging thing. Maybe that’s why we go out of our way to say something nice. We all get criticized enough — or ignored completely — in other areas of our lives. It’s good to have at least one safe place.
By the way, I think you’re a wonderful writer. I also think there are a lot of people who would eagerly visit and comment on your blog, in part to engage in enjoyable fencing matches with you. But is it safe?
http://bitchontheblog.wordpress.com/
LikeLike
Damyanti
September 26, 2011
Charles, exactly what I’ve always wanted to do, but never found a willing partner…congratulations to both of you, both for collaborating, and for creating the story you came up with!
LikeLike
bronxboy55
September 30, 2011
Damyanti, I have no doubt there are plenty of writers out there who’d be honored to collaborate with you. Thank you for your unwavering support.
LikeLike
Mitchell Allen (@Anklebuster)
September 26, 2011
Charles, Priya, Ursula. Awesome transfer of brain to keyboard. The story is warm and touching; the commentary brutal and refreshingly honest.
I think there is enough energy that every spirit can ignite. Some will glow, some will buzz. A few will rival a groundstroke and – just as quickly – fade into an afterimage. Neither bolt nor buzz collaborates with a mind to an imagined throne, but with intent to light the path ahead for each other.
Cheers,
Mitch
LikeLike
bronxboy55
September 30, 2011
There are certainly no thrones in sight around here, Mitch. But “intent to light the path for each other” — that’s exactly the idea. Thank you.
LikeLike
happykidshappymom
September 28, 2011
Charles, I’m breaking the rules you set out by leaving a comment here. So be it. I don’t know how to pick between you and Priya, other than I came across the post here on your blog first, so you get the comment. 🙂 But I will, as you offered, give Priya all the credit for the tandem storytelling idea.
It was so interesting to read the piece, knowing as I do the two different authors. Male and female. From different times and different lands. Both talented writers, and both with a gift to seek out the story. Thank you, both, for sharing your imaginations with the rest of us.
As I read, I noted two themes echoed through the interspersed sections. Charles, yours spoke of history, which you so often touch upon on your blog. Take your perennial post Zabaglione. You look back, at what was, to see now, what is. And you brought that into the story when you walked Nancy into the story, standing in the doorway.
Priya, you spoke of love, which is what I feel so often reflected in your own writing. Loving and yearning and the husband-wife bond. I think you called this into action here, amid the secrets held for so long between Nancy and Blake. (Such American names! I have to confess I much prefer “Jade.”)
But I believe you two feel the true pull of the writer. The discovery of words. And the lure of mystery, of history and of love. And that’s why the piece worked as you wrote it, co-authors.
LikeLike
bronxboy55
October 1, 2011
Thank you, Melissa. That may be the most thoughtful comment I’ve ever received.
LikeLike
Arlee Bird
September 28, 2011
This is some beautiful writing. Interesting experiment that works very successfully.
Lee
Tossing It Out
LikeLike
bronxboy55
October 1, 2011
Thank you, Lee. I look forward to reading your blog.
LikeLike
Margaret Reyes Dempsey
October 9, 2011
I enjoyed this. It brought back fond memories. I’ve attempted this exercise three times in the past, with three different co-writers. It’s a lot of fun and keeps you on your toes.
LikeLike
bronxboy55
October 18, 2011
I bet you’d be great at this, Margaret. What were the results?
LikeLike
msperfectpatty
October 13, 2011
This writing is so creative I love how it comes full circle!
LikeLike
bronxboy55
October 18, 2011
Thanks, MPP. It was fun, and I (for one) hope to do it again sometime.
LikeLike
shamasheikh
October 17, 2011
The way both your writings blend into each other’s is pure magic! What a beautiful story…love the ending!
LikeLike
bronxboy55
October 18, 2011
If you haven’t already, please let Priya know what you think. It really was her story. Thank you for taking the time to read and send a comment.
LikeLike
kasturika
October 19, 2011
Interesting story :)… Though I’ll admit, I didn’t understand the poem…
LikeLike
bronxboy55
January 6, 2012
A lot of poetry is hard to grasp the first time it’s read.
LikeLike
Mal
October 20, 2011
What a wonderful idea! Love the mapping out and how it all unravels… kudos! 😀
LikeLike
bronxboy55
January 6, 2012
Thank you, Mal. Sorry it took me so long to acknowledge your kind words!
LikeLike
ladynimueN
October 22, 2011
I felt as if this was written for me .. that some how I was destined to read this.. dunno.. its a weird attraction for this story.. loved it …
LikeLike
bronxboy55
January 6, 2012
I’m glad you liked it. Thanks for the comment.
LikeLike
shil
January 5, 2012
Even though I think I can appreciate good writing, I hardly think I can appreciate this post as well as all the other readers here. When I read what Priya had written, I could immediately see the point of view of a woman, the attention to detail, the attention to feelings which immediately changed when you started writing. Your writing is a little more aggressive(in a good way). It was a juxtaposition of your different writing styles and came out looking great. Looking forward to more collaborations.
LikeLike
bronxboy55
January 6, 2012
Thank you, shil. We were a little nervous about trying to combine two different styles into one story, but I think it came out okay. I appreciate your nice words. Happy New Year!
LikeLike
mcgulotta
March 16, 2012
Charles and Priya, this is a beautiful piece of art. I wish I had your blended talent in writing. It is amazing who you will meet on the internet. Keep up the great work. Love Always YO&LW
LikeLike
bronxboy55
September 18, 2012
I missed this comment somehow, but I’ll thank you now. The story was fun to write.
LikeLike
An Idealist Thinker
September 17, 2012
Wow! How did I miss this before?
I like Joseph Gilmore’s comment. Especially when ‘tandemness’ is something I am struggling with. To have two different individuals collaborate like this is nothing short of wonderful. But why ‘Winter’s Thaw’? Is it more like an emotional thaw?
LikeLike
bronxboy55
September 18, 2012
I just looked at the posting date and was surprised to see that Priya and I were in the middle of writing this story exactly one year ago. It seems as though it’s been much longer than that. Yes, I think the title was supposed to suggest a thaw after a long emotional winter.
Tandemness is a great word, and a very real challenge in many areas of life.
LikeLike
musical instrument lessons
August 20, 2014
My family members every time say that I am killing my time here
at net, however I know I am getting know-how all the time by reading thes fastidious articles
or reviews.
LikeLike