Writing Exercise – The Time Has Come

Time for another writing exercise from Fiction Writer’s Workshop. Chapter 2 of this book focuses on setting, and the different ways setting is used in fiction. I absolutely love the example given from Dead Souls by Nikolai Gogol, where a very stingy hoarder is described through how he keeps his living area. An exercise follows from this example – Exercise 12 on page 43:

Make a character visible through her surroundings. If she loves plants and cats and hates people, her house might assume certain traits. Sketch the house, listing the sights, smells, sounds.

Well, I won’t win any points for originality for my reaction to this prompt, but I just had to try this with an established character rather than one I made up. Here’s what I came up with:


card_tower

The Time Has Come

The mirror dominates the room. The frame may have once been an elaborate bronze, but its flowery pattern is now a hideous green from years of neglect. By contrast, the glass is pristine, reflecting myself and the room in perfect clarity. A house of cards sits in front, three tiers high. Faded, tattered cards lay about its base and at the foot of the plain wooden dresser upon which it stood. I nearly bang my shin on a low table, set with a delicate china tea set. Each of the table’s four sides hosts a tea cup on a saucer, with tiny silver spoons sitting nearby. The cup nearest me has long ago lost any distinguishing pattern on its bone white surface, and two stumps jut from it where its tiny handle should be.

I step over the carpet, my feet deftly avoiding several chess pieces. Stooping down, I pick up a queen. It is white, with flecks of red paint clinging to its surface. In my other hand, I take another white queen, this one noticeably shorter and a bit wider than the other.

I set the pieces before the mirror as I step to the rocking chair with its back to me. It rocks slowly, as though swayed by the evening breeze from the open window. Light snoring announces the presence of the lady I seek. I hesitate.

My eyes find another tea table next to the chair. This table looks even older than the previous, its varnish chipped away to show wounds of rotting wood. It is also decorated with ancient china – a plate, with a cake the size of my fist atop. The cake, to my pleasant surprise, was fresh, immaculately painted with chocolate frosting, and bearing the words “Eat Me” delicately spelled out in white icing. Next to it was a fine glass flask half-filled with a sparkling liquid. A square of paper was tied about its delicate neck by a tiny length of red ribbon. Predictably, I suppose, the blue ink on its surface read “Drink Me”. Unlike the table and the other dishes, this glass is spotless – I might think it freshly blown if I had seen it anywhere else.

I resolve to waken the lady. My business has to be done, no matter how regrettable I find it. I reach to the arm of her chair. My hand finds a glint of gold draped over its arm, and I am again distracted from my goal. I take up the gold, finding it to be chain for a fine pocket watch. I pop it open, revealing the hands working their way across a circle of Roman numerals. I nearly laughed, calming my breath as I see the drawing on paper placed carefully where a family portrait might be on other watches. The sketch was a detailed rendering of a rabbit, standing on its hind legs, dressed in overalls, and panicking as it stared down at a pocket watch.

“I’m late.”

My eyes snapped to the speaker of the soft words.

“I’ve gone and overslept, haven’t I, dear? You’re here to take me away.”

Snapping the watch closed, I nodded solemnly at the elderly lady.

“It is for the best, Ms. Liddell. Your family is worried, and I assure you, our home is like no other. You will be treated with respect and dignity.”

“Is there croquet? Oh, but not the kind with flamingos and hedgehogs.”

“There is croquet, of course. As well as many other pastimes – draughts and bingo, for instance. I’m certain I’ve never seen flamingos, and we do keep out any sort of pests.”

She stood up slowly, her wrinkled dress now revealed as it fell loosely over her bony frame. It might have been a bright blue, some ages ago, but the color had long worn away. She reached down, taking up the plate with the cake and offering it.

“Won’t you have some? You’ll get a little surprise, I think.”

“Perhaps another time. Our driver should be quite anxious by now.”

“The time has come, the walrus said.”

I shake my head, deciding not to answer her odd comment. I hold her bony hand gently, guiding the frail lady over the safe patches of the cluttered carpet. As we reach the door frame, she takes one last look at her strange room. She then gestures to the watch, and I realize that I still hold it. I give it to her, and she pops it open again before me. She points to the panicking rabbit.

“Have you seen him? Always late, always in a rush.”

“Can’t say that I have, Ms. Liddell. Come now; follow me to a far better world than this lonely life here.”

Her wrinkled face radiates a wide smile as she finds something amusing in my words. As she allows me to take her hand and lead down the staircase, she chuckles softly.

“Curiouser and curiouser.”

What happens when you keep a dream diary?

My hand scrawls softly across the page in the pale predawn. Ephemeral fragments of half-remembered sights and sounds, desperately salvaged as they disappear. Too amazing for words, yet words are all I have. My hand keeps moving, keeps scribbling, sketching out vanishing images in my medium, words both powerful yet woefully inadequate. The logic in my brain has yet to fully awake, leaving me free to scribble out the crazy, senselessness. Impossibilities play out in thin ink, ridiculous and insane.  My hands at last stop, wakefulness fully washing over me in the new sun’s light. The few details I could harvest are now spent; the rest has vanished, forever irretrievable.

I sigh. A moment of closed eyes, a moment of thankfulness for what was saved. I open my eyes and read. What wonder, what strangeness! The fragments scribbled in my uneven hand are strangers to me. From what corner of my soul came they? Is meaning hidden within? Could I divine some future or unknown truth from these odd fragments of subconscious? A silent scoff enters my mind – ah, that’s my logic, awake now. Dreams are nothing, merely the brain making peace with old learnings and paving the way for  fresh knowledge, my logic tells me. I smile, shaking my head. It matters little, I decide, whether dreams hold magic, or are side-effects of an ever-growing mind. They are miraculous, odd, and dearly welcome worlds within to explore and cherish.

And that, folks, is why you should have a dream diary! I’ve been keeping one for a while, and even as a writer, it seemed a little pointless. After all, I cannot honestly say that a story worth publishing has come directly from my dreams. At least, the writing in my dream diary doesn’t seem to have directly inspired any final product. I can’t be sure, though, because what if writing out what I could remember helped me figure out some tangentially related idea that did make it into my regular writing? Ah, that’d be much harder for me to see happening!
That’s the best reason to keep a dream diary, I think. The gonzo stuff you write might not make it directly into any of your stories, but it comes from the same corner of your psyche.  Writing out as much as you remember helps bring out the creativity and weirdness that makes fiction so appealing to readers and writers.