Post by jane on Mar 1, 2007 23:19:52 GMT -5
I started writing this for a writing club I am in, and I am going to continue writing it.....eventually. Anyway, I think its alright, but I am not satisfied with my characters really. They don't seem to have definite personalities, and I am not quite sure how to bring their characters out...any help would be very much appreciated!
A Saturday morning is full of endless possibilities. So many, in fact, that one might find oneself wasting that precious morning on brooding over the best use of time. I found myself in such a position one Saturday in October. I lay on my sofa, staring up at the ceiling. The ceiling was of no interest to me. I simply lay there; going over my thoughts, wishing that perhaps on of the cracks in the ceiling would inspire me to make the right decision.
I could make some noodles. I could paint a self-portrait. I could do an experiment involving everything in my cupboards. I could design the next method of transportation. I could walk around Central Park pretending I was Russian and going up to strangers making desperate gestures and yelling nonsense. So many choices…
I mulled over all these possibilities and more until at last I came up with what I felt was a good use of my Saturday.
“Mother,” I said to the ceiling. “Would it be all right if I went to Kurpinski’s?”
Kurpinski’s was an old bookstore that had been on Linzer Street as long as I had lived in NYC, which was forever. It was the only one of its kind, and it consisted of millions upon millions of books about everything imaginable. Once I even found a book on “something weird”. I had wanted to buy it but I was with my mom and she said it wasn’t practical.
“Is your room clean?” came the usual response from the kitchen.
“Uh, well I can clean it really quickly.”
“Are you going to walk?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“It’s not that far.”
“Don’t you want to call Beth or someone?”
“No, I want to go by myself.”
“Alright, but make sure your room is clean before you leave.”
“Sure, I will.”
I cleaned my room faster than I ever had. Though I had not picked one of the more imaginative ideas, the prospect of spending my day at a bookstore was quite exciting. Throwing on my sweater and grabbing my bag, I ran down the steps and called goodbye to my mom.
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” I said.
“Bye Nadine, have a good time.”
“I will,” I whispered to myself as I went out the door.
It was a crisp, cold, fall day, the perfect kind for bookstore trips. Many people were out walking, running and biking, taking advantage of this rare occasion. I liked to watch people; not stare; but watch and try to figure out what kind of person they were. Today there were plenty of interesting people out. A big middle aged woman carried grocery bags across the street. An older man sporting a bowler hat was buying a newspaper. A young couple strolled their new baby proudly down the street. He was a beautiful baby, and I wanted to know his name. Often I wished I had the courage to approach someone and them about themselves.
I turned the corner and came to Kurpinski’s. It was a tall, brown brick building that blended in with the other buildings on the street. I t had once been an apartment building until Mr. Kurpinski bought it and filled every room with books. The only thing that stood out was the sign hung above the doorway that said in hand painted capital letters KURPINSKI’S BOOKS OLD AND NEW.
I walked up the cement stairs and into the doors, and my nose was immediately knocked out by the overpowering smells of old books and hazelnut coffee. I loved the smell and felt right at home. “Why have I not been here in so long?” I asked myself. All around me were tall bookshelves, and where there were not shelves there were piles of books on the floor. I stood, absorbing the moment until I realized I was blocking the doorway.
My first 10 or so minutes were spent wandering around the first floor, which were mainly new arrivals. I then preceded the second floor and found the shelves on which were kept collections of short stories. I ran my fingers across the books’ spines looking for the H’s. “Harold, Hanks…Hemingway, Hemfield…ah! Henry.”
There was just one book under the author O. Henry. I drew it out and looked at the cover. “The Best Short Stories of O. Henry” it said, and under the title was an illustration of a thoughtful looking man. I flipped to the table of contents and glanced down the list of stories within. Some names were familiar to me, and some were not. I recalled the sensations I had felt when I read “The Last Leaf” “The Gift of the Magi” and “The Ransom of Red Chief”. “William Sydney Porter,” I whispered aloud, “you were a clever man.”
Suddenly I felt the presence of someone standing behind me. I turned around slowly, and came face to face with a boy.
“Oh...uh…sorry,” I stammered, and quickly took a step backwards.
The boy looked at me curiously. “Were you…were you just talking to that book?” he asked.
“No. I mean. Well, I was talking to…,” I trailed off, embarrassed, and stared at my feet.
“Yeah, well anyway,” the boy said, obviously sorry for embarrassing me, but looking a bit puzzled “Would you mind moving out of the way so I can look for something?”
I moved, and as he looked through the shelves, I studied him. He seemed to be a bit older than me, but not by much. He was of medium height and rather skinny, and he had thin, dark hair that looked as if he had not brushed it, and liked it that way. He was frowning now and looking at the exact spot from which I had taken the book I held on my hands.
He stood up and was about to ask me something when I thrust the book towards him.
“Is this what you were looking for?” I asked.
He stared down at the book and the frown left his face.
“Ah, yes.” He said, and he took the book from my hands. He glanced over the cover and then looked up at me. “But I thought when you were, you know…er talking to it….you…didn’t you say someone’s name? It wasn’t O. Henry was it?”
“Oh, no,” I said, and I smiled for the first time since the beginning of our strange meeting. “I said William Sydney Porter. That’s O. Henry’s real name. Orrin Henry was just a pen name, a pseudonym.”
“Oooh. Gotcha,” the boy replied, a look of comprehension upon his face. “Sort of like that Lemony Snicket guy?”
“Ha, sure,” I said. “Except Lemony Snicket is a foolish name, and O. Henry could actually write. But, yeah, same idea.”
“Oh. Cool.”
“So, do you like O. Henry?” I asked. I had never really had a conversation with someone in a bookstore, and I was beginning to like it.
“No,” he responded.
“Oh,” I said, disappointed.
“I mean I wouldn’t know yet,” said the boy apologetically, correcting himself. “We’re reading his stuff in school, that’s why I need the book.”
I nodded slightly. There was a short silence.
“Well,” I said. “You can have that.”
“Oh,” He looked at me, realizing what I was saying. “Oh, no, no that’s fine, I mean that’s really nice of you, but you obviously wanted it, I can just go find one somewhere else.”
“No, really,” I said, beginning to smile. “Its really okay, I don’t need it, and you do. And you might not find a copy as cool as this one.”
“Alright, well thanks,” he said, looking at me a bit differently, and slightly smiling. “I’m Ben, by the way.” And he held out his hand.
Taking it, I said, “Nadine.”
“Well, Nadine,” he said kindly. “Since you were so generous in giving up your book, will you let me find you a new one?”
A Saturday morning is full of endless possibilities. So many, in fact, that one might find oneself wasting that precious morning on brooding over the best use of time. I found myself in such a position one Saturday in October. I lay on my sofa, staring up at the ceiling. The ceiling was of no interest to me. I simply lay there; going over my thoughts, wishing that perhaps on of the cracks in the ceiling would inspire me to make the right decision.
I could make some noodles. I could paint a self-portrait. I could do an experiment involving everything in my cupboards. I could design the next method of transportation. I could walk around Central Park pretending I was Russian and going up to strangers making desperate gestures and yelling nonsense. So many choices…
I mulled over all these possibilities and more until at last I came up with what I felt was a good use of my Saturday.
“Mother,” I said to the ceiling. “Would it be all right if I went to Kurpinski’s?”
Kurpinski’s was an old bookstore that had been on Linzer Street as long as I had lived in NYC, which was forever. It was the only one of its kind, and it consisted of millions upon millions of books about everything imaginable. Once I even found a book on “something weird”. I had wanted to buy it but I was with my mom and she said it wasn’t practical.
“Is your room clean?” came the usual response from the kitchen.
“Uh, well I can clean it really quickly.”
“Are you going to walk?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“It’s not that far.”
“Don’t you want to call Beth or someone?”
“No, I want to go by myself.”
“Alright, but make sure your room is clean before you leave.”
“Sure, I will.”
I cleaned my room faster than I ever had. Though I had not picked one of the more imaginative ideas, the prospect of spending my day at a bookstore was quite exciting. Throwing on my sweater and grabbing my bag, I ran down the steps and called goodbye to my mom.
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” I said.
“Bye Nadine, have a good time.”
“I will,” I whispered to myself as I went out the door.
It was a crisp, cold, fall day, the perfect kind for bookstore trips. Many people were out walking, running and biking, taking advantage of this rare occasion. I liked to watch people; not stare; but watch and try to figure out what kind of person they were. Today there were plenty of interesting people out. A big middle aged woman carried grocery bags across the street. An older man sporting a bowler hat was buying a newspaper. A young couple strolled their new baby proudly down the street. He was a beautiful baby, and I wanted to know his name. Often I wished I had the courage to approach someone and them about themselves.
I turned the corner and came to Kurpinski’s. It was a tall, brown brick building that blended in with the other buildings on the street. I t had once been an apartment building until Mr. Kurpinski bought it and filled every room with books. The only thing that stood out was the sign hung above the doorway that said in hand painted capital letters KURPINSKI’S BOOKS OLD AND NEW.
I walked up the cement stairs and into the doors, and my nose was immediately knocked out by the overpowering smells of old books and hazelnut coffee. I loved the smell and felt right at home. “Why have I not been here in so long?” I asked myself. All around me were tall bookshelves, and where there were not shelves there were piles of books on the floor. I stood, absorbing the moment until I realized I was blocking the doorway.
My first 10 or so minutes were spent wandering around the first floor, which were mainly new arrivals. I then preceded the second floor and found the shelves on which were kept collections of short stories. I ran my fingers across the books’ spines looking for the H’s. “Harold, Hanks…Hemingway, Hemfield…ah! Henry.”
There was just one book under the author O. Henry. I drew it out and looked at the cover. “The Best Short Stories of O. Henry” it said, and under the title was an illustration of a thoughtful looking man. I flipped to the table of contents and glanced down the list of stories within. Some names were familiar to me, and some were not. I recalled the sensations I had felt when I read “The Last Leaf” “The Gift of the Magi” and “The Ransom of Red Chief”. “William Sydney Porter,” I whispered aloud, “you were a clever man.”
Suddenly I felt the presence of someone standing behind me. I turned around slowly, and came face to face with a boy.
“Oh...uh…sorry,” I stammered, and quickly took a step backwards.
The boy looked at me curiously. “Were you…were you just talking to that book?” he asked.
“No. I mean. Well, I was talking to…,” I trailed off, embarrassed, and stared at my feet.
“Yeah, well anyway,” the boy said, obviously sorry for embarrassing me, but looking a bit puzzled “Would you mind moving out of the way so I can look for something?”
I moved, and as he looked through the shelves, I studied him. He seemed to be a bit older than me, but not by much. He was of medium height and rather skinny, and he had thin, dark hair that looked as if he had not brushed it, and liked it that way. He was frowning now and looking at the exact spot from which I had taken the book I held on my hands.
He stood up and was about to ask me something when I thrust the book towards him.
“Is this what you were looking for?” I asked.
He stared down at the book and the frown left his face.
“Ah, yes.” He said, and he took the book from my hands. He glanced over the cover and then looked up at me. “But I thought when you were, you know…er talking to it….you…didn’t you say someone’s name? It wasn’t O. Henry was it?”
“Oh, no,” I said, and I smiled for the first time since the beginning of our strange meeting. “I said William Sydney Porter. That’s O. Henry’s real name. Orrin Henry was just a pen name, a pseudonym.”
“Oooh. Gotcha,” the boy replied, a look of comprehension upon his face. “Sort of like that Lemony Snicket guy?”
“Ha, sure,” I said. “Except Lemony Snicket is a foolish name, and O. Henry could actually write. But, yeah, same idea.”
“Oh. Cool.”
“So, do you like O. Henry?” I asked. I had never really had a conversation with someone in a bookstore, and I was beginning to like it.
“No,” he responded.
“Oh,” I said, disappointed.
“I mean I wouldn’t know yet,” said the boy apologetically, correcting himself. “We’re reading his stuff in school, that’s why I need the book.”
I nodded slightly. There was a short silence.
“Well,” I said. “You can have that.”
“Oh,” He looked at me, realizing what I was saying. “Oh, no, no that’s fine, I mean that’s really nice of you, but you obviously wanted it, I can just go find one somewhere else.”
“No, really,” I said, beginning to smile. “Its really okay, I don’t need it, and you do. And you might not find a copy as cool as this one.”
“Alright, well thanks,” he said, looking at me a bit differently, and slightly smiling. “I’m Ben, by the way.” And he held out his hand.
Taking it, I said, “Nadine.”
“Well, Nadine,” he said kindly. “Since you were so generous in giving up your book, will you let me find you a new one?”
;D
But I did feel a little like something was missing during the conversation between Nadine and Ben. I would just add a bit more description; I know that's probably boring and not very helpful advice, but maybe if you just described Ben's voice or how he was looking at Nadine or narrate from Nadine's point of view... like how she felt 'warm and fuzzy' when looking at the books or what she thinks of Ben. Sorry, those aren't very great examples. And then cut out some of the less important imagery like "a look of comprehension upon his face" and "I nodded slightly. There was a short silence." I'm not sure, those things might be important. I'd just make the dialogue a bit snappier with maybe more imagery beforehand? Eek, I really can't make up my mind. And I love how he says 'ah.' I mean, how many guys say 'ah'? More should!