Prompt #92
Get a move on
Hello, My Monday People.
Apropos of nothing:
A good and wise friend of mine once graced me with the following words: “Action begets possibility.” I don’t know where she heard that line, and I don’t recall the circumstances under which she pressed those three words onto my consciousness. But I can tell you that ever since that day, I’ve repeated those words to myself many, many times—especially on days when I didn’t want to get out of bed. Recently, in moments when I’ve lost hope or felt that things were never going to get better, I’ve found those words have helped me climb back into the driver’s seat of my life. Taking action—and thereby opening up possibilities—has helped me immensely.
It’s a great mantra for my life—but just let them loose if they aren’t for you! I’m thinking some of you may find them useful, if not in your life, then in your writing. Surely, action begets possibility in our stories!
And now onto today’s prompt:
From the archives (edited)
Many of you have heard the phrase “in medias res” before—the Latin term that means “in the midst of things.” Writers are often advised to start their stories “in medias res.” In other words, launch right into the story itself, right in the middle of things—most often with an action.
A few examples:
Here are the opening lines of Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas:
“We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.”
And here is Jeffrey Eugenides beginning his novel The Virgin Suicides:
“On the morning the last Lisbon daughter took her turn at suicide - it was Mary this time, and sleeping pills, like Therese - the two paramedics arrived at the house knowing exactly where the knife drawer was, and the gas oven, and the beam in the basement from which it was possible to tie a rope.”
Of course, we all know the first lines from The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka:
“As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.”
Raymond Carver often began his short stories in the middle of things—with action/plot/forward movement:
From “Viewfinder”: A man without hands came to the door to sell me a photograph of my house.
From “Why Don’t You Dance?”: In the kitchen, he poured another drink and looked at the bedroom suite in his front yard.
Of course, not all stories (or novels) start in the middle of things. It’s not a requirement! But it’s a technique worth thinking about when writing your own stories. Many times, a first draft can be vastly improved simply by lopping off the first sentence, paragraph, page, or more. After all, you don’t want to bore your reader. You want them to remain glued to the page, hoping to find out what’s going to happen next.
Here are two tiny stories for your reading pleasure, each of which starts in medias res:
In Kevin Leahy’s story “Simple Physics,” the opening words “That same June night” let us know that something significant has already happened—and that there’s still more to come. We read on, looking for the mystery of what already happened, waiting to be told. Suspense holds us from those first four little words, which also serve to put us in the middle of the action.
In Pamela Painter’s “Their Closet,” we begin with dialogue. In this way, we are launched into the story. (Yes, you can start a story with dialogue, despite any other writing advice you may have read or received in the past.)
TODAY’S PROMPT
Write a story that starts in the middle of things. Launch right in! Put us in the scene. Don’t beat around the bush! Get your reader wondering what’s going to happen.
There are a ga-zillion ways to start in medias res. But here are some possible ways to start a story this week:
On second thought….
On the other hand….
Meanwhile….
At that moment….
As soon as….
And then…..
Start with dialogue—in the middle of a conversation.
Begin with a sentence of immediate action, in the manner of Raymond Carver.
Start with “That night,” or “That same night,” or “That morning,” or some variation, as Kevin Leahy did—anything that gets the action moving in the first sentence.
You might want to write a story in your usual manner, then revise so that the story begins in medias res.
Post up to 400 words in the Comments section, blah blah, blah, you know the rest!
NOTE: I’m hanging with my grandson George today and tomorrow and may not be able to read your stories as promptly as I normally do. Eating snacks, watching trucks, and making faces is a bit more important, obviously.
Truth be told, today a little something is wrong. She just can’t remember what it is. That’s been happening more and more of late. Something pops into Wendy’s head and then pops right back out again. Lately, she’d been growing weary of this endeavor called life. Why couldn’t she have died the way Carl did, asleep in his bed, none the wiser? And still young enough for people to show up at his funeral, say nice things about him. There will be no one left to eulogize Wendy when she goes—no one who knew her in her youth, when no one called her Wendy or Mrs. Axelrod, but instead Weazel, or sometimes Weaze, until Carl came along and changed it to Wiz.
No, there would only be Lynne who has called her “Mother” all of her adult life. Never Mom or Mommy or Ma. Mother. A very efficient name. Always so insistent. Always telling Wendy what to do. Take this pill in the morning with this one. Take that one in the afternoon with all of these. This one with food. That one only before bed. When did you last shower? Your teeth—are you brushing them? Mother, you don’t smell good. A daughter should be a mother’s best friend, not a stranger with constant instructions.
How many pills had Wendy taken this morning? She couldn’t remember. It was just too hard to keep track. You take one and then you can’t remember if you took it, so you take another one until all of it is wrong. Today, she’d given up and taken all of them.
“How about a slice of cake?” the girl asks Wendy. Is she same one who wheeled Wendy to the dining hall? This one is from another country, though they all look the same in their purple scrubs, their pretty smiles. Cake! What a lovely surprise.
“Thank you,” Wendy says. She feels very, very tired. She can already see the way she’ll buy this one birthday presents. They’ll have lunch. The girl will visit all of the time. She'll give such a lovely eulogy. “Thank you, my sweet girl.”
The moment Eleanor woke, she knew she needed to take action. This had gone on long enough. Allen, her dead husband, had come to her again in a dream. This time they were standing at the edge of the ocean, holding hands, something they had rarely done in life. As they looked out at the water, Allen had leaned in and whispered, “the water holds all secrets, but the secrets are drowning.” This was the same kind of bullshit he had been spouting in her dreams for the last two weeks. In life, Allen had been an accountant, tight fisted and practical, with no interest in philosophizing. In her dreams he was a half-witted guru, uttering inanities like “all paths lead to the same circle” and “beneath the bushes, that’s where the gold is found.”
An hour later, Eleanor stands at the edge of Long Island Sound. It is a cold day and she’s all alone on the beach. She looks up at the clouds and says loudly, “The water holds no secrets, Allen. You know what it holds? Plastic bags, algae, jellyfish, motor oil, body parts, and those ugly crustaceans that look like miniature armored dinosaurs.” She picks up a rock and it skips twice on the surface before plunging into the water. “That’s a sign, Allen. You know what it means? It means leave me the fuck alone. Let me sleep in peace.”