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#Post#: 57530--------------------------------------------------
writing as dead
By: Raven` Date: August 13, 2015, 9:34 am
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[ You know Rae is serious when she decides to use proper casing
for OOC notes ]
I was recently reading my summer reading book, The Catcher in
the Rye. So far, its a nice book. Though like most summer
reading books, there are outdated terms that I must use context
clues to solve. But that isn't the point. The point is that, as
I was reading this, I realized. I didn't care much for Holden
Caulfield, the main character, or Robert Ackley, his obnoxious
dormroom neighbor. The old Spencers in the very beginning was
deemed boring the second I started reading into them, and Ward
Stradlater was deemed the same.
It wasn't until Allie was brought up. Allie, the younger brother
with a head full of red hair. Allie, who played baseball with
all his heart. Allie, who wrote poems on the fingers and
webbings of his mitt, so he could be distracted when no one was
up to bat. Who, despite the heavily believed rumor that gingers
were always angry, was always happy. Who would fall out of his
chair because he was laughing at something he thought of. Who
could put a smile on anyone's face.
Who died of leukemia. Who caused grief in the family. Who caused
Holden, on the night of his death, to punch out every window in
the garage, and would've punched out the windows of the car if
his hand wasn't already swollen and bleeding. Who's older
brother can't even make a tight fist anymore because of all that
happened that night. Who I only new for about two pages, and his
life was cut short within the first half. Who brought tears to
my eyes because I could see that he had so much to live for, and
lost his life due to a dumb cancer.
See? Writing a character as dead brings life into them. Ironic,
right? I could care less about Allie if we was still alive. But
no. Allie was dead. His story was done while his brother's
continued to write this book. And that made me think. Why does
writing one as dead make them even more interesting when they're
alive? You could be the most interesting person ever, but you
won't reach your full peak until you're gone.
Now that I'm writing this out, hasn't this happened before?
Hasn't there been cases where authors, artists, and musicians
died before anyone noticed how good they were? How, when they
died, a lot of their stuff was recognized as amazing, and so
were they, but they weren't there to experience it? Weird, isn't
it??
Well, I'm going to try it. I'm going to practice my writing, and
try to write my family members as dead. Morbid, I know. But I
want to see if that makes them more interesting then if I would
write them as living. I want to see if I can prove my theory
this way.
Here we go. Oldest, to youngest. Oh, and this will be done over
the course of the week. One a day, so I don't over exert myself.
[spoiler=Father]He, like most fathers are, was a great man. But
you had to get to know him, power through a conversation with
him, and be ready for any blunt replies if you wanted anything
friendship like out of him. He was ready to tell the truth, and
only the truth. Nothing more and nothing less would slip out of
his lips. It was a blessing and a curse.
He was a hard worker, too. Last I checked, he worked from seven
to three at an office job for this big corporation, and then
from three thirty to whenever he had to stop because of the
labor at plots of land that held old, condemned or abandoned
buildings, cleaning them up so that more homes were available to
those in need of them. He nearly broke his back every day for
this family, and I don't remember saying as much as a thanks for
it all.
Family was a big thing for my father. Everything he did was for
his family. He struggled at work, even when it hurt him, so his
son could have that new video game that's been on the market. He
puts in a few hours on his day off so that his elder son can
have the money to buy food for his two daughters. He comes home
late at night and, despite everything in his body telling him to
rest, sits at the kitchen table and sacrifices a few hours just
so he can talk to his wife. Family was everything.
Now, of course, everyone has faults. My father's was drinking.
Every day, I remember, my mom would have to run to the corner
store to snag a new pack of beers before my dad could come home.
The first thing he'd do before he'd sit down was crack open a
can and down at least half of it. More than half of the pack
would be gone by the time dinner came around, and the rest would
be done by the afternoon of the next day, when he stopped by
home to change clothes. He had yet to admit his reliance to the
alcohol, but really, that's a hard thing to admit to if you'd
been doing it since your first child, over twenty five years
ago.
But my father was also a nervous and worrying man. You couldn't
catch that air from him at a first meeting, but he was. He was
nervous about his words, as his native language was Spanish. He
was worried about his appearance, as one smudge on his pants
from his second job could land him in some trouble at his first.
He was worried for his younger kids. Did they have enough to
eat? To snack on? Are they doing good in school? Do they need
help? He worried for his elder kids. Does his oldest have enough
to feed his kids? Does his second oldest even pay attention to
his child? Does his third oldest, who isn't even his child
biologically, know that doing drugs not only hurts him but his
family too?
Hell, I remember one day, talking to my mother about my father.
We pointed out his strong points and his weak points. We laughed
about times we had, we sighed about times we had. But my mother
told me that the reason he's so nervous about me having sleep
overs is because, when he was a kid, little girls would have
sleep overs, and then go home telling their parents that their
friend's daddy touched them. He didn't want that to happen. He
didn't want to hurt my reputation, or his own. So when I had
friends over, he would hide himself in his bedroom, seldom
coming out so he couldn't risk such things.
My father was a good man. I loved him so much. I still do. I
just wish I showed it a lot more when I had the chance. I
remember being scared of talking to him because, like I said in
the beginning, it was hard to power through a conversation with
him. He was nitpicky about certain things, and sometimes, I just
didn't care for a conversation like that. I wish I had powered
through those conversations even more. I wish I told him all
about my school life, instead of saying 'everything's fine'. I
wish I told him more about my fights with my friends or
significant others. I wish I talked to him more, so I could get
more advice. I wish I could get more time, in general, just so I
could tell him how much I love him.[/spoiler]
[spoiler=Mother]I loved my mother so, so, so much. We were
incredibly close. Sure, she was snippy at times, and didn't want
her bratty, stuck up, conceited child in her face all the time.
But so was I. Who in their right mind actually wants to talk to
their mother every second of the day? I did. I still want to.
I loved her so much. Her voice was soothing in such a way that I
wouldn't fall asleep, but instead stay bright awake. Her
conversation was always intriguing, as a lot of it was made up
of hand motions and expressions. She always said things with a
matter-of-fact tone. And, although she would have never admitted
to it, sometimes, her laugh was more like a cackle. Screechy and
high pitched. Sometimes she would bring her hand down on the
table or her knee a few times if her laugh was hard and genuine.
Other times it would just be a soft chuckle.
I rarely ever saw my mother truly sad or truly angry. She had
bipolar disorder, which gave her the extreme highs and lows of
those two emotions. But because these signs were seen as her
just being her when she was younger, she never looked for
treatment. She was forced to live with the crazed highs and
lows. When she was locked up, she was forced to control them.
The mother I saw was the mother I knew, but the mother I knew
wasn't who she was when she was young.
I remember once when I saw my mother cry real tears. It was
during one of the many break ups she had with my father. I had
come home from school that day and she sat me down. We talked,
and I started to cry at the news of moving out. Soon, tears
slipped from her eyes. I pulled her into a hug, thinking she was
crying over her father. No. She told me she was crying for me.
For my younger brother. She never wanted us to go through
something like this before. And the thought alone made her sad.
I remember faintly before all of this when my mother was angry.
My father was terribly drunk and was throwing slurs at her. I
was on my laptop, trying to block out the noise. I would've left
the room to go check on my brother and keep him distracted, but
they were blocking the one door way between the two rooms. So I
stayed in my room and listened to the yelling. At some point, I
heard a thump. I hopped up, and ran to the door and pulled it
open just a little. The table was against the back door, all of
its toppings scattered on the floor. My mother had my father
pinned against the fridge. I remember the fear in his eyes as I
closed the door and hid away under a few blankets.
I loved my mother so much that sometimes, I would let things
slip. I would let her agree to not tell someone something, and
then gossip about it later. I would trust her not to tell others
something, and allow her to tell others anyways. I would let her
convince everyone that any animal under her name was perfect
with no flaws. All because I loved her.
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