[stylist] Comments on Torn Fragments: From and Beyond the Hospital Bed

Thu Jan 5 19:11:27 UTC 2012

Bridget,
Your critique is excellent, pinpointing areas that somehow I knew were just
narrative, and not in the least poetic.  Re-reading your piece, I understand
in a better way what you are suggesting. Many of your critiques talked of
your lyricism. I guess that means the language.
I will use your comments as a road map not only in this Prologue, but in
many of the pieces that follow.
I thank you for the time you took.
Sincerely,
Jackie

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
Behalf Of Bridgit Pollpeter
Sent: Wednesday, January 04, 2012 5:48 PM
To: stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject: [stylist] Comments on Torn Fragments: From and Beyond the
HospitalBed

Jackie,

Beautiful language. I love the line, "If red is for courage and white
for surrender, what color is for a broken heart?" This really stood out
to me.

In the following section, you could try developing scenes, which may be
more powerful than just stating, reporting, what happened: "Can you
believe she told this man how to clean up her own blood? Do you believe
this happened once before, leaving her with three broken ribs, a gash in
her head? Do you believe his ex-wife talked her out of pressing
charges?"
Try placing us in the moment, allow us to "see" what happened. Maybe the
sentence about the broken limbs and bloody, bashed in head, you can try
using a lot of descriptive language.

You can also try turning the following into a scene with more
descriptive language: "An army of volunteers with their armada of
pick-ups saw the intimidation, 
held her together, got her out in six hours flat."

When a reader is allowed to "experience" a moment along with the
character/person, the narrative becomes more powerful, pulling us in
rather than just sitting on the sidelines. This is really my only
suggestion. Take each moment and create a scene, even use dialogue at
times. Try working more, too, with sensory descriptions and imagery.
Focus on an abstract concept that relays what is happening.

It does read more like prose, and I would agree this has a
stream-of-consciousness flow, but I recommend including expanded scenes
putting readers right there, letting us "feel" the pain, sorrow,
helplessness. And really rely on those descriptions and imagery. Great
piece otherwise.

Sincerely,
Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter
Read my blog at:
http://blogs.livewellnebraska.com/author/bpollpeter/

"History is not what happened; history is what was written down."
The Expected One- Kathleen McGowan

Message: 13
Date: Tue, 3 Jan 2012 19:29:07 -0700
From: "Jacqueline Williams" <jackieleepoet at cox.net>
To: "'Writer's Division Mailing List'" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: Re: [stylist] Holiday exercise: Tattered Remains of
	Christmas,	fiction, language & strong content
Message-ID: <68D215856CDE4A728D90552234B86A1C at JackiLeePoet>
Content-Type: text/plain;	charset="us-ascii"

Bridget,
It has been a long time since I have written you. Your "Tattered remains
of Christmas is one of the most powerful brief stories of domestic
violence and its personal history and manifestations in its beginnings
that I have ever read. I can hardly believe that it is fictional. The
language is beautiful on an ugly subject. Emotionally, I was unable to
critique it. I take a long time to process certain things. This is one
of them. The book I am trying to finalize is on this subject. I have had
to write it in third person, and learned the craft of poetry in order to
further distance myself from the experience itself as well as the
further victimization of our court system. 
I attempted to write my entire book in poetry without any prose. This
prologue is prose poetry, supposedly, in that it has aligned margins at
the right, and has some subtle differences from straight prose. It might
be what you described earlier as stream-of-consciousness. I do not know
if it will come out that way as a cut and paste. I do not compare this
to your story. It is literally "torn fragments" which is how I thought
mentally the first few months and on into several years on Prozac and in
pain. I could not write with my right hand for 18 months, which added to
the fragmentary nature of left-handed notes. Please do not be afraid to
critique this in the same way you would any writing. I have submitted
the manuscript in 10 contests for poetry, and have not placed. I am in
the process of re-writing and re-organizing the book which has about 70
pages. The title is "Run, Quail, Run." If I could write like you, it
might have been published.

Your story has fictionalized something   in a riveting way.

Prologue

Torn Fragments-From and Beyond the Hospital Bed 

She cried from bottomless pain. His isolation, his loneliness, How will
he eat and manage things? A nurse stormed, "Woman, your right hand
fractured, an IV in your left, a broken nose-punctured eardrum, kicked
black and blue, you worry about him!" A pretty young counselor appeared
to her, explained; too much alcohol, blackouts, followed by total
denial. He must maintain, "I loved her so much, I could not have done
this. It is her fault." If so, then is he lying to himself about things
that happened repeatedly throughout his life? Has it always been denial
followed by fiction that she so firmly believed? And what of her own
imaginings? She must understand her choice of partner. If red is for
courage and white for surrender, what color is a broken heart? Her
ninety-year-old mother, terrorized, sleeps with a gun at her side. Three
and one half weeks, she feels nothing with her bitten tongue. Why were
no breathalyzer tests done on both of them? Passed out cold when they
went to pick him up, they had to break in. Next day in jail he said,
"I've not had a drink in ten years." One deputy smelled alcohol, one did
not. Released because of his age, domestic animals, and diabetes, she
has to prove that he has been drinking since then. No one will let her
stay alone. Gratitude overwhelms her. A week and a half to cover his
actions while she lay helpless, his attorney excused his incessant calls
trying to get her back-bribes and threats. "Business," he claimed. First
call he asked, "How can I get hold of someone to clean up this mess?"
Blood on the carpet, couch, walls. Like a minor detail. Like... "What is
this?" She, in rote, said, "Put lots of cold water on it. Keep blotting
it." Oh My God! Did she think she would return to claim it? Can you
believe she told this man how to clean up her own blood? Do you believe
this happened once before, leaving her with three broken ribs, a gash in
her head? Do you believe his ex-wife talked her out of pressing charges?
"Poor man-childhood filled with abuse." It was then she said he'd beaten
her twice, never remembered, denied it. Did they train this man so he
beat those
who would provoke him, creating the monster of their own destruction?
The
first wife died, the next ran off- but the ex is still here, returned
three times to defend him. Is it money? Is it the roller coaster after
which nothing else will do-or simply learned helplessness from which one
cannot return to "Go" alone. She did not know the entire hospital staff
was holding its collective breath lest she return to him. Is this what
women do and why police give up? The post office will not separate and
forward her mail. He owns the box. He will not put hers in General
Delivery. Should she steal her own mail until he changes the key and
pray she does not get caught? A stand-by officer took her to their
home-did not stand by, while she got some things. Six miles from town on
a country road, Quail Run,he said, "Call me if he comes in the gate." He
wouldn't give her two days to move her things-only eight hours, but his
attorney said he would be gone. He was not, came in the house, got his
gun, then left. 

						(stanza break)
An army of volunteers with their armada of pick-ups saw the
intimidation, 
held her together, got her out in six hours flat. They passed him in the
lane coming back. Her mother's prize irises were left lining the long
driveway. Why is the perpetrator in charge while the victim jumps
through hoops? Homeless now, in this small town, how does she start
anew? Her possessions, waiting lists for housing, storage-a strange new
life, A woman in a real estate office-one look at her-helped in every
way, found her a protected place, injected starch straight up her
backbone. Did anyone ever love him enough to make him accountable? Does
she? In just ten minutes he lost forever-an extended family he worked
hard to become a part of, his compatible partner, the near culmination
of their hopes and plans. He gained a prison within himself. In those
same ten minutes she lost a man, a future, a dream, a place she helped
to plan, to build, to plant and grow. The loneliness has not yet begun,
the coping is too strenuous. When will the nightmare end? If others
judge her by those five years, where will she be in their hearts? They
cannot know that 51% of their time was a near miracle of joy, the rest
despair. She feels ashamed. If, oh, if she were to go back, he would
protect her-no one would know-until the next time, when one might see
the announcement of her accidental death. She cannot betray her
"sisters." They helped her stand firm when she cried, could not cope
with his imagined pain. A writer should experience everything. Should
she kill him and go to jail? Or should she kill him and hire a man like
Johnny Cochran for her defense? Alone, she will be her own
conversational partner. Is that healthful? But, Wow! She can write and
have macaroni and cheese for breakfast . She has wanted to die sometimes
but friends and family have given her reasons to live. Yes, he did try
to isolate her, but the erosion of the cement which bound her to her
family and friends had not gone too far. She knew she always walked the
dangerous edge with him. She is left with crumbs. Her friends gather
them like diamonds-hold them close. What does he have? She must see a
counselor to move through this fog. She is in no-man's land. Or has she
finally entered man's land? She has always played by the rules. Why is
the system failing her now? She does not walk alone. In the middle of
her fire, people are suffering "smoke inhalation" trying to save her.
Now she must be responsible for her own fire prevention. How? He has
been taught some bad lessons. With alcohol, it's like he got in a car
with no steering wheel. It hit her! Whatever happens, there are so many
possible mistakes, she is not required to make this particular one
again. Will she ever be able to love or trust again? Everybody, take out
a life insurance policy on her. She is going to testify. Is she afraid?
You bet! Her sister said she would put a "white light" around her, her
mother said she was putting a "hex" on him. A friend said she'd asked
God to look after her, another pinned a guardian angel on her lapel. She
will take whatever she can get-he is looking for her!
Note: Neither my title or subtitle can be bolded, nor bigger, so I don't
know what is going on. (But that is not unusual.) Jackie  

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