Before I Could Write - Part 14

So I have been chronicling my terrible attempts at writing when I was young but we have reached the end of the story. I pretty much was suddenly struck with writing talent in 2005, so I only have one year left to tell you about, which was my first year of university.

Since I studied writing at university, this first year was a bit of a rollercoaster as I started out with my leftover hackness from before and quickly learned a lot of important lessons. Those first few classes were kind of a quick slap in the face.

In my first year, I wrote seven short stories (not to mention multiple scripts, essays, reviews, poems and articles). Well, I actually wrote a lot more than that, what I mean is, that I handed in seven to be graded on. Of those seven, I think one is actually quite good and another has potential. Two were just left over rubbish I had already written, and I still cringe wondering why I bothered handing them in. But that leaves three stories that I could share as examples of 'before' I could write, but right before, so starting to not be quite as awful as I had been.

Since this is the last of my bad writing (well, I hope anyway), I'm going to share TWO examples and then we can all move on with our lives forever (so tune in tomorrow for the other one).

Me, aged 19, styling a LOT of hair gel.

This one was a timed assignment. I don't remember exactly how long we were given, either a day or a weekend. The tutor (author and poet Sheenagh Pugh) gave us a theme (in this case it was an article or advert for an inflatable church) and a word count (I specifically remember that it was two sides of A4, because I reduced my font size slightly to fit it all in!) and you had to quickly write a story and hand it in within the deadline, because there had to be some kind of 'timed assessment' part of our grades to make up for the fact that we didn't take exams (I specifically only applied for writing courses that didn't have exams because I hated exams so much and decided after college that I would never do any again!). So in my defence, I did not have very long to conceive or review this idea. It pretty much is what it is with no thought or polish. Personally, I find the narrator of this to be so bitter and nasty that it's no fun to read at all.

Inflatable Church

It hadn’t meant much when Selene found that stupid advert about the inflatable church.  The others grew excited (except Mae, who wasn’t told) but I ignored them and read my newspaper.

* 

Lying there gave everything a new perspective.  I tried to beckon Selene forward but it was several hours before she noticed; why did they leave her to look over me?

“What is it, Ritchie?”  Always Ritchie, never Dad; we were a modern family.

“Don’t, on any account, get married in that stupid inflatable catastrophe of a church,” I told her.  “It’s unholy and it’s tacky and this is my wish.”  Obviously those words didn’t come out but I think I made the ‘don’t’ ‘get married in’ ‘inflatable’ ‘church’ clear.  It certainly used up the last of my strength and breathing became more of a task after that.

Selene’s face didn’t change.  She pulled the sheets around me and returned to her corner as far away from me as possible, as if I hadn’t uttered a word.  But she must have heard me.  She must.

I sweated in my sickbed and became aware that not only Selene was with me.

“Has he said anything?” asked Mae’s sweet tones.

“No,” sneered Selene, glad to get away.

Yeah, only my dying wish, I thought.  Nothing major.  And now I suppose it is time for my repentance; I’ve already made my deathbed confession (Daph took the weekend in Miami and the six waitresses pretty well).

Mae crept to my side, in case I was sleeping.  She had spent hours with me and I don’t know why.  I’d done nothing to deserve it and yet she loved me.  I looked at her and tried to speak, but it was too late.  I could never tell her I was sorry or how proud I was.  Of her.  Lovely little her.  She leant over my bed and that lock of hair I had so often threatened to cut off dangled down across her face.  She lifted my hand tenderly in hers and brushed the lock to the side.  She smiled with me.

*

And then I stood before the Archangel at the gates of Heaven and he gave me leave to return to Earth to avenge my disregarded final wish…  Well, that’s not how he put it, more to share a last joy with my family.

I found myself in the doorway of the inflatable church, bobbing about with the faux angels as the breeze rushed in and sent us swirling about like balloons.  I was reminded horribly of when Miguel had constructed that inflatable brothel (ten sex dolls and the boys’ bouncy castle).  He’d spent two weeks in there and these angels were scarily reminiscent…

Selene, Gina and Daph entered (Mae was probably left unloading the car).  Selene whispered how beautiful it was, which not only made me question her eyesight and judgement but made me wonder why she whispered.  It was a sign of respect to plastic and air.

“I’m surprised you can hear over the hum,” I said sarcastically, and the minister looked at me.

“Oh, you’ll find that’ll be turned off come the ceremony,” he said.

And I was left shocked, floating in the corner, addressed for the first time since I died.

*

Now here I stand by Selene’s side staring at plastic fibre walls and trying to condone her actions.

I’m surprised they’re getting married at all so I should be grateful, but how I long for a little more tradition.  Since I cannot perform the act of giving her away, she is led up the aisle on the arm of her pregnant lesbian friend.  That doesn’t matter to me; I liked Gina.  I liked her more than I liked my second daughter Mae, who is now alone in a back pew looking wistfully for my essence while I wish I had known her.

What can be more untraditional than a blow-up chapel?  Selene’s dress.  She went for the revealing two piece rather than the flowing dress I bought her three years ago when she was going to marry Frank.  Thank God that didn’t happen.  But why white?  Shows she doesn’t believe in any sort of traditional values.  The clonking of their stilettos on the wooden floor seems out of place in this encased nothingness.

As the vows are being read, a loud squeak makes the minister jump but he continues.  Then it occurs again and we all turn round.  Stupidly thinking she was keeping with the theme of things, Daph bought the boys those giant inflatable hammers.  Where did I go wrong?  The two pageboys have almost shredded their restricting tuxes and are busy bopping each other over the head.  Daph looks on, dragging on a cigarette under her widow’s veil.  They’ve told her six times not to smoke.  I hope fervently she doesn’t burst the place and kill us all; I’d hate to be with them all again so soon.

It’s the part where everyone gets the chance to speak up and say, ‘No!  Don’t get married!’  The minister waits patiently; he takes his job seriously in this blessed, bloated house of God, so I shout at him.  I can do it without offending.  I jump up and tell the jury every reason under the sun why Selene and Miguel should not on any account enter into holy wedlock.  Then he looks at me, slightly startled and I remember that he’s close to God and able to hear me.

I step down and stand next to Mae.  I touch her hand and a tear escapes her eye.  As Miguel slips the ghastly bit of tat (not inflatable but possibly still plastic) on Selene’s finger, I ask, “Is this even legal?” and Mae grasps the air where my fingers should be.  Of course no one has checked and I’m glad, I’d hate Selene and Miguel to actually be married.  She’s happy enough; far too happy for the heartless and selfish trash I’ve brought her up to be.  Like I was myself.  I wonder how I ever created Mae and wish it wasn’t just the church that was blown up.