write one scene:
the meticulous manager who lives in a messy house;
Fortus Meagher, walked through the plant, picking up pieces of fiberglass that was left on the shop floor after a panic order and precision cut. He knew the crew would be back to clean up but he feared criticism by his boss. He took every critique personally.
“Damn, where’s that vac? Bill, I need the vac, this has to be cleaned up,” Fortus called out to the only employee within miles.
“Oh, Mr. Meagher, Yes,” replied Bill. “I’ll get it right away, sorry about the mess, but I’m finishing the last part of the order. The guys are delivering the boat to the dock.”
“Oh, no, Bill just point me in the direction, for I’ll do this. You finish your work,” he said shuffling off to the supply closet Bill pointed to.
Fortus, was not a neat freak. Far from it, for he would never have a casual Super Bowl Party or March Madness gathering with the guys at his home. It would ruin their opinion of him. His diligence at work was performed, not for himself, but for his boss. He had mounds of energy for others, and hardly any for himself. His home was void of character and his existence stark.
As the vac ceased his angry voice at the fiber dust and Fortis packed its tendrils coiling them around the protruding handles, he closed the closet door and continued his inspection.
Do the same 1Ps
When I lined up the documents and work orders on my desk I left the confines of the management department and pressed on into the workers domain. The staunch difference was notable; the lack of carpets, the walls consisted of concrete, and metal framework, not the vinyl wall paper of contemporary preference predominant in the front portion of the shop. Not ten steps in however, I noted the floor ridden with dust, fibers from the finishing that went into the order whose triplicate was lined up perfectly on my desk.
“Bill, where’s the vac? This needs to be cleaned up,” I called out to the specialist currently wearing safety glasses and a dust mask.
He was focused and didn’t hear me over the droaning of his machine.
Bill, looked up at me as I drew closer, signaling that I needed the shop vac in a vague but comical motion, yet not wanting him to stop working on his task.
Sensing my concern, Bill looked up and removed his safety glasses and the noise wound down to a stop.
“It’s all right, Mr. Meagher, I’m done here, what do you need?”
“I only want to get the vac and clean up for the guys. I know they ran out of here trying to deliver the cruiser on time,” I said staying his attempt to get up and assist me.
After I retrieved the vac and started my own sequence of noises the dust was gone and the place looked good enough for inspection, which was the motivating factor after all, I must keep the boss happy.
Now if I could get this ethic to follow me home. I have a greater tolerance for clutter in the privacy of my own home. No one to impress, master of my own ship when I’m not at work building them. I can be myself.
Building a fiction character:
You could start with this
questionnaire (or make one up for yourself ): Name? Age? Place of birth?
Residence? Occupation? Appearance? Dress? Strengths? Weakness?
Obsessions? Ambition? Work habits? Hobbies? Illness? Family? Parents?
Kids? Siblings? Friends? Pets? Politics? Tics? Diet? Drugs? Favorite kinds
of coffee, cigarettes, alcohol? Erotic history? Favorite books, movies,
music? Desires? Fears? Most traumatic event? Most wonderful
experience? The major struggle, past and present?
Setting exercise from: http://www.open.edu
Make a list of objects you remember from your childhood home. Don’t use any particular order or many adjectives. Don’t censor yourself – something seemingly unimportant may evoke strong impressions. Read through your list and circle the objects that evoke the strongest feelings and memories of events.
long hallway, gramophone
swivel chair, yellow room, crib, kittens, dirt floor basement, back porch, dingle, aquarium
dolls, closet, washing machine, stove, kitchen table, piano, television
The crib, baby sis. Five years younger antsy in crib not sure what delayed mom. I couldn’t figure out the gadget that released the bar and lower the side. After several moments of trying to lower the side and get little sis out, I decided to lift her out over the side. The bar finally decided to release and the momentum of little sis and the new found freedom hurled us backward into the closet. She of course, landed on top of me and in the ensuing moments, mom finally appeared.
Sis was still crying, but I was unscathed. Turns out, hours later after a trip to the ER, little sis broke her collar bone, and I felt like an idiot. I was seven and it wasn’t going to be a good year.
I read the start writing fiction series on http://www.open.edu
I am about to comb through Summer Palace one more time. I wanted to get some sage advice under my belt. I need to include vivid imagery and heed some of the good critiques I got from YouWriteOn.com. By the previous comb through I added about 8,000 words, I have envisioned a couple scenes I will work in. So, I thought I would share some of these exercises and thoughts with you. I hope it helps.