Look Away

         Hours passed since the second tower collapsed. The dust nearly settled, but a horrid smell lingered in the air. The smell could hardly compare to the disturbing noises that melted together and poured over the entire city, making it as impossible to think as it was to breathe. Sirens, horns, yells, screams, cries. Hundreds of people pushed against the barricades, unable to enter the emergency room. We were all there for different reasons. Some came to help, many came to pray, others came for news. I came for assurance that this was all just a bad dream. Determined, clutching the photograph against my chest, I pushed forward. Somehow, I managed to get to the front of the line. Most of the crowd seemed to stand in a daze, watching the scene that unfolded in front of the hospital. Ambulance after ambulance pulled into and out of the emergency room parking lot.
Dozens upon dozens of hospital personnel waited at the entrance to the emergency room, frantically receiving the incoming casualties. One of the hospital workers walked along the line of the crowd, shouting directions. “If you’re donating blood,” called out a tall man in a green hospital uniform, “Please move to the left end of the parking lot. Please,” He continued to repeat this instruction as he moved along the line of the crowd, which was held back by barricades from swarming the emergency room. There was a shift in the crowd; countless of people began shuffling towards the left. The next thing I knew the hospital worker was right in front of me, walking past. Before I could align my thoughts, I reached over the barricade and grabbed his arm. I held it tight, desperate for his attention. His eyes grew wide as they met mine. “Please,” I whimpered, thrusting the photograph in front of his face, “My fiancé, I don’t know if he’s ok. Please.” I held his eyes for only an instant, and in them I saw pity I had never seen before in my entire life. The intensity of his pity shook something inside of me. I felt my grip loosen. He quickly looked away from me as he said, “I’m sorry, I don’t have any information on victims at this time.” He walked off, but I would never forget his expression. He looked...ashamed.
It wasn’t until months later that I realized that the hospital worker was shamed at not being able to look at me.  The eyes are the only organs capable of reflecting the full intensity our emotions. I suppose my own eyes held pain too intense for him to bear. He could not bear my agony.
That reaction, that shame, I would see for months to come. My friends, my family, even strangers, seemed unable to meet my eyes without huge effort. That is the side of grief no one talks about. The shame. It’s what everyone around you feels when they realize your pain is so horrifying, so penetrating, that words could never begin to mediate it. My fiancé, James, was lost that day, taken by evilness and misguided souls. A part of me, pieces I can’t begin to describe, was ripped from me. Now I’m incomplete, hollow. I do not wish to burden anyone with my pain. But every year, I see it again. Those shameful eyes, carefully glancing towards me, secretly wishing they didn’t have to face the agony in my own. What shame.

---

Fiction. I wrote this in Sept 2011. But I was inspired by an unfortunate moment I experienced recently. I felt uncomfortable in facing someone who had lost a loved one in an accident. My reaction--my selfish desire to turn away from their pain because it was too much for me, left me ashamed and terrified that the person would notice. Also made me wonder if this is something victims experience often. 

Trusting Your Voice

I'm struggling in my writing. I think it's because I am entering a realm I've never dealt with before: a novel.

All of my life, I've written short stories. Typically a short story may take me an hour or two to write, maybe less. I love the process: I get inspired, I write, revise and its done. Back to back. Instant payoff. And a few days later, with a clearer head I may go back and revise. Short stories have spoiled me. They are straight to the point--no nonsense. Now, I have finally accepted that writing a novel is a completely different process. And it's not going to happen in a day--or even a month. This is frustrating for me, but I'm making the commitment to stick to this story i'm writing.

Now i'm beginning to love the extended process i'm experiencing. Thinking of my story all the time, having random ideas fall into my head--its exciting. But now that i've made the commitment to finish this novel...I'm beginning to question my voice, my narrative style. Am I too minimalist? Do I need more...fluff, more words?

This may sound like a stupid question. By instinct, I am not very descriptive in my writing. I believe that if you describe a situation well enough, it will invoke a feeling. You don't have to tell a reader what to feel, just make them feel it. But my minimalist nature extends to other parts of the story as well. I find myself only describing what is essential to understand the current scene. I don't go on about what characters are wearing, unless their clothes are of importance to the plot. This manner of writing has always felt natural. But now I'm second guessing myself. When you are asking the reader to commit to a novel, do you need to offer them a more thorough description of the world? I'm really torn on this and actually stopped writing to question myself, and my voice.

After some introspection, I started thinking as a reader...what do I like and what do I not like. And this is what i've come to decide. On some level, I feel like descriptions of unusual things should be in more detail than descriptions of the common place. For instance, when reading other stories, I sometimes feel annoyed when writers thoroughly describe what their characters are wearing. I wonder, what does this have to do with the story? I would understand if the character's clothes are a hint to their personality...but in general descriptions of clothes--I think--are not necessary. Also, I think descriptions of a character's physical appearance doesn't have to be so in depth. I find it only necessary to describe specific facial features if they add some interest to the character's appearance.


I am spending a lot of time second guessing myself. I am analyzing, and reading other novels, I am beginning to build a truer sense of the writer I am. It's still not any easier, however. Writing a novel is a completely different process from writing short stories. Writing a novel takes dedication. It takes discipline. It takes losing sleep and writing even when you don't feel like it. I am making great progress. Facing my fear of failure. Telling myself that if I don't finish this, I may never forgive myself.

Afraid

I've just realized, as I sit in front of my computer...staring at that word document i've been working on for two years, that I am afraid. I am afraid to write. I was not always afraid. There was a time I would write because it felt good, because it was part of me--what my soul was meant to do. But ever since I considered that, perhaps, writing could lead to something more...boom, I got afraid. Now writing is a potential for failure. What if what I write isn't good? What if no one will read it? What if someone DOES read it?

I've got get over this. Quick. Because not writing eats away at me. Everything I don't put down on paper weighs on me, on my brain. Ok, first step is admitting the problem. Ok, problem. I see you, you're there.

Now go away.

This life is for Warriors

He's been called to serve, and so have you. In your closet, you find that pack again. You hesitate. It’s grown since you last saw it; almost twice as large. Every pocket seems stuffed to capacity. Just the sight of it makes you wonder if you could do this again. You shut your eyes and gather yourself, pulling the straps over your shoulders. God, it’s so heavy, cutting into your skin, almost too much to bear. It’s the weight of all the things you do not know, but worst of all, of all the things you do know. No one else can see this pack, but you will wear for the months to come. You're a military wife: this life is for warriors, and that’s just what you are.