In AWA workshops facilitators are trained to encourage participants to write what comes. Sometimes I’ll notice a writer cringe or look startled after contemplating the prompt. That’s my queue to gently remind them that, “What you write today is what you’re supposed to write.”
A few weeks ago, I had to swallow my own medicine. It was bitter, and I had to fight like hell to keep it down.
The prompt was: Begin with a twinkle in someone’s eye.
I imagined I’d see a kind, elderly old man, or a cherub like child smiling and ready to tell his or her story of love, happiness and butterflies. Nope. What came surprised and frightened me. In our 25 minute writing period, I had to fight with this man who would not go away. So, I took my own advice and gave in.
He hated when she looked at him that way; dark grey eyes twinkling with the beginnings of tears. Tears that would puddle in the corner of her eyes, and then slide down the sides of her face. She never sobbed or wailed or whimpered. She was the calmest crier he had ever known. After he finished, after his last blow, he would step back, dazed with anger and rage, mad more at himself, and unable to remember what had set him off. This time.
She, his wife, would look up at him and not utter a word. He would later swear to himself that sometimes she looked like she was begging him for more. But he knew that couldn’t be true. So he would keep staring, his chest heaving up and down, his fists clinched. He never knew what else to do.
His mother; now that was a woman who knew how to put up a fight. When his pop came at her, usually after a night of drinking and god-knows-what, his mom would pick up the nearest frying pan, broom stick, shoe, or whatever she could get her hands on and defend herself.
“Get away from me you sonofabitch!”
Pop usually got it as bad as Ma, both of them waking up the next day with bruises, scratches and sore throats from all the yelling they done.
Love is a fight and you do hurt the ones you love. He learned that early. He needed to teach his wife that same lesson.
This is a first draft and, if you asked me today, I would tell you it’s the last draft too. I have no desire to come back to this story, this monster. But, I suspect, he will appear in another story, or as I continue work on my second novel. Since I confronted him this time, I think I’ll be better prepared to deal with him—or someone like him—next time.