Page 27 of Last Seen
After a few beats, there is a smattering of applause. Tammy Boone gives me an approving glance. “It’s quite visceral, Catriona. Very nice. I felt Ellie’s reaction was well captured, and I like how you pulled us out of her fantasy of killing her husband into the sad reality she was facedwith. And I apologize for the interruption just as we were finding out that her imagination had run amok.” She turns to the group, to the jury, pushing her oversize glasses up her nose. “Does anyone else have notes for Catriona?”
The jerk blonde—damn, what is her name? I’m usually better with names—chimes in. “I was very pulled out of the story by the aside, when you say Ellie has a small issue with anger. Clearly. Furthermore, it felt redundant, as you so vividly portray her fury. I think you could lose that without impinging upon the integrity of the story.”
Impinging upon the integrity of the story?Screw you, lady.
There are murmurs of assent from the circle of writers, which infuriates me. Tammy purses her lips. She seems to think that I’m vulnerable and am hurt by the group’s reaction. I’m not. I can’t be. I don’t have access to those kinds of emotions. I want approval as much as the next person, sure, but the disapproval doesn’t cost me as it might you.
“I don’t know that I agree, Brenda.”
(Brenda! That’s it. In my defense, she doesn’t look like a Brenda. She looks like a Farrah, or a Courtney, or a Sloane. It’s the hair, of course. She probably spends more time with her hot rollers than her typewriter.)
Tammy continues. “I think that sort of experimentation in the narrative allows a whole new storytelling mechanism. Think of it as a voiceover. I was particularly reminded of the television showMy So-Called Life, with Claire Danes. Have you seen it? It has that sort of autobiographical voiceover that gives the viewer more information about the character’s internal life. Let’s not discount this as an effective technique to understand Ellie’s rage. I imagine there’s more of that to come, and it could be quite interesting to the story.”
“But it’s a cheat,” Brenda continues. We took an immediate dislike to one another last night. The whole evening had been colored by her condescension and aggressive need to show how smart she was. I simply do not respond to that sort of fire hydrant marking. I’m incapable. God,she’s still talking. “Not only a cheat, but it’s also a tell. The rule is, we shouldn’t tell, we should show. Inserting this sort of aside isn’t showing. It’s telling.” She sits back in her chair, quite pleased with herself.
Tammy turns to me. “Catriona? Do you have a response?”
I have several responses, most of which include colloquial phrases designed specifically to inflame and irritate. I’ve been trained not to say the first thing that pops into my mind, as it is generally something not socially acceptable. I’m very much like my character Ellie in that regard. Full of rage. The kind of rage that leads one to murder. I just do a better job of hiding it.
Instead, I shake my head. I am acutely aware that the long hair I normally use to hide my face when I’m trying to seem embarrassed is gone. I stupidly cut it off to chin level before I came here, and it sucks. It was a wonderful mask, and without it, I feel exposed.
Tammy shifts in her chair, and the spell is broken. “All right. More thoughts? Anyone?”
And they’re off, a round-robin of negative opinions. The more people speak, the more shell-shocked I am. It is quite clear that instead of being the solid story I thought it was, I have just laid a gigantic egg on the most important stage of my life. I have to tune out their “constructive” comments, not making eye contact, just stare out the window at the impenetrable screen of dark-green trees, my anger building to a peak, until finally, Tammy calls time. That was excruciating. But I’m proud of myself for taking it, not reacting. And I promise myself I will not slink into anyone’s cabin tonight. Make myself swear it.
But I might watch . . .
No, you will not!
“All right, folks. I think perhaps now is a good time to break for the morning. Great work, everyone. Tomorrow, I want to hear fromyou, Brenda. Since you were the first to jump in with a critique of Catriona’s work, you win that honor. I’m sure we will all be dazzled by your words.” The slightly accusatory note in Tammy’s voice makes meinwardly gloat. Brenda was overtly harsh, has been since the moment we touched hands in greeting.
She’s just jealous that you’ve got more talent than she does.
Stop. Please. Not now.
I have also been trained to turn off the voice in my head, the one that lures with false promises and seduces with honeyed words. And sometimes tells me to do things that I know aren’t right. My demon. It has taken years of therapy, years of mind-body integrations, biofeedback, meditation, medication, to learn how to tell the voice to fuck off and leave me alone.
I gave in once. And it almost cost me everything. That will never, ever happen again.
Tammy puts a hand on my arm as she passes, following the rest of the fiction class filing toward the cabin door. I stop myself from yanking my arm away; I do not like being touched.
You’re a frigid bitch.
That voice is not my demon’s, but my husband’s. Ex-husband, now. The papers came the day before I left for the retreat. I shoved them in my bag and am planning to sign them tonight. A private celebration of a marriage that has run its course, and then some.
“What’s your plan for the rest of the day, Catriona?”
What is the right response here?Drink some hemlock because I’m so mortified?A bit over the top.
Instead, I sigh as if summoning what tiny bit of dignity I have left. I am very good at acting. I have to be.
“Oh, well, I thought I’d take a walk? Then maybe work on this scene some more. Maybe take away a bit of the visceralness. It’s too much, I see that now. People recoiled when the knife came out. Not exactly what I was going for.”
“Don’t do that,” Tammy says. “It’s a very strong opening. I’m very interested to see where you take this. You know we chose you because your work has an edge. As a matter of fact, from what I’ve seen of your other poems and stories, this one feels almost tame. Let it all go. Don’t hold back. You can allow your natural darkness into your work. It’s part of your voice and will become your signature style, if you let it. I’d be happy to do a one-on-one tomorrow after class, if you’d like.”
I immediately nod. I don’t need the class’s approval, but the teacher’s? She can be of great use, and I am more than happy to take advantage of her interest. “I would like that. I’m missing something here, and I’m not sure what. Maybe I need to change the point of view?”
“We can talk about that tomorrow. First person could be very effective. It would allow us to get deeper into your character’s actions, her thoughts. Think on it, and maybe rewrite a few paragraphs, just to see how it feels.”
