Brownie Hawkeye Part Two, Literature and Art.

Well I completed two more stories for my Creative Writing project, and with Reading Week upon us, my goal is to have a lot more writing completed by the end of it. (Between going to Sarnia for the weekend, and working at that good old crepery.)

So when it came to posting my new stories I had a bit of a dilemma, it occured to me that for some people there may be confusion/ misunderstanding about who I am as a person, and as a Christian, and what I write. Personally, for me it doesn't seem much of an issue for these stories in particular, but it occured to me that this could arise at some point.

The possiblity of this made me think about my opinion about literature and art, and morality. So I thought I'd share.

1) I think it's important for Christians to understand that good writing is a reflection of the human condition, not what we'd like the world to look like. Some people will think a book is bad because something happens in it that they don't agree with. However, good writing is honest writing; you can't make a character do or say something just because it's what Jesus would do.
Even when I'm reading something I disagree with, I remember that I am reading something written by someone who, like every human being, is searching. If I can gain some insight into another person's struggle, this will only help me.

2) This becomes interesting when I write. I certainly don't limit myself to writing about people and situations that I agree with. I write about what I see, and what I understand, and even what I disagree with. The voice of the writer in a particular story, is not necessarily me. That's important to understand, and also something I'm really pushing myself to explore. So much of writing is about language, something I wish I had a greater grasp of.

3) I think my faith gives me insights and wisdom into things that I wouldn't understand on my own. I am part of a faith tradition that challenges me to think critically. I love being able to write from this persepective, and as I grow as a writer and a person, I hope that I can write many things that reflect my ideas of God, and faith. That would just make my day.

Anyways...after that long and rambling disclaimer, I'll leave with you with my latest stories. If you have any comments I'd love to hear them. I spent a good day in the St. Jeromes library bringing these two stories to their current state, and I hope to revise them extensively.

That Weekend's Love

The beach swarms with people, and the midday heat makes the sand blistering. The group breaks from the beach house in a dead run down the side of the dune, and through the beach grass that grabs at their legs as they pick up speed. “My feet are on fire!” Alice shrieks as she jumps on David’s back. Everyone laughs; Marilyn laughs.

They all reach the edge of the lake and the girls shriek and giggle as the guys kick the cold water at them, and the waves chase them up and down the shore line.

Later, Marilyn sees David pick up Alice. Her hand that clutches his wet shoulder slips and he throws her. She falls with a splash. He looks over smiling at Marilyn on the shore. She laughs, again. David comes running back to her side and sprawls out breathless beside her. “Come swim with me,” he whispers in her ear.

“I don’t feel like it. The water’s so cold today.” Her voice sounds too high.

She can tell it’s only a polite request, though; he is immediately distracted, and runs back to the water without protest.

In the late afternoon the group returns to the beach house. In the evening, long after the crowds have scattered and the sand has cooled, Marilyn closes the door of the beach house and walks towards the lake. The laughter and the light from the patio slowly distance themselves from her.

Nobody will notice she’s gone for about forty-five minutes, and even then it won’t matter. David is entirely enraptured with Alice. Marilyn anticipates being informed of this, in a sheepish and apologetic manner, shortly after the weekend is over, hell, maybe even before.

She can’t blame him. Alice is impossibly beautiful, and her affection is cheap and easy, if not a little tacky.

Marilyn reaches the lake. It seems like a new person, subdued and thoughtful in its solitude. The waves timidly explore the shore, carrying the small stones back and forth. She slips out of her cotton sun dress and peaks the lake’s interest with her toes. It’s cold, for sure. She swims far enough out that her body hangs weightless in the water.

With no one around her; no one above her; no one below her, she feels like she’s met someone nobody has ever known before, and lays down with her face to the sky.

Eventually, she allows herself to drift to shore.

The next weekend she returns to the beach house alone. She sleeps through the daytime rush, and sits by the lake in the evening drawing sedimentary hearts in the sand, that the waves will carry away.

Mrs. Wellington

“She always was a slut,” Mrs. Wellington spits out the word, holding the photograph in front of her at arm’s length.

She squints her eyes and scrutinizes every detail as if it were a piece of evidence in The Inquisition.

I shift awkwardly on the side of her bed, suddenly aware of my polyester skirt against my sweating thighs . This was certainly my supervisor’s revenge for sleeping through last week’s staff meeting. Helping Mrs. Wellington move rooms was the most accurate depiction of hell on earth available at Meadowview Nursing Home.

“Yes, a first class floozy.” She emphasized every syllable of the word. “You’ll never imagine the exhibition she pulled at my grandson Matthew’s graduation, arriving a full half an hour late, like the Whore of Babylon, wearing this red dress that made a Broadway production of her breasts. The family has never recovered from the shock.”

I grabbed a shoebox from the bed, picked up the photograph that she had now placed on top of the dresser. I took a look at it, before placing it in the box, she didn’t look all bad to me.