Steering the Craft, Chapter 10 Exercise

Today, I am on Ch. 10—Crowding and Leaping. If you've made it this far, congratulations! We've reached the end.

Take one of the longer narrative exercises you wrote—any one that went over 400 words—and cut it by half.

Original:

I was reaching for a dish, hands covered in warm, soapy water, when my nose caught the scent of lilacs from the dish soap. My legs wobbled; instantly, I was transported back to my girlhood and the first funeral I almost attended. I had been nearly ten when my mother sat me down on the lumpy couch in our living room early Saturday morning and told me she had laid out a black dress for me to wear. I had wrinkled my nose and started protesting—I’ve always hated wearing black, and besides, my favorite cartoons were on—Mother raised a hand, silencing me.

“This is important,” she’d said, and the tremor in her voice convinced me. I slipped on the black dress that was a little too tight, and we went for a drive. Mother handed me a vase of lilacs to carry on my lap. The flowers’ overbearing sweetness had overwhelmed the car’s interior.

I blinked away the scent and resumed the dishes, trying to shrug off the rest of the memory. But once the lilac scent unlocked my memories, it was difficult to lock them up again. I sat on my couch, so different from the worn-out one of my childhood, and closed my eyes, surrendering.

We drove for only ten or fifteen minutes before pulling into a church we had never attended.

“What are we doing?” I’d asked.

Mother was terse in her reply. “A friend died. This is his funeral.”

My heart squeezed; any mention of death back then had upset me, as I didn’t really understand what it meant.

But when we entered the church, with me carrying the vase of lilacs, a woman with a black veil covering part of her face marched over and hissed at my mother. I heard only a few words.

“Can’t believe…here. Bad enough…gossip…no respect, slut.”

Mother’s eyes had filled with tears. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again, and said, “Let’s go, Janey.” She reached out to grab my hand, but the vase took up both my hands.

We left, and Mother didn’t say a word the whole ride home. Just wept silent tears.

My old eyes filled with tears. I wished Mother were still around. I wished I could have said I understood what I hadn’t—she wasn’t bad, just a woman whose love had been ripped away.

Revised:

I had been nearly ten when my mother sat me down early Saturday morning and told me she had laid out a black dress for me to wear.

“This is important,” she’d said; the tremor in her voice convinced me. I slipped on the black dress, and Mother handed me a vase of lilacs to hold on my lap. Their sweetness overwhelmed the car’s interior.

I blink away the scent. But now that the lilac has unlocked my memories, it’s difficult to lock them up again. I close my eyes, surrendering.

We drove for only ten or fifteen minutes before pulling into a church.

“What are we doing?”

Mother’s reply was terse. “A friend died. This is his funeral.”

My heart squeezed. But when we entered, me carrying the lilacs, a woman with a black veil marched over and hissed at my mother.

“Can’t believe…here. Bad enough…gossip…no respect, slut.”

Mother’s eyes filled with tears. “Let’s go, Janey.” She reached out to grab my hand, but the vase took up both my hands.

Mother didn’t say a word the whole ride. Just wept silent tears.

My old eyes filled with tears. I wished Mother were still around.

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And there you have it! I really enjoyed everything I learned from Steering the Craft. I encourage you to go buy the book so you can get the complete experience.

If you complete the exercise, I encourage you to post and share your response.

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