Steering the Craft, Chapter 6 Exercises

Today, I am on Ch. 6—Verbs: Person and Tense.

This should run to a page or so; keep it short and not too ambitious, because you’re going to write the same story twice. The subject is this: An old woman is busy doing something...as she thinks about an event that happened in her youth. You’re going to intercut between the two times. “Now” is where she is and what she’s doing; “then” is her memory of something that happened when she was young. Your narration will move back and forth between “now” and “then.”

Photo by Sixteen Miles Out on Unsplash

Version 1

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.

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Version Two: Write the same story. PERSON: Use the person of the verb you didn’t use in Version One. TENSE: Choose: a) present tense for “Now,” past tense for “Then,” OR b) past tense for “now,” present tense for “then.”

Version 2

Jane reaches for another dish and squirts some more soap onto the scrubber. That’s when the scent of lilacs hits her, filling her nose and mind with memories of a girlhood six decades past. Her legs wobble, and in an instant, she’s gone, reliving a memory of the first funeral she almost attended.

Jane had woken up early that Saturday, ready to watch cartoons, but when she walked into the family room, her mother was waiting for her on their old, lumpy couch. She explained to Jane that there would be no cartoon-watching today and that she had laid out a black dress on her bed for Jane to wear to an outing.

“But I hate wearing black,” Jane had pouted.

Her mother responded with a raised hand, silencing her daughter. “This is important,” she’d said, and her voice shook with emotion. That convinced Jane not to argue further. She’d slipped into her dress and reappeared at her mother’s side, who then handed her a large vase of lilacs to hold in her lap while they went for a drive.

Jane blinks away the scent of lilacs and the threat of tears, drying the dish. The rest can be finished later. She sits down on her soft chenille couch, so different from the one she used to lounge on as a child. She tries to escape the memories, but once unlocked, they are difficult to lock up again. Closing her eyes, Jane surrenders to the past.

They had driven for only ten or fifteen minutes before pulling into a church parking lot.

“What are we doing?” Jane asked.

“A friend died. This is his funeral.” Her mother’s voice was as tight as violin strings.

Still carrying the vase of lilacs, Jane approached the church alongside her mother. But when they entered, a woman wearing a small black veil spotted them and marched over. Jane strained her ears, but could only hear a few of the venomous words being spouted at her mother in an undertone.

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

Her mother’s eyes filled with tears. For a moment, it looked as though she would say something back, but then she called for Jane to leave.

Jane’s mother didn’t say a word the entire ride home. She wept silent tears.

Now, Jane’s eyes fill with tears. She sits on her couch, staring into the distance and wishing she had understood her mother better as a child.

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This was another great chapter. It's interesting how two versions of the same story convey slightly different information, just because of the changes in tense and person.

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

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