Words With Which We Say, Goodbye -Edited-

Words With Which We Say, Goodbye

It is with these words that I fare thee, not well, for what the morrow brings will soon come regardless of my sympathy.

My mother is a writer- was a writer. She wrote her first novel when she was fourteen, published it when she was twenty-three, and became one of the worlds most contemporary, old-style writing figures. She was launched into a world of college professors, scientists of literature, agents, movie deals, and contracts. And she denied it all. She would always tell me, “Mary-Ellen, if I teach you nothing in life but this, I can die in peace. If there’s anything you love in life, work for it, work against, for all of your existence. Art can be bought, but the soul which makes it should never be sold.”
People said that I looked a lot like her. Tangled, frizzed hair which always seemed on the verge of utter chaos, bright eyes, and a modest nose. I took it as a compliment, that while her looks were quite original, I strived to be like her. She didn’t want that of me.
No, she made it quite clear that I was to lead my own life, make my own decisions, and stray from any path which might possibly be a one-way street. If you can’t get out, don’t get in. She was a woman half-mad with philosophies; some brilliant, and others questionable, some complimenting, others conflicting. Up became down, and sideways parallel in the self-destructed world of her imagination.
When I came home two nights before her television show was to be aired, the house was dark and quiet, with every light in the house turned off. This was not strange behavior for her, it was quite likely, in fact, that I would find her huddled in the pantry with a stack of receipts and a pen, scribbling furiously away in the dark; writing down words in such a fashion that could never be read, not even by her. Just writing them down was enough for her to remember the way the words felt under the pen.
The pantries were empty, and I resisted calling out for her among the perfectly stacked-by-size wall of boxes filled with ten-minutes rice grains. If she were there and heard me, she would only crawl deeper into whatever niche she had fallen into.
Though it was dark, I resisted turning on the lights. Her creativity was such that any small detail such as that would surly set her railroad mind on the wrong set of tracks. Instead I searched in the dark, feeling my way among the grooves in the wall, carved in by years of blind searching, in which my hands seemed to fit perfectly.
I found her sitting in her favorite armchair in the room where she wrote. The last embers of a final fire glowing, flickering away as the too still air was stirred. Her eyes were staring at me without really seeing, her limbs resting limply. She had a pen in one hand, and a ruby-red letter opener in the other. On the table beside her there was a stack of eggshell white envelopes, the stationary kind made of thick, textured paper. They all had a deep royal blue wax stamp holding them shut.
Her eyes didn’t follow me as I walked to the table where the letters sat, no, she wouldn’t watch me. Her eyes were fixed; staring at a spot I could neither see, nor ever wish to look at. I picked up the letter with my name on it and left the room, shutting the door behind me.

I think back on that night and remember her stare, the way the pen stood at the exact same angle as the letter opener. I remember the letters, all neatly placed, name up. I remember that room, and how it had been a place of comfort, but now only held ghosts.
Yet, as I sit here and try to write words of my very own, I am lost. My mind is blank of the emotions that lead me, and the things I’ve tried to comprehend. She wouldn’t want me to write this down, she wouldn’t want me to write anything down at all. For in her words, a writers life is a life for the strong-hearted, and I have always been too much like her to have a strong heart like that.
I pull the envelope out from a drawer where I keep nothing but a stack of old receipts and a polished, gleaming gold letter opener.

My Dearest Mary-Ellen,
It is with these words that I fare thee, not well, for what the morrow brings will soon come regardless of my sympathy.
I have told you many things and can only hope at this point that you will hold to them with strength in a way I have not done quite well enough. You see, my strength was in those words; my strength was then released to the people, to the greedy wishes of those whom have no desire to truly understand. But you, dear, I hope that you do understand.
Hope. Hope is what can help me sit here tonight and write these letters. Hope steadies my hand as I let this ink settle on the page, knowing well that my life in that ink. I leave it up to you, my child, to take life into your own hands. Do not be owned, as I have. Do not become a prize to the wealthy, needy, heartless world that we live in today.
Mary-Ellen, have the strength that I could not find and pass it along in a way that I could not. I love you, forever, and as much as my heart may ever bear love, I love you.
Your Mother, of the lost faith.

I type the words I need to say, print the pages and place them on the table beside me. What I need, I take from that single drawer. A letter written on thick paper, a pen half emptied of ink, and a single letter opener. I take a seat in the armchair and let my eyes stare in the corner, finally seeing what I never wished to look for. My hand is shaking, and I can’t make it stop.

My Dearest Daughter,
Once, long ago, I was warned about the written word. I was told of how it could devour a soul, and yet here I sit with my words- my soul- sitting in the laps of those unappreciative readers. I could go on for pages and tell you the addiction of writing. A drug with which you can not live, nor live without. A deadly path to take, because once words fail you- and they will- everything is over.
I watched the words take her away from me. My hero, my savior. And I see how they have done the same to you. I am sorry that it has come to this, but it is the way of life. There was a path, a one way street, and I took it blindly. Now I can say nothing but goodbye, set my feet upon that most inescapable pathway and repeat those words; those which have haunted our lives from the beginning.
It is with these words that I fare thee, not well, for what the morrow brings will soon come regardless of my sympathy.
Your Mother.

The letter opener, stained ruby red glistens in my hand, tilted at the exact angle I remember. I am numb as far as numb can get.
The words travel through my mind. Every word I have ever heard, or spoken. Every word that blackened the page. It is those words though, in particular. The words she wrote first, and close to last. The memory I wish to travel. It is those fateful, deadly, poetic words that have brought upon two lives the blackest, brightest star of lacking hope.
Those words with which we say, goodbye.
_________________________________________
Edited.
Thank you everybody for your advice, I think it made the story much stronger. I really appreciate it.
-JC

What's up JC? It's been a while.

When I can home two nights before her television show was to be aired, the house was dark and quiet, with every light in the house turned off.

Can? You mean "came"?

The pantries were empty, and I resisted calling out for her among the perfectly stacked-by-size wall of boxes filled with ten-minutes rice grains. If she were there and heard me, she would only crawl deeper into whatever niche she had fallen into.

Really clever way to show the state of the family.

Her creativity was such that any small detail such as that would surly set her railroad mind on the wrong set of tracks.

I really like this metaphor.

She was sitting her favorite armchair in her writing room, staring at me without really seeing.

I think you need a preposition here, it's like the narrator is sitting the armchair.
While I'm at it, how can the narrator or her mother see anything if it is dark? Just a little nit pick.

Overall impressions:

Wow, this is one of the best pieces that I've read in a while. I'm starting to really like your writing style. You write cleanly and with such a strong diction, but most importantly, every single word is relevant. The little snippets of description of the house along with your metaphors does a strong job in building the impression to the audience of the harsh conditions that they live their lives in.

Similarly, the descriptions of the envelopes and letter opener show how the mother went against her own beliefs in order to live a better life. At this point, I really was able to sympathize with the narrator and her mother. The conflict of whether to go for what you believe in or to live better lives is never an easy choice.

The ending is probably the highlight of the piece for me. It expresses to the audience that writing is dangerous. With successful writing, some people would only care about the money which could be made from selling a good piece of work and not value the effort and commitment that has gone into it. Similarly, if your writing does not appeal to the audience, then the effort and commitment that also goes into it will too be ignored.

I thank you for writing this piece and warning others of the dangers of writing. I think that as writers we never truly understand the hard work that goes into the piece until we get so deep in love with writing. Even I've learned quite a bit from reading this piece.

Hence, I'm giving you a gold star as I think this piece deserves it. Good work JC and take care.

Andy.

Oy, there are some brilliant layers here. ^_^ I'll be back.


But only as a brief note - The only aspect in a skimming of it that brought my mind out of the story and characters was an indistinct use of adjective at times. Vague, rather than concrete. Though that will be more helpful when I've gone through it with time to put it in context, I suppose. ^_^;


[Thanks very much for the critique on No Know Now. ^_^]












IMP

Run-Through--[At a Runner's Sprint Pace]

Oy, detail at the beginning was apt. I immediately got a tangible sense of both the mother's and daughter's character--and by that, a sense of their relationship. What was most deft about it was its lightness. None of the detail seems heaped on, as often background or biography is--it flows with the narrator's voice.


Specificity, and Such

She had many philosophies; and while some were questionable, others were brilliant.

Rather vague, yes? Honestly, I might not even have noted it except that it stands out against the specific detail preceding it. So then--er, many? how many? Some were questionable? How did she manage so many philosophies that, under current wording, must have clashed violently, questionable and brilliant?

I can imagine a woman with ideas that were both acute and brilliant, and others that were half-mad. You might, to make the sentence stronger, simply substitute a questionable philosophy for the word 'questionable' and another one more sensible for the word 'brilliant'.

Years later I think back on that night and remember her stare, the way the pen stood at the exact same angle as the letter opener. I remembered the letters, all neatly placed, name up. I remember that room, and how it had long ago been refurbished.

Merely noting tense change. Either both should shift to past, or the 'remembered', to be consistent, ought to be present.

Somehow, the final sentence stands out though. Perhaps it's the more vague description of 'refurbished' and the fact that 'long ago' seems to be swinging free of time in context. Oy, is it long ago from when she remembers? Long ago now? The temporal sense of the paragraph edges the line of losing itself, I think.

Punctured, Puncturing, Punctuated...

For in her words, a writers life, is a life for the strong-hearted, and I was too much like her to have a strong heart like that.

Ach, the commas rather drown the cadence of your sentence. ^_^; Perhaps try striking those after 'life' and even 'strong-hearted', da?

On the same note of structure, if not specifically punctuation, the letters aren't differentiated too noticeably from the rest of the text. For clarity's sake, and uniformity, you might make each italicised, just as you italicised their salutations.

As far as commas and grammar, I would glance back through the letter section and following a few times. Naturally, the letters might be fragmented or no--though the second had fragments in spades. ^_^ But commas tend to slip in, it seems, sometimes too often.


All in All...

It seemed somewhat abbreviated--as if there were a part of the story--perhaps a middle?--that was missing. The ending was lovely. There's a simplicity in its diction and meaning, and it sums up the vague melancholy felt throughout. ^_^

...I am dead tired; and off to bed now. Apologies for not being more thorough. Oy, but I very much enjoyed reading.







IMP

Thanks IMP.

I think the ending and what you noticed with the time in the end of the story is because she was doing exactly what her mother did, so I tried to give it a sense of mixed time, or something almost repetitive, like she finally understood why her mother did what she did. It was experimental.

And the letters were italicized, but I forgot to transfer it. :/ I'll fix it.

Thanks again, to both IMP and Squall.

-JC

Wow, JC, this was an amazing piece of literature. I must express my gratitude to you for writing this since this was such a well written piece. I read from beginning to end without stopping and I must say, it was a highlight to my day

I really liked how in the beginning, your MC feared the insanity her mother fell into by the cursed words she wrote, and how at the end, she too turned insane, and lost hope of ever writing again.

Beautifully done. I can do no more other than praise so my review ends here.

Please keep writing wonderful stories such as this!

Edited. I hope this clears a few things up.