Whisky on a Sunday: Year 1

This is just an experimental thing I'm working on- testing out that whole "plan a novel first" theory. I've got this beginning, an ending, and random pieces of the meat written already, plus an outline, research notes, and character files. All sorts of fun stuff I'm trying out for the first time (except for the research bit). So far it's actually working for me.


Prologue

“Is it on?”

“Yes, Eric, it’s on. We’re recording.”

I shift in the stiff maroon armchair, trying to get more comfortable. Crossing and uncrossing my legs, I fold my arms tight across my chest to retain whatever body heat I can.

“Are you cold, Eric?” Reading my mind as always, I nod. “I can turn the air up if you like.”

“It’s not a bother.”

“It’s not a problem. I want you to be comfortable.”

“Go on then.”

A rustle of movement, the sound of the aircon turning off. White noise fading to memory. I can’t remember your name, I realise suddenly. Someone said it to me as I came down here to talk with you, but I don’t remember. Dr. Whitman? Whiteman? Yellowman?

“Well, Eric?”

The words, spoken in your deep and booming voice, rip me from my thoughts, bringing me back down to reality with a bang.

“Well what?”

“I can’t help you if you don’t want to be helped. Do you want help?”

I think for a moment. This question has come up a lot the past twenty-eight days. Seems like everyone is doubtful of my commitment to this.

“Yes. Yes I want help.”

“Then talk.”

“About what?”

“Whatever you like,” you say, transferring your notepad to the other knee as you switch crossed legs. Your glasses fall a bit down your nose and you push them back up, studying me with those sharp eyes that seem to go beyond the powers of normal human vision. A few more seconds of silence pass, the wall clock ticking to its own beat. I stare at the plain beige carpet until it crawls.

“Eric, we don’t have all day,” you say, a touch of fatherly impatience in your voice.

“Sorry. I just don’t know what to talk about. Or even if I’m ready to talk.”

“Why don’t you start with something simple?”
“Sorry?”

“Something simple. A memory of your favourite pet. Or an amusing anecdote from school. Or whatever happens to be going through your mind this very second. It doesn’t have to be coherent.”

I ponder this concept for a moment. Something simple- of course I’m overcomplicating things again.

“Maybe… how it started?” I suggest, raising my head to meet your gaze.

“Starting from the starting point… fine logic, Eric,” you say, your bushy grey eyebrows rising expectantly. I shift in my chair again. Why do all therapists insist on sitting their patients in uncomfortable seats while they bask in the wonders of squashy leather?

“You’ve gone quiet again.”

“Sorry. Another place where I don’t know how to begin. We’re hitting a lot of bad beginnings, aren’t we?”

You chuckle, a sound which somewhat surprises me. “Indeed we are, Eric. Here, I’ve got a simple solution: what did they make you say when you first got here?”

I meet your eyes again, my own widening, wondering what tangent you’re going off on.

“Sometimes it helps to repeat it. And then you can just jump into your story. Trust me, it’s a lot more effective than you think.”

I nod and look down at the floor again, eyeing my beaten-up black boots. Remembering constant reprimands about making eye contact, I look up.

“My name is Eric MacAllister, and I am an alcoholic.”
------

Sidenote: Only the scenes between Eric and his therapist will be in second person. There's three of them. Everything else will be first person.

That was interesting! And you said "aircon" instead of air conditioner? And I liked the tone although I do beleive from the first paragraph its different, but I'm not sure. Over all I think its a great begging and I can't what to see more. !

p.s.- mind giving me a review ?

I liked this peice! It didn't really have anything that I could see that needed fixing, as far as grammer and stuff. I really liked the ending of this peice, but I'm not sure what to think of the beginning. Like SassyLady said ^_^ it was kinda difficult to understand. Anyways, I thought this was great! Keep it up!

Ok, you have a good start here, although if he is now going to start telling a story, the whole scene with a therapist is a tenny bit cliche...unless in the next part you turn it around completly?

anyway, it was good i enjoyed it just one thing...you said that the therapist got a little impatient, they wouldn't get impatient with peole - it is their job to sit and listen to people and give them time

Anyway, good luck with this!!!

Meevs
x

I really liked this...an auspicious beginning, to be sure. I do think that the therapist was perhaps slightly too impatient? I mean, he would have set aside a window of time for each patient, and he would try to prompt the guy as much as possible but he wouldn't be irritated if the guy wasn't talking.

Anyway, a really nice piece so far! I'm interested to see where it leads.

Yours most truly,

Mademoiselle Kool

Hmmm, plotwise this was good. I found it slightly offputting the was you referred to the therapist as "you/your". Even though it is stylistically correct, I just wasn't really a fan of it in this piece. I liked the way your dialogue flowed, it was very smooth and pretty realistic. I wonder what is going to happen next....

Razorblade_Saint wrote:Prologue

I was looking for another you
And I found another one
I was looking for another you
When I looked round you were gone
Stay by my side
And the pipe dream is yours now
Stay by my side
And the cynics won't get in our way

-Starsailor “Alcoholic”

“Is it on?”

“Yes, Eric, it’s on. We’re recording.”

I shift in the stiff maroon armchair, trying to get more comfortable[s],[/s] [s]c[/s]Crossing and uncrossing my legs, I fold my arms tight across my chest to retain whatever body heat I can.

“Are you cold, Eric?” Reading my mind as always[s].[/s], I nod. “I can turn the air up [s]for you[/s], if you like.”

“It’s not a bother.”

“It’s not a problem. I want you to be comfortable.”

“Go on then.”

A rustle of movement, the sound of the aircon turning off. White noise fading to memory. I can’t remember your name. Someone said it to me as I came down here to talk with you, but I don’t remember. Dr. Whitman? Whiteman? Yellowman?I think you need to use italics. i know this is in first person, but there is a difference between character thought and narration. As it is you run the two together and it needs to be more noticeably different.

“Well, Eric?”

[s]Your[/s]The words rip me from my thoughts, bringing me back down to reality with a bang.You declared it a thought when you used you. It shows the insides of the character's thought because narration does not address someone directly.

“Well what?”

“I can’t help you if you don’t want to be helped. Do you want help?”

I think for a moment. This question has come up a lot in the past twenty-eight days. Seems like everyone is doubtful of my commitment to this.

“Yes. Yes I want help.”

“Then talk.”

“About what?”

“Whatever you like,” [s]you[/s]He or She. You haven't identified the character's gender say, transferring your notepad to the other knee as you switch crossed legs. Your glasses fall a bit down your nose and you push them back up, studying me with those sharp eyes that seem to go beyond the powers of normal human vision. A few more seconds of silence pass, the wall clock ticking to its own beat. I stare at the plain beige carpet until it crawls.This is another case of it reads like thought, but the content looks like it should be narration

“Eric, we don’t have all day,” you say, a touch of impatience in your voice.

“Sorry. I just don’t know what to talk about. Or even if I’m ready to talk.”

“Why don’t you start with something simple?”

“Huh?”

“Something simple. Like, a memory of your favourite pet. Or an amusing anecdote from school. Or whatever happens to be going through your mind this very second. It doesn’t have to be coherent.”

I ponder this concept for a moment. Something simple- of course I’m overcomplicating things again.

“Maybe… how it started?” I suggest, raising my head to meet your gaze.

“Starting from the starting point… fine logic, Eric,” you say, your bushy grey eyebrows raised expectantly. I shift in my chair again. Why do all therapists insist on sitting their patients in uncomfortable seats while they bask in the wonders of squashy leather?

“You’ve gone quiet again.”

“Sorry. Another place where I don’t know how to begin. We’re hitting a lot of bad beginnings, aren’t we?”

You chuckle, a sound which somewhat surprises me. “Indeed we are, Eric. Here, I’ve got a simple solution: what did they make you say when you first got here?”

I meet your eyes again, my own widening, wondering what tangent you’re going off on.

“Sometimes it helps to repeat it. And then you can just jump into your story. Trust me, it’s a lot more effective than you think.”

I nod and look down at the floor again, eyeing my beaten-up black boots. Remembering constant reprimands about making eye contact, I look up.

“My name is Eric MacAllister, and I am an alcoholic.”

------

Sidenote: Only the scenes between Eric and his therapist will be in second person. There's three of them. Everything else will be first person.

It is a nice beginning, but I really don't like the swapping of view points. It makes it kinda hard to follow because I feel like I'm reading the characters thoughts, but they're not meant to be thoughts. It's odd and makes everything kinda read funny.

I like the scene, you told us what was going on without actually telling us. It was well thought out.

I strongly suggest picking a point of view and not changing it as you go.

Brought to by the Cabassi Crime Family

I liked how you combined first and second narrative in this piece. I can honestly say that I've never seen anything like it. So kudos to you for writing something new.

However, the dialogue dragged in places. And really, this story is practically all dialogue. I kinda had to wade through the beginning exchange. Want me to turn up the heat? I don't know. Really, I can. Fine then. Ho-hum. It deflates the piece before you've even delved into the actual story. Also, their was little conflict. And a good prologue - a good anything - requires conflict. If your character doesn't have something at stake, the reader doesn't care. This is true for all facets of storywriting. It applies to a scene, a chapter, and a novel in general. Prologues should make me crave more. This is just staccato dialogue with smatterings of description which accomplishes nothing except to introduce yor main characters name and problem.

Your title is dull. But, hey, all titles are a work in progress, no? And they can be easily changed.

“It’s not a bother.”

“It’s not a problem. I want you to be comfortable.”

As a last sidenote, this particular couplet didn't sound right for some reason. It sounds forced and contived. Think about changing it around a bit.

Anyways, good stuff, this. You are obviously a talented writer. I look forward to more.

-Kylan

This is a very interesting idea, and I hope you'll post more. Very good storytelling and dialogue too. I... can't find any grammar or spelling errors, and I'm horrible at critiquing other things aside from general plot, which I already did, so, great piece. Bye! *waves* EDIT: Oh right, and this is for Snoink's Critique The Person Above You. It needs some love, check it out!

I liked this. I couldn't find any mistakes, and the way you wrote it was good. When is more coming?

chocoholic wrote:I liked this. I couldn't find any mistakes, and the way you wrote it was good. When is more coming?

Probably when NaNo's been underway for about a week.

I didn't find any mistakes either, but, I did get somewhat confused by the second person narration, maybe you should try third person omniscient, or something. I don't know.

It's very good, the last sentence is very powerful, I like it! I felt like I was in the room with them too.

A small continuation of the beginning, sorry if it's a bad cut-off point. And it's probably mondo confusing because it's NaNo stuff, and well, eh. You can fill in the rest. xD

Year One

No one ever thought I'd be an alcoholic. But no one ever thinks about that kind of thing, do they? It just happens.

I guess it stems back to when I still lived in Glasgow with my family. It was where I’d grown up. It was where I thought I’d be for the rest of my life.

Well, the rest of one of my lives.

+++

“Hey, Eric, you comin’ out tonight?” Chester asked, not even bothering to check if it really was me answering the phone.

“Yeah, I’ll be there. Just like every other night,” I told him, an answer he was always satisfied with.

“Awesome. See ya-”

I hung up before my overly-pompous best mate could continue. Best to cut him off when you still could.

I sighed and looked out the window. The sun was just setting, and closing time was just around the corner. The bookstore that my parents ran- and that I’d lived above all of my seventeen years of life- was a quaint wee place. We did fair business, but that didn’t stop things from being slow, especially when I ran the shop while my parents took care of other business. Sometimes I’d have one of my sisters, Penny, along to help me, but she had some kerfuffle with her girlfriends and was too busy to keep shop.

I chewed on the inside of my cheek as I straightened the rows of books lining the walls. Still another hour to close, but I could’ve taken a nap behind the counter for all the good being awake did me. Muttering to myself about rude customers, I plucked three misplaced books from the shelf where some careless patron had placed them after deciding against purchasing them. I returned them to their respective proper places and headed to the stairs that led to the three bedrooms my family shared upstairs- which, fortunately, had emptied out as my siblings had grown older and moved away. One of the few advantages of being the youngest of six.

I trouped into the room my two brothers and I had shared for years- I was the only occupant now- and grabbed my jacket from my bedpost. As I slid down the banister back down to the ground floor, my mother walked in, returning from her book club meeting.

“Hi Mum,” I said, kissing her on the cheek as she took off her coat. “How was the club?”

“Lovely. We’re reading To Kill a Mockingbird, and you know how much I love that.”

“Aye, a good book indeed. Listen, I’m going out with Chester and the guys tonight, is that okay?”

My mum, an easy foot and a half shorter than me, stared up at me, her blazing green eyes burning into my amber coloured ones. She may have been a dwarf in comparison to me, but in her presence I felt a centimetre tall.

“Alright, but you’re staying in tomorrow. Tomorrow’s your birthday, which is a time for family, not carousing with your layabout friends.”

I chuckled, and her expression softened. I’d actually forgotten that the next day- May 17th, 1997- was my eighteenth birthday.

Finally, a bit of freedom.

“How was business tonight?” she asked, walking behind the counter to check the log that I’d miraculously failed to update.

“Better than you’ll find there,” I said, handing her the scrap of paper- the reverse side of one of those day-by-day calendar pages- that I’d been keeping track of things on.

“Just when I think you’re incompetent,” she said, but the twinkle in her eye said she was joking. I grinned.

“Alright, I’m off. I’ll be back by midnight, methinks.”

“Take care,” she said as I kissed her on the cheek again.

+++

“When are you gonna stop being such a sickly sweet son?” a voice said as I closed the shop door behind me. I jumped nearly a mile in the air.

“Holy fuck, Chester. Don’t do that,” I said, turning to face his devilishly grinning form.

“Stop being so easy to scare then. Come on, we’re bar hopping tonight. Sarah and Clyde are coming, they’re just up the street here. I had a helluva time getting out tonight, my dad wanted me to take care of my sister.”

“I thought she was old enough to take care of herself?” I asked as we started walking down the road. Chester shook his head.

“Nah, you’re thinking of my other sister. This one’s me half sister, the younger one.”

I nodded as we rounded the corner. Sarah and Clyde were a ways down the block, Clyde leaning against a street lamp and Sarah sitting on the curb.

“You twose are fuckin’ slow as sin,” Clyde swore as Chester and I came within hearing range.

“Nice to see you too, Clyde,” I replied jovially, clapping him on the shoulder. His forced taciturn expression broke for a moment and he smiled a wee bit. That was the thing with Clyde- you had to know the difference between when he was joking and when he was being serious. The line wasn’t always clear.

Sarah stood up and took my hand. “You really need to stop cooping yourself up in that damn bookstore of yours. You’ve got a life outside of the pages, you know. As in, me.”

I rolled my eyes and she tickled my cheek lightly. I turned to face the guys, my arm sliding around Sarah’s waist.

“You look like you’re waiting for me for some fucked up reason,” I said, and guided Sarah away, further down the street. One of our favourite spots was only a stone’s throw away.

“Fuckin’ arse, he is,” Clyde said to Chester, assuming I couldn’t hear him. I just smiled.

“Hurry up or my fuckin’ arse is all you’ll be staring at,” I shot over my shoulder. Sarah giggled. Clyde looked gobsmacked. Chester laughed.

“Come on.”

+++

There's a small bit I added in here, just keep looking through the thread.

+++
That was my night life.

Staying out until three a.m. drinking, no matter what time I promised my mum I’d be home. I’d been doing it for years. There were loads of places you could sneak in if you were under eighteen. Clyde was the one who found them all, God knows how. But all that mattered was we had places we could drink. Skip school and drink, until we all left school to have more time to drink.

It was a vicious cycle.

I had lied my arse off about leaving school, but hey, at least I had a good cover. As opposed to Clyde’s blunt honesty, which is the reason why his mum kicked him out and he now bunks with Chester. I had a real reason, though.

Ever since I was young, I knew I wanted to carry on with my parents’ bookshop. In primary school, I would run straight home after school and help my dad with anything he needed help with. I wouldn’t even bother to change out of my school uniform. It used to make him laugh- watching me, a wild whirlwind of childhood energy, running down the street with my school bag flying open, eager to get home to work. He swore it was that predestination stuff Protestants like my father believe. He took a lot of pride in telling his religious friends about my work ethic, and how I was guaranteed to get into heaven.

That over there is my boy Eric. Hardest worker you’ll ever find. Runs home every day so he can work in the shop. I have to remind him to take a break for his homework, even dinner and bedtime. Wakes up early on weekends and reads in the back room all day.

At sixteen, I left school since my career was already picked out and I didn’t need higher education and I was drinking and I was sinking slowly into the black hole of alcoholism.

I couldn’t be more proud of him.

Look at me now, Dad.

Are you proud now?

Wow. Really... wow.

That was very, very well written. You did an excellent job building up your characters and introducing the storyline. The character development already made and the backstory left to be discovered.... it's tremendous. It feels like a story about real people. It's only chapter one and I already care about each member of the cast, I'm already interested in hearing more about them.

And those last few lines... dang. You, my friend, know how to end a chapter. Your prologue's ending was such a simple, yet powerful statement, and your first chapter's ending actually gave me a shiver down my spine.

It's just amazing how quickly and completely you make your reader care about and identify with a character. I've heard so little about Eric, and yet I feel as though I've known him quite awhile. I've seen a lot of first person narration that makes me think... "okay.... who is this guy and why is he talking to us?" But yours is very well done.

As for crit... I can't think of any.

I look forward, only somewhat patiently, to the next bit. ^_^

(Now I really need to be doing that lab report for Mrs. Hell-burd. XD See you later! ^_^)

Many thanks to Angela for the one critique... *pokes the countless others whom I solicited for crits*

Anyway, the next few bits are pretty long, so I'll post them individually. There's not much left to the beginning before my disjointed document drops off, but I'll be lengthening it soon. Woo for more crappy NaNo writing! And a totally cliche family, but it's totally on purpose. ^_^

+++

I rolled over, feeling the claws of sleep slowly releasing their hold on me. My nose crinkled. I could sense someone staring at me. With some reluctance, I opened my eyes.

Splat.

“Happy birthday, Eric!” a voice said above me, teasing in tone. I wiped the remnants of what was chocolate birthday cake from my eyes.

“Wyatt!” I cursed, flinging a lob of cake at him. He cackled.

“Good morning, baby brother,” he said in a singsong voice. He danced out of the room, still cackling as he made his way down the hall. I snorted and rolled out of bed gingerly, trying to keep my bedding as clean as possible. I wiped the rest of the cake off my face with a towel I’d left on my floor. I dressed, did my best to clean up the cake, and went downstairs.

As if on cue, my dad called out as I reached the bottom stair: “Janine, have you seen Eric’s cake?”

I heard Wyatt snicker.

“It’s in my room,” I said, walking out into the middle of the shop. “Someone, and I won’t mention names but his initials are Wyatt MacAllister, thought it would be funny to throw it at my head while I was sleeping.”

“Wyatt!” My mum, Janine, exclaimed. Wyatt snickered again.

“Hey, you should’ve seen him. He looked like a giant badger, what with that chocolate in his hair,” he said. I looked to my dad, who was caught between wanting to laugh and wanting to discipline his son. I grinned at him, and he chose a side.

“Alexander!” Mum scolded as my dad burst out laughing.

“It’s alright, Mum, you know it’s funny,” I said, walking over and giving her a hug. She sighed.

“I guess you’re right. But what are we going to do about a cake? I spent all night making that for you.”

Wyatt and I exchanged glances. Both of us had eaten Mum’s cooking long enough to know that “all night” translated to “ten minutes at Tesco this morning.” Wyatt pointed to his hairline, and I stared. He jerked at me and pointed again. Comprehending, I wiped some missed cake off my own hairline.

At that moment, two of my three sisters walked through the front door to much fanfare from my parents- Jasmine, the youngest of the girls, and Catherine, the oldest of us all. Catty- which is what I had called Catherine since I was old enough to speak. As a wee boy I had trouble pronouncing “Catherine” so I shortened it to Catty- was the furthest from me in age but the closest to me in relationship.

“Happy birthday, wee Eric,” she said, hugging me tightly. Jasmine followed suit, and I smiled at the both of them. Where my brothers- Wyatt and the second youngest Mark- were complete jerks, Catty, Jasmine, and Penny- my fifth and final sibling- were total sweethearts. Dad would call his girls the Three Princesses and his boys the Three Stooges.

Favouritism? Yeah, I’d say so.

Birthdays in my family were always a big deal. With eight mouths to feed and just profits from the shop as income, money was tight. Luxuries were few and far between, but my parents- bless them- always made birthdays something special. Today, my dad had closed down the shop and both my parents had gotten up early to set up a small party for me, inviting only my five siblings and “baking” a cake.

“Why do you have cake in your hair?” Jasmine asked curiously, picking a chunk of frosting out of my hair.

“Talk to him,” I said, jerking my thumb at Wyatt. The girls giggled.

“And now we’re without cake,” Mum sighed, looking pointedly at Wyatt, who was still grinning like an idiot, telling himself how clever he was. I flicked a bit of frosting at him.

When are you gonna stop being such a sickly sweet son?

Hugs and the like circled around as my last brother, Mark, came through the door. Mark was a lot like Wyatt in the prankster sense, only he was much better at it. Much more devious. Had given me a lot of hell over the years. Which is the curse of being the youngest. But the trick was that I was about a thousand times more intelligent- Mark would rather drive a stake into his left eye than read a book.

The tiny store was getting rather crowded by the time Penny finally woke up and came bounding down the stairs, a blur of her usual peppy energy- something she’d acquired at a young age and never quite lost the edge of.

“Good morning Mum, Dad, Catty, Jasmine, Wyatt, self, Mark, and Eric,” she sang, listing us off by age, an interesting quirk of hers. Any time she listed anyone in the family, it was always in order of age. And she would include herself if she listed Wyatt and Mark. I’m not sure how she organised it all in her mind and kept the ages straight, but it worked for her. “And happy birthday, baby brother.”

Mum sighed. "All these people to feed, and no birthday cake," she said wearily. I kicked Wyatt, who had moved closer to me to accomodate the influx of people. Wyatt flinched, which caused him to elbow Jasmine, who shrieked and bumped into Dad, who in turn knocked over a table full of books, which went flying every which way. One of them bounced off my head, making a small cut just at my hairline, and whacked Wyatt in the stomach before clattering to the floor.

"Why don't we just... bake something?" I said, wiping a trickle of blood from my forehead.

"Good idea," Mum said hurriedly, dashing upstairs, followed by Jasmine and Penny. Wyatt clapped me on the shoulder.

"Another day saved by Captain Eric," he said in an overly dramatic tone. I elbowed him in the stomach.

"Shut up and go help."

Wyatt saluted and scurried upstairs. Mark glanced at me.

"You sure that was a smart idea?"

"I'm just surprised he listened to me."

Mark grinned a bit and I felt a batch of warm fuzzies erupt in my stomach. Making Mark smile was like the sun coming out on a cloudy day, forgive the completely cheesy simile.

Catty poked me on the shoulder. "Been staying out of trouble, dear Eric?"

"Yes ma'am," I said in a mock sweet tone. She giggled and patted me on the head. I smiled and took a step towards the stairs.

A strange shock wave hit me, and I wavered in that split second between when my foot came off the ground and when they met again. I stopped, shook off the feeling, and resumed up the stairs.

Man, I'm still dizzy from last night. Oh my God, Chester was insane for challenging me to that contest. I should’ve known better than to let him manipulate me like that, I thought.

I read somewhere, in one of my many sessions curled up amongst books and boxes in the storage room of my parent’s Glasgow shop, that an alcoholic’s mind is basically like putting up a brick wall around yourself- easy to build, difficult to tear down. Even the smallest thought can trigger another brick to be put into place and the person’s defences to become stronger. It was a good metaphor, very operative. I admired the author’s skill with nonfiction.

Little did I know it at the time, but that thought of Oh my God, Chester was insane for challenging me to that contest. I should’ve known better than to let him manipulate me like that was the first brick in my own isolating wall. It seemed so harmless. But as the adage goes, never judge a book by its cover. And living amongst books since birth, I knew that probably better than anyone that I’d ever met.

But did I pay attention? Of course not. I knew my own mind better than anyone else. I knew what was wrong with it.

I’m perfectly fine.

Brick two. Fucking brick two.

They multiply so fast, don’t they?

+++