The Inner Critic

As writers and artists, we have one. I never realized whose voice it was—telling me that my work wasn’t good enough, that I needed to stretch beyond my comfort zone. She actually sprung out of my subconscious and took form in one of my novels, though I didn’t recognize her as such at the time. She hovers over me, whether I’m painting or writing…

Let me introduce you to Marvelle, by way of an excerpt…

Leila hunched over her work, sitting before the garden’s centerpiece, a Grecian maiden perched in a dried-up fountain. Spanish moss grazed the greenish patina of her shoulders, glowing in the gradient light of late afternoon. She loomed as guardian over Leila. Her watchful eye seemed to alert the artist to unwanted attention approaching from behind.

Sensing an intrusion, Leila arched her aching back and quit with her paintbrush. She pulled the paper block to her chest. Cocking her head, she met an old woman’s piercing eyes.

The matron frowned, folding her arms and taking an abrupt suck from her cigarette. Standing less than five foot, the well-into-her-eighties matron swept a strand of white hair up and poked it into the knot crowning her head. She drew a long drag from the cigarette that doubled as a gesturing baton, leaving a thin trail of smoke. “Well?”

Leila wondered if this might be Marvelle. She clutched her work even tighter.

The old woman flicked her butt to the grass. Grinding it under foot, she thrust out her hand with all the authority of God.

“Don’t be ridiculous, child! Let me see!” Her smoker’s voice chopped with a Bostonian inflection.

Taken aback, Leila glowered at the encroachment while sizing up her opponent. A long, loose-fitting tunic hung from a buttoned neckline and square shoulders, covering most of her shapeless trousers. She looked well on her way to the grave, and yet Leila hesitated to disobey.

Crooked fingers snatched the tablet and held it at a distance, then brought it closer to her spectacles. “You’re overworking it, child.”

“Yeah?” Leila stated, regarding what had always been obvious to her.

“And you’re including too much detail.”

“I like detail.”

“That’s fine, da’ling, but until you can make your point with a few strokes you have no business with detail. You haven’t earned the right.”

Leila’s attention darted from fierce wrinkles to her own disappointing efforts. Was this feisty and officious bit-of-a-woman the ‘dear old soul’ of whom her had grandmother spoken?

“Your perspective, however, and proportions are impeccable. Perhaps you ought to stick with sketching, and not waste your time with paint.”

“I like to paint.”

“Could have fooled me. You look as uncomfortable as a cat in a shoebox, and your work is as passionless as a peck on the cheek.” She wielded the pad as though swatting mosquitoes, and then shoved it back at Leila. “You can’t tell me you’re happy with this.”

“I wasn’t expecting a great work of art. It’s just a pastime.”

“Rubbish! What prevents you from greatness?”

“What?” Wide-eyed, and then with a squint, Leila sat erect.

“Fear—that’s what! When you’re ready to own up to it, come and see me, da’ling.” With that old woman spun on her heal and jauntily headed back toward the house, belying any readiness for the grave.

For all intents and purposes, Marvelle could be standing over my shoulder as I type, trying to form a story. She always sees the flaw, but I think she also sees the potential.

Is your inner critic ‘cruel…but fair?’ Does she ever allow you any peace or gratification?

Banana Seat and Skinned Knees

It's snowing like crazy outside and I feel antsy...so, I thought I'd post an excerpt from something I started and haven't had the gumption to continue. The setting is 1969. A grown man's recollection of a pivotal summer...a coming of age story...

I skid out of our driveway, carefully calculating the lean of my stingray bike with its brand new banana seat. It was truly impressive. Back in the ticky-tacky development where we lived, it was the coolest bike on the block. And the best feature was the caliper brakes. I installed them myself. Everyone knew me as the go-to bike man—okay, boy, but the fact was, I could take any piece-of-crap bike and give it a complete makeover. Paint job, included. Since there weren’t any real hills in our neighborhood, only a square grid of asphalt, I couldn’t wait to give it a spin on the inclines and declines of the dirt roads around the lake.

Taking a left turn onto the road, I peddled the easy slope downward. I think I’d probably grown too big for the bike which made the whole contraption top-heavy and sent me reeling side to side with each pedal thrust. Before the steep drop-off, I locked up the back brake, shooting a gravel fishtail behind as I ‘J’ skidded to a halt. To my best calculation, I had a quarter mile of gradual ascent until the road peaked-out in front of our camp. If I gained enough speed, I could get a little air as I headed into the hairpin curve beyond our driveway, and then down toward Whispering Narrows. Sure it was risky, but I had been imagining that moment of triumph for months, envisioning myself as Evel Knievel.

I’m sure it would have been just as I imagined, except as I breached the curve, (and I did indeed gain some air) then landed and righted myself, Doc’s Land Rover came out of nowhere. I hit both brakes, skidding into his front tire. It was more of a scrape than a collision, but it disabled my chain as I careened off to the side of the road. We both came to a halt.

His head lunged from the window as his voice thundered, “Jeeze, kid, you all right?”

I brushed gravel from my leg with one skinned hand, and gripped the handle bar with the other. I panted, “Yeah, I’m fine—no biggy.”

“You ought to take it easy on that curve, you know.” His bushy white brows furrowed as his fingers raked a shock of silver hair.

Awaiting his rebuke, I quickly replied, “Yes, sir, I’ll be more careful. I didn’t hurt your car, did I?”

He cocked his head and exhaled a chuckle. “I’d be more concerned with your bike, if I were you.”

I glanced at it and nudged the slack chain with my sneaker. “I think that’s the worst of it—I can fix it easy.”

“You sure?”

I didn’t know if I should read his squint as disbelief or approval.

“Oh yeah—” my voice pitched a curve. “I fix all sorts of stuff.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, bikes and all kinds of other mechanical crap—I mean, stuff, sir.”

“Mechanical, eh? Like what?”

“Lawn mowers,” I said, and then thought of something even more impressive. “And I fixed a clock that I bought at a yard sale—with gears, and everything.”

“A clock, did you?”

This time I detected a distinct glint of approval. “Yes sir.”

“You’re the lad from the camp on the crest, aren’t you.”

“Yes sir.”

“You have a name, don’t you?”

“Yes sir.” I tried to keep my face from cracking a too-eager smile. “I’m Benjamin Hughes.”

He extended his meaty hand from inside his truck and enveloped mine like a baseball mitt. I squeezed back with all I had; a tiny mouse in a steel trap.

One corner of his mouth curled. “That’s quite a grip you’ve got.”

My ears flashed hot, and I nodded my modest best.

“I’m Doc Burns.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, suddenly aware of how often I had uttered the word ‘sir’ in the past two minutes. “I know.”

He winked. “You come on by my house tomorrow morning. I’ve got an old clock that my brother-in-law gave me, years ago—never liked the thing. Piece of junk as far as I’m concerned. But if you can fix it, you can have it.”

I could feel my jaw drop, but nothing came out. I needed to reply with something clever—something memorable, something that didn’t include the word sir, but all I could come up with was, “Gosh, sir, I don’t know what to say, sir.”

“Don’t say a thing, just come by before noon, ‘cause I’ve got an appointment after that.”

Again, my ears flamed. “Yes sir.”

“Will that be okay with your parents?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” I lied.

“Okay, then. You sure you’re okay?”

Gravel still clung to my bloody knee. “Yeah—I get these all the time. Thank you sir.”

As he drove away, I knew that I had just met the most formidable man alive.

A Little Bit of Marlena

This last excerpt is 19-year-old Marlena’s account, relaying her personal experience at a hospital, with her new friend, Dave.

They told me I had to take off the clothes that Dr. Phelps gave me, and put on another little shirt that tied in the back. New people asked me questions, ones I had already answered. They also stuck things in my mouth, listened to my heart, and hit my knee. Mostly they only annoyed me, but then they wanted to poke me with a sharp needle.

I jumped off the table and shouted, “No! I’m leaving right now!” Then I told Dave to take me to my people.

He took my hand and stepped between me and the others.

“Marlena,” he said in a gentle voice, “you don’t have anyone yet. These people don’t want to hurt you, they simply need to make sure your blood is healthy, and they can’t let you leave until they make sure you’re completely well.”

I took a deep breath and didn’t shout this time. I folded my arms tighter. “I am perfectly well. How would you like it if I poked all of you with a sharp stick?” I didn’t take my eyes off them, and I didn’t budge.

Dave made the others leave for a minute and then took my hand again.

“Marlena, this is something they have to do. It won’t hurt too bad, I promise.”

I wanted to believe him. “Then I want you to do it to me. I know you’ll be gentle.”

“Okay.” He quickly he tied a piece of rubber around my arm. Then he rubbed a spot with something cold. “Ready?”

I closed my eyes. “Yes.”

I cried into his shirt, not because it hurt, but because I didn’t have any people yet.

The Captain's Story—Told by Marlena the Peculiar

You'll notice this sample is significantly different from the last. Marlena is the storyteller, conveying it in third person POV. The voice is formal, heavily influenced by Daniel Defoe's Robinson Crusoe, which is Marlena’s favorite novel.
The characters—the Captain, a young Venezuelan woman, and a Black slave—are shipwrecked on an otherwise uninhabited island, in the late 1860's.

One night, when a full moon broke through clouds, the Captain woke. He lay restless as a beam of light shone in upon him. Rather than idly torment himself, he went to the ledge overlooking the beach. The sparkling water faded in and out of the moonlight as clouds waltzed like bridal gauze.

Before long, he heard the rustling of Mrs. Lawson.

“Finally, a break in the rain.” She sat beside him. “Do you mind if I join you?”

The Captain glanced at her. Although he was enjoying his solitude, he would be hard pressed to find her an imposition. “Please, do.”

“Tell me Captain Wesley—”

“There is no need for formality. I am hardly a captain any longer.”

“William, then,” her voice lilted. “Tell me, what was it that woke you? The moon or your conscience?”

The Captain shot her a startled glance.

“Ah, the conscience,” she deduced. “The conscience is such a troublesome thing—sometimes it betrays you, condemning when it ought not, and sometimes it’s as lenient as an indulgent parent.”

Was she now reneging on her promise not to speak of his culpability regarding her husband’s death? Or, did she refer to something else?

“I have never been a man at ease with my conscience,” he said. “A calm conscience only serves complacency.”

“And the provoked conscience, a handy device to send men to war—to protect and provide for their families. Tell me, what verdict does it offer when family—when children—are left to fend for themselves?”

Her words grabbed at his heart, squeezing blood to his neck. “What do you imply? That it is better for a man to stand back and watch while others defend and provide for his family? That he should coddle them at any cost?”

“You misunderstand my intent. I mean no accusation against you.” She drew a solemn breath. “It is my own past that torments me.”

“Tell me, that I may gain some perspective.”

She turned to him incisively. “You want a woman’s perspective, but I shall give you a child’s.” Her eyes drifted toward the beach. “I was only ten when the caudillo came and took our plantation. I lost my father, brothers and uncles to the civil insurrections of those feudal lords. There was no one left to fend for me.” Her voice tapered, and her next words seemed to come with hesitation. “Had I not been a beautiful little girl, I would still be working the fields of those outlaws, used up like so many of the girls who had come of age.”

The Captain stared at her, aghast.

“Don’t be appalled,” she said. “Things took a turn for the better when I was thirteen. A fine, rich gentleman, visiting Venezuelan plantations noticed me, and it was he who essentially purchased me. He clothed me in the finest French linens and laces, placed me at his table and fed me exotic delicacies, and he educated me at the best institutions. Yes, he took my virginity, but my innocence was already lost. At least he had the decency to marry me.”

Neither spoke for a moment.

“And Tomas?” he asked.

“He acquired Tomas three years earlier, bestowing upon him many of the same privileges.”

“You make your husband out to be quite the philanthropist.”

She laughed. “Oh yes, he loved to conceal his shrewdness behind humanitarian deeds—that was the guise for luring his investors. That and his charisma—why, even you succumbed to it—to the gold, to the esteem.”

The Captain could not refute her words.

She continued, “As for me, I was merely an investment, as good as a title deed to my inheritance, once the Federalists took control again. A stock in commodities. With his beautiful wife at his right hand and imposing, fiercely loyal Tomas at his left, who would contend with him?”

“Did you love him?”

“I suppose I loved him as much as he did me.”

“He didn’t love you—he used you.”

“And there you have it, William. Now can you see?” she glanced at him. “I am left pondering what a person is willing to trade for security—no matter if that security is in the form of esteem, a home, gold, or…” she looked directly at the Captain, waiting for their eyes to meet, “…or love.”

While I'm Waiting...

I thought I’d post three samples of Story for a Shipwright. Three samples, because (as a handful of you already know), there are primarily three voices to this story. Samuel’s, Marlena the Storyteller, and Marlena. For those who haven’t read any of my ‘literary’ work, and may be a little interested, I shall post one excerpt for the next three days.The trick of it is not giving away the storyline.

The following excerpt is Samuel's. He's a 32 year-old boatwright, struggling with family responsibilities:

That evening, quite a few guests socialized at the house, so I grabbed a quick sandwich and ate it out behind the boatshed by the old marine railway. We called it the ‘working’ side of the yard, where we hid away the Travelift and wintering boats so as not to ‘clutter up’ the view from the bed-and-breakfast. Its seclusion offered the illusion of privacy, a good place for quiet conversation, or silent meditation. We also yanked out the ‘moaning chair’ beside the back door, when some project had gone to crap—when I’d measured three times and it was still too short. Sometimes Derek and I’d hang out there when guests overran the house. Back in high school, we used to light up a joint every now and then and felt as if we could get away with anything when out of my mother’s sight. Tonight, I just wanted some solitude.

The summer solstice had approached, so it stayed light until around nine o’clock. A little later than that, Billy appeared with a six-pack. I was sure he intended the gesture to soften me up, and I had to admit, it did slightly temper my dread. We each drank our first beer in silence and I waited to see if the next four were mine. When he reached for his second and took a long gulp, I joined him and could feel the alcohol diluting my resentment. He merely stared off and seemed to have no agenda—not that I believed it for a minute, but at least he deferred the pace to me. I took another swig. “How are you enjoying your visit?”

“Good.”

Beside us, fallen over on its side and half-buried in weeds, a dilapidated pram blistered and splintered, long relegated to the worthless, like old anchors, buoys, and decaying lobster traps, now as much a part of the landscape as the boulder into which it was disintegrating.

Tipping my beer toward it, I directed Billy’s attention. “You remember that summer, when I was nine, when Dad helped us build that?”

“Yeah,” he said, pensively, “I remember…but it was Buck who helped us build it.”

“No, man, I distinctly remember Dad—he had on that red hat and a plaid shirt.”

“Didn’t say he wasn’t there…he was. Except, he was passed out in the corner. Remember? Buck was the one who taught us how to use the drawknife…’cause Dad cut himself and had to sit down.”

I vaguely recalled it…remembered how Dad didn’t get up from that chair for the rest of the day. Billy didn’t say anything more about it, only that it was Buck who’d taught us how to build a pram.