Short story: The Videotape

For the aforementioned short story course I was doing, we had to work on a 1,000-word story to read out in the final week. This was my story. It's sort of adapted from an idea I had for a collection of stories about people with sad tales to tell. The collection would have more impact than one story on its own (well that's my idea anyway) but this had to be butchered quite a bit to get down to the word count, and in order to try and put into practice the tips I received on the course I gave it a 'twist' which on reflection, I probably wouldn't do in the final story.

But anyway, here it is! Comments/constructive criticism as always, much appreciated:

The Videotape

The day I found the videotape had been just like any other.

Breakfast, put some washing on, think about what to do with myself in those long dead hours in the afternoon, between lunch and the six o’clock news, when my tea would be ready. I found myself envying the vegetables I was chopping as I put them into the slowcooker, knowing each carrot, parsnip and swede cube was nestled safely and purposefully in its own place, only one eventuality to become them all. Ha! Silly old fool, I told myself. Envying veg. What next? Better to put the long afternoon out of mind, work on your cross stitching, watch the news, and count your blessings before bed.

Except this Wednesday, I never got to the news.

A report on the radio reminded me of the talk at last Thursday’s social. Something about technology. As if a dozen or so widows cared about new technology! But it made me think about Bill and his love of gadgets.

In that instant I could see him, in his armchair nearest the telly, slapping his hands down on the arm rests and shaking his head.

‘It’s no good. We’ll have to get a new one.’

And that was it. I never asked why, or a new what? Just nodded and let him get the catalogues out to start comparing prices and models and specifications with faint pencil notes in a tiny red notebook.

I don’t know why I remembered the notebook, but I had a sudden urge to check – check that it was real, not imagined, that something tangible of dear Bill still existed. Before I knew it I was rummaging around in his precious Back Room.

Piles of books, magazines, papers and old boxes nestled together conspiratorially in the musty darkness. We’re safe, they seemed to say. Nothing ever changes in here.

As I tugged at one of the drawers in the old fashioned bureau that belonged to Bill’s father it came out clean in my hands, bits and bobs flying everywhere. My heart leapt – what would Bill say? Then I remembered, with a funny feeling in my stomach, that he couldn’t say anything because he wasn’t there.

So I ploughed on.

Old receipts, shopping lists, instruction manuals, light bulbs, screws and nails and wall hanging hooks. It was all there, just where he’d left it.

‘What on earth were you planning on doing with all this?’ I found myself wondering.

Instinctively, I started sorting things into piles, until I realised I was clearing out this bureau and I intended to do a proper job of it.

The notebook still hadn’t appeared when something else caught my eye. Hidden beneath ancient alarm clocks, radios and floppy discs was the old video player.

‘Videos? Pah. It’s all about digital versatile discs now love,’ I remembered him saying. But it was the only bit of kit I was interested in using. I used to tape old films to watch in the day, whilst ironing or stitching or the like. I didn’t fancy re-training to the new DVD player.

Now, with no accusing eyes watching, I grabbed it with both hands and pulled it free from its hiding place. Grabbing a few videotapes from an adjacent mountain I triumphantly bundled my booty back to the living room. After a few minor rearrangements of plugs and sockets, I heard the blip telling me the video welcome screen was running, clear as day. Where had this tech-savvy woman taking over her husband’s beloved technology come from? I barely knew myself.

In a daze, I shoved the first tape into the player and waited. The machine whirred and hesitated and seemed to get stuck, and I suddenly felt tired. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. My knees ached and my heart was racing with the sudden burst of activity. There was all the rubbish to put out and I’d have to unhook the damn thing as it looked so cumbersome and out of place in my neat living room.

Giving up, I left the machine clicking away and put the kettle on. Suddenly, I heard music.

Faint at first, then louder, but not like a film soundtrack, more like it was being played inside some other room. A voice, slightly muffled, was speaking in a few short sentences at a time. Curiosity got the better of me and I went to see what this strange film could be.

It wasn’t a film at all. It was a home movie. People, wobbly and faint with the passing of time, were dancing in pairs, in some kind of community hall. Then it twigged. Our anniversary party! I knelt right in front of the telly and turned the volume up.

Ahhh, look. The happy couple! It was Bill’s work colleague, Ian something or other. As he spoke, the shaky zoom focused and refocused again on a couple, dancing awkwardly in the centre of the room. It was me. Cradled in Bill’s arms. Clutched, more like. He always held on too tight, but I didn’t mind. We span amateurishly across the floor, all the while Bill catching people’s eyes, ever the friendly neighbour, chit chatting and making jokes with his friends. I basked in his being, allowing myself to be spun and twirled and shunted around the dancefloor like Cosmo dancing with the dummy in Singin’ in the Rain.

Then, as abruptly as it started, the screen flickered and was gone – replaced with static.

I struggled to rejoin the room. Where was Bill? What had happened?

It was just a normal Wednesday. Yet now it felt like the days and weeks and years had melted and merged and were swimming around in my vision like the black circles that formed when I looked away from the snowstorm of the screen at the disappearing sunlight. I closed my eyes and let my head sag down to my bony chest. That chest. It had been so close. So wedged in to Bill’s ample torso, squeezed until I could feel his heart beat against my bosom. Together we span, one person, never questioning the closeness that bound us, never contemplating how fragile that moment was, how quickly it would be gone. By the following Christmas, he was dead.

Slowly, carefully, I unplugged the wires and buried the video in its place back in Bill’s room. I shut the door, went back to the kitchen and made a cup of tea to drink before the news.

The last thing I remember is a warm, solid pressure against my chest. I imagined it was Bill, squeezing me tighter and tighter until I knew that my last breath would take me to him, I would be safe in his arms once again. When they found me, I was still smiling.

ENDS

End of the short story writing class...and other things

Wow it's been a while since I updated this. Technology at home is one of the reasons, plus any spare time I had was devoted to various writing and other assignments for the Writing a Short Story course I was doing at Leicester Writing School.

Now that's finished and I'm still deciding how I felt about the whole thing. Overall it was a positive experience, I met some really nice people and I felt that it was a very good use of my time.

I'm not sure what I expected to happen. I think I hoped that it would ignite a spark to write that would produce a never-ending array of new works in progress which would eventually satisfy my desire to 'write something worth reading.'

In reality I wasn't all that pleased with most of the stuff I wrote. I am still struggling with WHAT to write about. And I'm not sure I can do the whole 'story arc' and 'satisfying ending' things that publish-able short stories apparently need to contain.

But none of that is the fault of the lovely tutors who I really respect and appreciated their advice and encouragement. I think Bead shouting "Just write something! Anything!" at me during one of the exercises the first week of the course will stay with me forever!

Maybe THAT'S the best thing I got out of it........just to keep trying!

Argh.

Will post a couple of new things as a follow on to this, sort of stuff i worked on during the class.

T

Writing School Leicester short story course, Weeks 2 and 3

Yes, I know. I missed a week. It's been busy. To recap:
The homework got done and handed in, albeit I had flashbacks to school when I left everything to the last minute and had to hastily re-write it during the break thanks to not having a printer. In the end I continued my imaginings from the group discussion in class and sort of grafted a description of my nan's front room onto a character called Barbara Morris, who was loosely based on the idea of that woman who insulted Gordon Brown that time. The piece had an MP - with an appropriate sounding name, as learned in the lesson - visiting The Morris woman's bungalow to heal the breach. If I get round to typing it up I'll post it. it was good practice in just DOING some thing and then handing it in, rather than my usual doing it then hiding it away becausse I fear it's not good enough.
To my complete and utter surprise and delight, week two of the course started well with good feedback from Bead - hooray! - and an opportunity to do some free writing in class which I was brave enough to read out to good response. I hope this does not sound like boasting, but it is so great to finally get some encouragement after what feels like forever writing into the wind.
enthusiasm suitably increased, boldness mustered up, I left week two abounding with ideas and...promptly did not do my homework. life conspires against me yet again. or is it just laziness?
still, week three has offered another twist in the road - poor Bead has a problem with her eyesight and has had to withdraw from the rest of the course. Her replacement, Rachel, is completely different and has a very different style. she's lovely quite quick-moving which I like and very open to discussion. she encouraged us to share and work in groups as she doesn't take homework home and give personal feedback. I have to say this is disappointing as surely that's the main thing new writers need? But it motivated us as a group to share our work, so I have set up a forum for us to do just that. my fellow course members are turning out to be a lovely bunch and there s a lovely sense of camaraderie by the end of the leson which I really hope continues.

homework this week is mixed, nothing that really inspires me so I'm going to return to something I started for Bead but didn't finish. It's the story of a dystopian future middle England, where the financial crash has landed society in post war conditions, with rationing, shops shut down, electricity turned off, disease rife. we pick up the story from the viewpoint of a little girl, queueing to get some medicine for her sick father, who we learn was once a government scientist. Like the idea of a child caring for a parent and at the same time coping with extreme adversity with stoic, childlike acceptance. but of course, and I already feel sorry for the poor little thing, something has to go wrong.

It's actually good because in the class this week we discussed short story structure and the used of conflict to move a story along. I really needed this because this idea I feel has potential but when I first wrote it there was no conflict, no idea of where the climax or resolution would come. I discovered from the group work in class that unlike some of my fellow students I struggle to find the resolution in plot planning. Rachel suggested that maybe I'm the kind of person who can't Decide in advance and just needs to keep writing and see where it takes me. I like this idea although I've always thought it's not very productive. but she has given me confidence to give it a go, so I will see where it takes me.

Until next time, then.

P.s. Sorry about poor spelling, punctuation etc. In this post! It pains me not to amend it but I'm using a borrowed iPad and it's a nightmare! Can't work out how to edit! so will have to amend another day! SO much for 21st century gadgets......

Writing School Leicester short story course, Week 1

The plan is backfiring.

This morning was the first session of six with the lovely Bead Roberts at Writing School Leicester. We’re writing a short story. Or few. And already I’m floundering in a sea of unimaginative excuses as to why I have writers’ block, even when the other nine individuals in the room can come up with SOMETHING, upon request. Whereas I can’t. Or won’t. I’m still not sure which.

It’s like Scrabble. All my friends and family have always assumed I’m great at Scrabble. And crosswords! “Oh Tash, she’s into books, she MUST be brilliant at Scrabble.”

Couldn’t be further from the truth.

I’ve always thought it’s the reporter instinct – give me a happening, an event, or whatever, and I’ll re-tell it. I’ll make it sound better or more pithy or more entertaining or just straight if that’s what you want. But ask me to INVENT something, for no reason at all, other than for the purpose of inventing, and I just draw blanks. Which as dedicated Scrabble players will tell you, score nothing.

The other students in the class are a varied bunch, some brave, others shy but everyone, every single one of them, when prompted, came up with something they weren’t so embarrassed not to share with the group.

Still, it was fun, and everyone was nice, and Bead, the tutor, is lovely in a sort of no-nonsense Radio 4 play writing sensible shoe wearing good humoured academic kind of way. Which is a good thing – as already covered on this blog, I’m a big R4 fan.

So I want to please her, I really do. Impress her, even. But I won’t do it unless I get over this stupid “I can’t think of anything” phase. A phase which has lasted ooh, YEARS now! Ridiculous. I listen to radio. I read newspapers. I speak to people, real people, all of the time. I have been places and seen things and observed and commented and memorised just like everyone else. So why can’t I recall any of these things and use them creatively when prompted?

Hopefully this course will help me find the missing link. If nothing else, the sheer brutal experience of being asked to come up with something in minutes then speak it to the whole group without chance to self edit or prevaricate or equivocate or any of those lovely words, and this week after week, should bludgeon my reluctant brain into something approaching obedience.

So then, what better place to start than homework?! Which, if you're reading this to see if you want to do the course, I should point out is optional and given in the kindest and most constructive terms possible, with a promise from Bead to give personal feedback which is actually the single most terrifying and yet desired outcome of this whole exercise. What does someone else, a professional storyteller, THINK of my writing?

Gulp.

The homework is to imagine a familiar setting, then have an unexpected character (for whom we have to get the name right, see earlier post) walk into the setting, notice three things, and react. Additionally, we need to write a paragraph or so in that person’s voice, first person, explaining what they want and what’s standing in their way.

Simple you may say. Endless possibilities!

That’s what I’m struggling with.

I may post the results, and Bead’s comments, here. Seems only fair.

Wish me luck.