The Doll

 

[Since last month's post was about writing, and this story was referenced, I thought I'd post it here. This was written for my first major course in Writing. I wa 18, so keep that in mind.]    

     Her name was Holly. She was born on Christmas Eve, and although she had ruined her parents' plans for that evening, they managed to forgive her for that. Then they named her in the true spirit of Christmas.

            She was now six, that novel age when she was "Mommy's big girl" while still remaining "Daddy's little angel". She was a vibrant child. Everything about her seemed radiant, including her long, brown hair that glistened red in the sun.

            She wore green well and almost exclusively; that was her mother's way of keeping Christmas around her all year long. Many of Holly's dolls wore pretty dresses of red or blue, but none dressed like Holly except one: her Christy-Anna doll. Christy was not only Holly's favorite doll, but she was also her best friend. Christy listened like none of the other dolls when Holly spoke – so Holly told everyone – and always had something nice to say. But Holly only reluctantly admitted that she had to pull a string to make Christy talk.

            Holly lived a very happy life with her dolls when she wasn't too busy entertaining her invisible friends at imaginary parties.  She was happy with her parents, too – when they weren't too busy entertaining their real friends at real parties. Like her mother, Holly often told her doll that if she were good, she'd get a piece of cake; then Holly would rush upstairs and try very hard to go to sleep.

            The Andersons were well known for their parties.  Their friends often envied their ability to entertain well. The Andersons, of course, enjoyed their popularity as much as children do.

            The day after a party, however, was usually a bad one for Christy.

            "Can't you ever do what I ask?" Holly would demand in sleepless irritability.  "You always have to make noise, don't you?  You always want the spotlight. Well, you're nothing but a brat. You'll learn that the parties I give are mine. You'll learn – you'll spend the day in your room." Then Holly would slap the doll's face.

            "Mama," the doll cried automatically.

            "Don't think crying will get you anywhere," Holly answered.  "You're a bad girl. You're no good at all."

            "I love you, Mama," the doll responded, and the worn record made it sound like the doll was crying.

            "I don't love you anymore," Holly said, then began beating the doll with anger unusual for a child her age.

            Poor Christy-Anna! When she was good, she was Holly's most beloved doll, but when she displeased Holly, she bore the brunt of the child's rage. Yet, for all the beatings the doll received, it still said, "I love you, Mama."

            Of late, the doll had stopped talking much. The string didn't always work. This annoyed Holly. She couldn't tolerate Christy being like the other mute dolls she had.

            "If you're not going to say anything, then go away," Holly said. But the doll remained in its place. Holly went about her work, ignoring Christy completely. Finally, Holly turned to the doll.

            "I'm going to have another party. This time, you're not going to ruin it for me."

            Actually, the doll never did anything to ruin Holly's parties.  She was very good, but some of Holly's friends became quite loud, disturbing the doll's sleep. An accidental cry of "Mama!" would send Holly into a rage, even though accidents of this sort often happen to talking dolls.

            Holly could be quite charming to her friends at a party, but coming back to the realities of life the next day had devastating effects on her. Days like that made Holly hate the doll. But then Holly would realize that her troubles were not entirely the doll's fault, and she would try to make things up to her.

            "Let's see my big girl smile," Holly said, hugging her doll.

            Together the girl and the doll would take imaginary shopping trips, and as far as Holly was concerned, things were all right again.

            Holly had another party, but this time things were worse than usual. One of Holly's imaginary friends got out of hand, and Christy, unfortunately, was not well. Holly was quite embarrassed, and the party ended early.

            The following morning found Holly out of sorts, a pounding headache adding to her tiredness. Poor Christy-Anna, who had, until then, looked like a normal worn doll, took such a beating that Holly's hands were sore.

            "You're not sick, you bad thing!" Holly shouted. "You've ruined everything. I hate you, Christy-Anna, I hate you! I wish I never had you."

            Holly beat the doll unmercifully. When she finished the doll looked frightful. The tangled brown hair fell over its face, the wrinkled green dress was torn, and the arms and legs flailed about with every blow.

            Finally exhausted, Holly threw the doll on the floor. As it hit the floor, it cried, "Mama," perhaps for the last time. That infernal squeaking voice!

            "Shut up!" Holly said, shaking the doll, and banging it against the floor. The doll was silent, and the blue eyes closed.  Satisfied, Holly left the doll lying on the floor, and went off to do her work.

 

            "Hi, hon," Tom Anderson said. "You look beat."

            "Oh, I've been cleaning up after that party," his wife answered. "Brad Quinton will never be invited here again after the mess he caused last night."

            "I agree. Where's Holly?"

            "Upstairs. Do you know that fake wasn't sick last night after all? She just wanted attention. And to make matters worse, this morning she broke that stupid doll,"

            He stood looking at her oddly for the comment. Why was she talking about a child's doll? It made no sense, and didn't explain the anger he'd heard in her voice – the sudden realization of the reality beyond the words pushed through the years of denial.

            "My God!" he said, horrified, as he dashed upstairs.

            When he reached the room, he found Holly on the floor where her mother had left her, still squeaking "Mama." He scooped her up, and laid her on the bed as he looked pityingly at her battered body. He pushed her hair from her doll face.

            His wife watched, unmoved, from the doorway. "I told you you never should have given her that doll," she said.

 

 

                                                                          END

                                                                          1973

About Books:The Unicorn Novels

 

 

 The unicorn novels are intended to be a 4-book set.  Each book covers one of the four elements: air, earth, water and fire. To date, the fourth hasn't been written beyond the prologue (it's also the only one with a prologue), although the others are complete.

This children’s series began with The Snow Unicorn, and the series hadn’t yet been planned at the time. Otherwise, the first novel might have been about hurricanes rather than snow.

As it stands, the Unicorn novels represent children who aren’t believed, whether because what they say is too fantastic to be believed or simply because they’re children, and therefore, are less likely to differentiate between reality and fantasy.

In this first novel, Kayleigh is a resourceful little girl who is able to amuse herself on a snowy day when her friends can’t come out to play. She finds chunks of snow that resemble various animals – at least in her imagination – and she puts an icicle on the head of one she thinks looks like a horse.

During her play, she trips and falls. Rather than getting hurt, she finds herself in a different land, where unicorns are real. People are honored by her presence because she comes from “the real world.”

With no idea how she got there, she rides a unicorn – only those from the real world can tame the unicorns – into town, and is taken in by a woman who has no children living at home. No one has any idea how long she’ll be there, or how she’ll get home. Things simply happen in their own time.

She is summoned to the castle, and meets the King, the Queen and their children. She’s invited to a party at the castle, but ends up in her own home in the real world before the party happens.

When Kayleigh tells her family and friends about her adventures, she’s met with disbelief, and by some, with outright ridicule. Because her parents are concerned with her well-being, she pretends it was all a story she made up when she was outside playing.

There are those who do know about the other world, and one such is a teacher. She asks Kayleigh all about her experiences, assuring her that she (the teacher) went there as a child, but never had the chance to stay.

Kayleigh’s opportunity to go to this otherworld only happens when it snows. She has also been told that at 18, she will have to decide whether she should stay in the real world or move permanently to the land of the unicorns.

There are years of no snow, in which Kayleigh despairs of ever getting to go to the unicorn land again, but she does get several opportunities.

One thing that is different between that world and the real world is time. Time runs more quickly in the unicorn land, so that when she returns to the land after a few years, the King’s children are grown and his eldest is now king, with children of his own. When she has been in the unicorn land for several days, she returns home to discover barely a few seconds have passed.

When she reaches 18, she once again finds herself in the unicorn land. Her unicorn is dying. She has a love interest in this land who would like her to stay, even if the unicorn dies. But she has a budding career in the real world. She has only until midnight on her birthday to decide.

The other novels have a similar setup.

In the Air Unicorn, a boy is terrified of tornadoes, and of course, lives in an area of frequent tornadoes. Each time one comes, he disappears to the unicorn land.

The first time, he doesn’t believe what he sees, saying unicorns are for girls. But the unicorn shows him otherwise.

There are no tornadoes in this fantasy land, and he is well cared for, with many friends, unlike his life in the real world, where he’s bullied.

Again, at 18 the boy must decide which world he chooses to live in.

Not everyone chooses the real world, and their reasons for choosing one over the other are varied.

In the third novel, The Earth Unicorn, Treig is a boy whose family has moved from India to the United States. His father is given a rare opportunity to give his family a much better life in America. Unfortunately, his father dies, leaving his mother to care for her daughter and son, navigate a new land and find a job to support her family. Things are not as wonderful as they had hoped, but his mother has reasons for not wanting to return to India.

Her daughter is studying to be a dancer, and is meeting with success. But Treig, who is 10 at the start of the story, is a worry. His mother is afraid he’s getting in with the wrong crowd, and tries to find meaningful things for him to do.

Then an earthquake hits. Treig, who was very small when the family left India, knows very little about the culture. But fate takes him to the land of the unicorns. The country that he lands in there is very much like an Aladdin story, but with a unicorn, too.

Like the characters in the other stories, he is taken in by someone in the village, and the children there befriend him. And like the characters in the other stories, when he comes back to the real world, he isn’t believed.

Treig learns many things about his real culture, albeit in a fairytale-like land, and at 18 must decide which world he will stay in.

In each of the first three stories, there is only one unicorn. A new one arrives only after the old one has died. Unicorns are revered but only children from the real world can tame them, and only one child from the real world comes to any particular unicorn.

The fourth story is a bit divergent. This time there are two unicorns, one white, the other a highly unusual black unicorn. An ancient prophesy tells of unfortunate times when the two unicorns share the land. A set of twins arrive to tame the unicorns when a volcano threatens their village. Will they be able to change fate, or will they cause the downfall of the entire fantasy world? I’ll let you know when I’ve finished writing the book!

Why did I write this series? I wanted to explore children’s fantasies beyond the monster under the bed.

The fears each of the children has are of real circumstances: tornadoes, earthquakes, volcanoes. While these aren’t the norm for many children, often when they hear about them, they wonder if that could happen where they are (at least, the worriers do).

By showing these events, it may make the fear of the event a bit less. Having somewhere for each child to escape, a pleasant place where all of their needs are met and their fantasies fulfilled is a typical childhood coping skill. Allowing the child to choose which world to live in is the ultimate “what if.” The idea that some choose the fantasy world, even though, if you think about it, their lives will go by more quickly, while others choose to return to the real world begs the question, what is happily ever after, anyway?

Tell Me a Story

 

 

Not long ago, I was thinking back to when I majored in writing in college. I remember the thrill of my first English major course, and the college seniors who had been avoiding said class for four years. I was a second term freshman. They couldn’t understand how someone in their first year managed to get into a majors course until I explained that I’d exempted the first Freshman English course by exam, and only had to take a hybrid course meant for those who had passed that exam. The exam had been easier than my fifth grade final exam when I was 11, and the hybrid course had been a total waste of my time.

In walked the teacher, a character with shoulder-length white hair, a floppy leather hat and a white Snidely Whiplash moustache. To round out his costume, he wore military boots, leather trousers and a Hawaiian shirt. It was the ‘70s. You never knew what you would get.

“So, you people want to write?” he asked. We nodded. “Then what are you doing here? You should be out there writing.”

He told us he wanted 40 pages from each of us by the end of the term, and it didn’t matter whether it was one 40-page piece, 10 4-page pieces, two pieces of 20 pages each or any other grouping, as long as he had 40 pages by the end of the term. He did caution us that we should turn something in by the mid-term since he had to send out reports on whether we were passing at that point, or in jeopardy of failing the course.

Classes consisted of him regaling us with what he loved or hated in literature, his critique of currently popular songs – he hated Terry Jacks’ song, “Seasons in the Sun.” He thought that song represented the absolute worst version of what people thought was poetry.

He also read our works for critique in class. My first piece, a 4-page short story, was told from the perspective of a 4-year-old girl, and he asked if I’d mind reading it myself since he didn't feel he could do it justice. Always the performer, I stood in front of the class and read it – like a 4-year-old girl.

He had me stop at the end of each page to ask the class if they knew what was going on yet. At the end of the first page, there were no hands up. The same happened at the end of the second page. At the end of the third page, perhaps 5 hands were raised. I thought they simply weren’t paying attention. But the gasps at the end of page four let me know they had been paying attention, and hadn’t expected that ending. Remember, they were 21 or 22, and I was 18.

We lived on critiques in that class. He never really liked my ending, and I wrote several versions, trying to find something he thought worked, but I never found what he was looking for.

He talked about teaching in a mental health facility, and his favorite poem written there was, “We’re all here because we’re not all there,” that one of his students there wrote. He had that hanging from a shelf in his office.

The one thing that never happened in this class was any teaching of rules for writing. I’d been taught sentence structure – including diagramming sentences – and paragraphing in elementary school. In high school our teachers mainly ruined books for us by finding the setting, character types, the denumond, foreshadowing and all the rest of the lit major tripe, but no one ever taught us the art of writing,  and what things really needed to be in a story. I thought that’s what college would teach me. The closest we got was the teacher saying, “Show me; don’t tell me.”

Most of my writing classes, other than the ones for my second major in broadcast journalism, were like that. I had a mandatory article-writing class, and I really believe there are rules to writing magazine articles. But if there are, I was never taught what they are.

The closest I came to any rules was in a biography writing class. I hated that class, mainly because the teacher assigned us to read five biographies of 300+ pages each in addition to the useless book he’d written – teaching a class is one way to sell your work – in a 10-week course. Needless to say, this dyslexic slow-reader didn’t finish any of the assigned books during the term, try as I might. Also, the class was two double periods a week  in the late afternoon. Not prime time for attention.

 The teacher would drone on about biographies he’d written, “interesting” facts about other biographers, and essentially nothing on how to write a biography.

This teacher expected us to pick up writing styles from reading these biographies and then write a piece imitating that style ourselves. For example, after reading a biography of Henry Luce, the creator of Time magazine, we were supposed to write something in “Time style.” I had never read Time Magazine at that point, and having only gotten partially through the biography, I had no idea whatever what “Time style” was. Ditto for other styles. Weren’t we supposed to find and develop our own style?

One assignment required us to interview a friend and write a biographical piece based on what we discovered about them. I did, and I was rather proud of my work. That is, until I got my paper back with a low grade on it and a note that this was not even believable fiction. He thought I’d made the whole thing up. I went to talk to him, assuring him I’d written what my friend had told me of his life, but the teacher was unwavering.

Based on my experience, I decided that if he was going to accuse me of writing fiction, that was precisely what I was going to do for my final assignment. I made up a character, and wrote about his life. I gave him a family and friends, and had interesting things happen to him based on things I’d observed in life, or things I wished had been part of my life. He loved it. I got an A for the paper, and a note saying that this is what I should have been doing throughout the class. I couldn’t believe I’d pulled that off on what was supposed to be an experienced teacher.

I had my answer and my style. From that point on I considered what I did was fictional biography. Most of my novels – except the children’s novels – bear that out.

At no point in my undergraduate education, either as a writing major or as a broadcasting major, did I ever learn any rules for writing fiction. I graduated thinking it simply had to be believable, but there was no specific format for novels.

Years later, when I decided to take a writing course on children’s novels, I discovered the hole in my writing education. The instructor talked about outlines, story boards and formats that applied to children’s literature. Wait, what?

Story boards were for films. I had done those (badly, since I can’t draw my way out of a paper bag) in film class.  Outlines were for writing term papers. I’d been forced to do those in college. In fact, in one class, we had to hand in our outlines first, then write the paper, and I was taken to task (and lost points on my grade) because there was one topic I originally thought would be in my paper, but wasn’t because there was no information on it. I tried to explain this to the teacher when I discovered this, but she wouldn’t allow me to revise my outline. I have always thought of outlines as fluid, especially when you discover, based on information, that it would be better in a different order. How one is supposed to know, before researching, that some information is simply not out there, is beyond me. I don’t have that much magic.

Apparently, all children’s stories are written according to a specific format – or at least those written for preschoolers are. When I took the children’s story course, I’d already written one preschool book, and it didn’t follow any format, with the exception of the line my tiger used to each animal he met: “Thank you very much, but I think I’ll have to eat you now.”

Early elementary school books also have a format of some sort. One rule is that they don’t have chapters, but they do have pictures. That hadn’t been my experience of books growing up, with the exception of the readers we had in elementary school.

Children looked at my books and remarked, “Oh, it’s a chapter book.” Aren’t they all? Apparently not. “Where are the pictures?” I can’t draw, and when I was starting out reading, there were few, if any pictures in the books I read. I now suspect I was in the wrong section of the library. I had already written four books for grades 3-5ish, and hadn’t followed the rules. Perhaps they were for the 10-12 –year-old set, although I thought the vocabulary and the “voice,” if you will, was too juvenile for that age group. But, oh well, as long as someone wants to read them, I’m happy.

I was raised on sarcasm. Perhaps that’s what shows through in my children’s books. I was also raised with Rocky and Bullwinkle, The Flintstones, and The Jetsons TV programs. When I write for children, I’m conscious that an adult will likely be reading the story to a small child. I don’t want the adults to be bored the way my mother often was when reading stories to me. A bit of tongue-in-cheek can go a long way to unexpected enjoyment.

I’ve often lamented not being allowed to even apply to a university that would have been better suited to my majors, but perhaps that lack of education suits my tendency to think outside the box (there’s a box?), and create a different, if unorthodox, idea.