Short story: Water

She’d been two months in the mountains and when she came down her hair was matted and her smile was peaceful. But the roar of traffic seemed louder than before, the air more difficult to breathe.

She became trapped under the harsh lights of an all-night convenience store. Caught between cans of soup and boxes of cookies, she spotted them – clear bottles of water lined up like cattle in stalls, like prisoners in cells behind the glass walls. Stamped with logos evoking streams and her mountain freedom, they were a mockery of that purity she’d known. Tears welled in her eyes, making shimmering reflections of steel shelves and imprisoned water.

As if moving in her sleep, she reached forward and slid aside the thick glass door. Grasping a clear bottle in her hand she pulled it toward her and with a quick twist of her wrist she released the cap. She turned the bottle upside-down in her hands. Water jumped out, splashing on her pant leg in its eager descent to the floor. The coolness spurred her on and she began reaching into the shelves and grabbing bottles, twisting off caps and flinging them to the ground. Water ran confusedly between her feet, down the candy bar aisles and past the auto magazines. She tossed the empty bottles aside, not waiting from them to finish releasing before she grabbed the next one.

The pimply-faced boy behind the counter watched her in frozen fear, his face twisting in anxiety. His mouth flapped open and closed, like a fish hungry for this running water. He cried out, in a shrill, childish scream. “Stop doing that!”

She froze instantly, then turned and saw the boy in his bright orange shirt, backed by rows of cigarettes. She did not meet his frightened eyes, but looked to the floor and saw bottles lolling listlessly side to side, strewn like corpses at a train wreck. Water flowed aimlessly across linoleum, already dulled by dirt and spilled coffee.

She gave a cry, more animal than human, and crumpled to the floor between the empty bottles. The water, uncertain in its liberation, ran toward her and clung to her clothes like hungry children.

Writing to size

When I trained as a journalist, one of the skills we had to develop was producing articles to specified length – usually provided as word-counts. As a freelancer, you may pitch a story and, if given a green light, you’ll be told how many words you can write. A typical news article is 300-400 words. At first it was very abstract, the idea of writing 400 words – but it didn’t take long to develop a feel for what could, and couldn’t be said in that space.

We also had to get over a common tendency to save some pithy quote or insight for the end. Instead of ending with a bang, journalists are essentially taught to let their stories peter out, filling in information of decreasing importance the further in you go. This is because the vast majority of readers only read the first few paragraphs of news stories. Also, if the editors need to make any cuts, it’s easier for them if they can just chop off the end to bring the article down to size.

It’s a strange way to write – working with the assumption that most people won’t read very far in to what you’ve written. You get everything important out right at the start. But then your article gets more boring and you’ve just offered incentive to stop reading...

I did my undergrad in English and philosophy, where we were rewarded for the use of big words, and complex sentences. Especially in philosophy, so much of the reading material was dense and convoluted.

To put it mildly, I had a steep learning curve when I started print journalism. My first assignments were handed back to me covered in red. I quickly had to learn to shorten my sentences, get rid of the clutter, the excess, the pretension. It wasn’t easy at the time but I came to appreciate clear, direct prose and realized that perhaps the most intelligent writers were not those who used the biggest words, but those who could communicate their ideas as succinctly as possible.

And so it is that I added this extra challenge of a precise 365 word count. It’s fun trying again to write to size.

365 words each day, 365 days

This seems odd to say for someone who has just finished a 52,900-word thesis, but I miss writing. Well, I miss free-flowing and creative writing. Academic writing scratches a certain itch, but doesn't quite satisfy the desire.

I’m also a sucker for new year's resolutions - not the go the gym more or eat better kind - but something that gives me a focused challenge. So V helped me out and suggested that for each day of this year I post to this blog. He sweetened the deal by promising that for each month I make good on this resolution, he will give me some small gift. I was the one who suggested the 365 word-count total for each day, just to add that extra little challenge. And thus I have the perfect 2011 resolution - a motivation to write more + anticipated rewards.

Today is new year’s day. Ever since I was about 12 years-old I have been writing a letter to myself at the new year and opening it at midnight on Dec 31. It always gave me something to look forward to, no matter what else was, or was not, going on. Each letter was a mix of anticipation, reflection, and hope. Reading them always brought a sense of nostalgia, a recognition of who I was and still am. Things may have changed over the course of the year and yet I was the constant throughout.

I still have these letters. Often the envelopes would include other papers with such records as goals, significant events from the previous years, lists of friends and favourite things. When I was about 13 I wrote out the titles of the radio’s Top 20 hits. Later on I would list the boys I’d kissed. These letters sketch out the highs and lows, the dreams and regrets of more than 20 years.

My life in the last few months has revolved around thesis and Miya. Everything else has been tossed into cluttered piles. It is not surprising that I can’t find the letter to Anita of 2011. So I maybe should be adding another new year’s resolution – organize the clutter and find that letter before Dec 31.