A story I wrote recently. [FONT="]Sabbatical<o></o>[/FONT] <o></o> <o> </o> Lifting a steamy cup of espresso to his lips, Steve surveyed the courtyard of the Pantheon with a jaded eye. He’d scrimped and saved for six years to come to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">Italy</st1lace></st1:country-region> on sabbatical, and realized now that having is truly not so pleasing a thing as wanting. In the months leading up to his trip he spent hours in his office poring over maps of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">Italy</st1lace></st1:country-region>, determining the best route for maximum cultural exposure. He struggled for years as a writer, believing his lack of worldly experience made his novels tepid and lifeless. He published two books over a decade ago, but neither sold well enough to ensure continued success. He thought of Hemingway a great deal lately. It was a paradox to Steve that the critically acclaimed Great American Writer spent much of his life as an expatriate. His most popular novels took place in foreign locales an ocean away. And yet Hemingway was Hemingway, true American, and Steve couldn’t argue with the critics. Now he found himself in <st1:City w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">Rome</st1lace></st1:City>, drinking Italian coffee on a sidewalk café in front of the Pantheon. It still functioned as a church, and he watched the parishioners file out, a mix of Italians and tourists. It seemed odd to him to attend church on vacation, but he didn’t attend church at home either. He watched, observed the people milling about, preparing for their Sunday afternoon, and waited for inspiration. Nothing came. He was distracted, he knew. This trip wasn’t entirely for research purposes, as he’d told his wife Julia. In about fifteen minutes he’d be meeting a young lady named Elena, whom he’d met the previous night while people-watching in the hotel’s bar.
“You enjoy watching us?” she asked him last night. He looked up and she smirked, glancing at the empty chair at his table. He gestured to it, enamored with the idea of coffee with an exotic Italian woman. It seemed like something Hemingway would do. He wouldn’t say she was gorgeous, but she exuded the sort of confidence that separated the pretty from the sexy. Steve wondered why he’d attracted her interest. They spoke for over an hour, and Steve knew they had little in common but the loneliness born of traveling without a companion. As the bar prepared to close, Elena stood and gave Steve a warm kiss on the cheek. “I do not go to bed with men I’ve just met, Signor Steve. But if you wish to meet me tomorrow morning, by the Pantheon perhaps, then by the evening we will not have just met.” Steve wanted that very much, but found it difficult to form words to that effect. She was so very sexy, and he was more than a little nervous. “Perhaps,” Elena went on, “You should sleep on it. Pleasant dreams.” She gave him another kiss on the cheek and strolled away. The morning came, and Steve found himself at the Pantheon, feeling both excited and nervous. He knew there was nothing on the table besides some mutual companionship, but Elena had something that Steve hadn’t experienced in over twenty years: Passion. Steve and Julia married when he was twenty-four and she was twenty-one. From the start, Steve knew there would be problems, because Julia loved him more than he loved her. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about Julia, quite the opposite. He cared more about his wife than he had for anyone else. But what he lacked, which Julia had in abundance, was passion. At first he felt this was because he’d never been with anyone but Julia. So he went to Vegas for his bachelor party and changed that. Afterwards, he hoped things would be all right between them. As the marriage wore on, though, Steve felt his dispassion returning, seeping into him bit by bit. Every morning that he rolled over and saw Julia next to him it crept in a bit more. She loved him with all her heart, though, and he wondered if anyone else ever would. He tried to warn Julia off. They argued often about money, because she had a secure job as a nurse and he was nothing but a struggling writer. It was Steve, however, who told her he couldn’t handle the situation, that he didn’t want to leech off of her forever. She, still the good person he’d fallen for, insisted she’d never become frustrated with that situation and he shouldn’t either. He’d wanted her to have the strength he didn’t, to cut him off from her supportive bosom. But she never did, and Steve wanted to at least be secure, if not entirely content.
So it had gone for twenty-three years, culminating with Steve sitting in front of the Pantheon waiting on a rendezvous with a woman he barely knew. He felt a pang of regret, but thought maybe this time he could cure it. Have a wild European affair for a few days and eke out twenty years of quiet discontent. Julia was probably just waking up now, rousing their son from sleep so he could get to work at Borders. He thought of his father, an imposing, confident bear of a man. The infidelities of Steve’s father had torn that family apart, and he’d vowed never to do such a heinous thing. Yet here he was. Did it matter that Julia would never know? Steve didn’t know how to answer that. He cared only to keep her happy, even if it was a happiness born of ignorance. A man could only sacrifice so much of himself, after all. He did not want his son to hate him, like he’d hated his own father. But who would know? How would anyone find out? He sipped the last of his espresso, and as he glanced over the top of his cup he saw Elena striding towards him, smiling.
I like the idea, the character, and especially the pacing. To give you the honest critcicism I'd like to get in a workshop: The one thing I don't like all that much is the prose. It seems a bit stilted to me, moving from idiomatic phrase to idiomatic phrase, and not all that lively. Let me just show you what I mean in the first few words: The guy is drinking espresso. Now, saying he's lifting the cup to his lips could be better than just saying "drinking", if the phrase wasn't so washed out. The additional detail looks like you've discovered something interesting to watch in his drinking espresso, but you haven't; you've just discovered the most idiomatic phrase around. Similar problems with "steamy". The bigger part of this, however, is what details you give, and how they relate to the bigger units they belong to. This is intended as a very short piece of prose; so you vastly reduce the amount of information you give. One way to do that is by leaving out the details. Since that doesn't work in this narrative style, the better alternative is to chose details that will imply the whole, so you can leave out the whole instead. "Espresso" is one such detail with a strong power of implication. Given espresso, you immediately think hot, steamy, cup, drinking; and once you think of drinking, lips and lifting stuff up to them is a given. So all you really need is the noun "espresso", and then you could spend the rest of that sentence's syntax on other stuff. Finally, syntax itself: In general, a short piece of prose yields itself to shortish sentences, all other things being equal. In your first sentence, you chose to connect two propositions to one sentence by the initial participle. Why do that? Look at the next few sentences and you'll se the pattern repeated: Given "surveyed", you don't need "eye", and you certainly don't need a dead idiom such as "jaded eye". But what is more, since you're in Steve's pov anyway, why even mention that he's surveying? Talk about the courtyard, we'll realize our main character is looking at what you tell us. (Is there a Pantheon in Italy? I read Pantheon, I'm thinking Athens, but there might well be more temples of that name.) Just one more example: "In the months leading up to his trip" can be shortened to "For months", everything else is clearly implied. Months & hours both evoke "long time"; once should be enough. Italy -- mentioned often enough. Likewise, "determining" a route, having it be the "best" route, and "maximizing" it is the same information given 3 times. Once is enough. How about: For months, he had pored over maps, plotting maximum cultural exposure. ? Just my 2c, of course, and YMMV greatly.
I agree with you, that as far as "sudden" fiction (as this was the assignment), it isn't exactly the best possible. However, I really don't like "sudden" fiction, heh, and said so in class. I think that if something is worth writing about, it naturally can fill more than 2-3 pages. SO I've been thinking of expanding this, and combining it with the "plotted" short story I wrote for the same class, which is also about adultery. That way I can extrapolate more on the details, and have more freedom to concentrate on different things. And as for the Pantheon: You're thinking of the Parthenon, and I make that mistake all the time. The Pantheon is a big circular Roman temple that was meant, I believe, for all religions, hence the name "Pan" and "theon", meaning "all gods". Which is why it can be used for Christian services.
I liked it My comments are based purely as a common-or-garden reader though, I can't give any input as a writer. As Packard, I too liked the pace. I also thought the way in which I got to know more about Steve was great -- I hate it when characters take chapters to get a grip of. The only thing that jarred on me a little was Elena's line: Elena is obviously mature, confident woman. I think the 'Signor Steve' bit is a bit kittenish for her, and a bit stereotypical too.
My problem is, I need her to be a few things; mysterious, sexual, and adventurous, but also believable. I'm struggling a bit with how to do this.
If that's the case, think you need to maybe need to set her up with more body language towards Steve, which can be more potent than the words she utters?
I've redone the story: Lifting a cup of espresso to his lips, Steve surveyed the courtyard of the Pantheon with a jaded eye. He’d scrimped and saved for six years to come to <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /><st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">Italy</st1lace></st1:country-region> on sabbatical, and realized now that having is truly not so pleasing a thing as wanting. He’d spent hours in his office determining the best cultural route to take. For years he struggled as a writer, believing his lack of worldly experience made his novels tepid and lifeless. He published two books over a decade ago, but neither sold well enough to ensure continued success. He thought of Hemingway a great deal lately. It was a paradox to Steve, how the critically-acclaimed Great American Writer spent much of his life as an expatriate. His most popular novels took place in foreign locales an ocean away. And yet Hemingway was Hemingway, true American, and Steve couldn’t argue with the critics. Now he found himself in <st1:City w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">Rome</st1lace></st1:City>, drinking Italian coffee on a sidewalk café in front of the Pantheon. It still functioned as a church, and he watched the parishioners file out, a mix of Italians and tourists. It seemed odd to him that people attended church on vacation, but he didn’t attend church at home either. He observed the people milling about, preparing for their Sunday afternoon, and waited for inspiration. A Dutch mother yanked two dawdling children by the arms as they left the plaza. An American couple strolled past the entrance to the temple, glanced in, and then continued on with barely a pause. An entire American family, three children and two parents, stood to the side of the temple, the father staring at a map while the mother doled out sweet bakery treats. A middle-aged British couple stood up from their table to Steve’s right and walked into the temple. Steve scoured his mind for some story that linked these random passerby. Nothing came. He was distracted, he knew. This trip wasn’t entirely for research purposes, as he’d told his wife Julia. In about fifteen minutes he’d be meeting a young lady named Elena, whom he’d met the previous night while people-watching in the hotel’s bar. “You enjoy watching us?” she asked him last night. He looked up and she smirked, glancing at the empty chair at his table. He gestured to it, enamored with the idea of coffee with an exotic Italian woman. It seemed like something Hemingway would do. He wouldn’t say she was gorgeous, but she exuded the sort of confidence that separated the pretty from the sexy. Steve wondered why he’d attracted her interest.
They spoke for over an hour, and Steve knew they had little in common but the loneliness born of traveling without a companion. As the bar prepared to close, Elena stood and gave Steve a warm kiss on the cheek. “Why don’t we meet for breakfast tomorrow, by the Pantheon? We could spend the day together. I’d enjoy that a great deal.” Steve wanted that very much, but found it difficult to form words to that effect. She was so very sexy, and he was more than a little nervous. “Perhaps,” Elena went on, “You should sleep on it. Pleasant dreams.” She gave him another kiss on the cheek and strolled away. Steve called his wife that night, and she gushed into his ear about how much she missed him and how empty the bed felt without him. Guilt crept into Steve’s throat but he gulped it down. She told him about John’s day at work, and it felt odd to Steve, hearing about his son’s workday. He was proud, but the reminder of the family waiting for him back home made the possibility of a romantic dalliance seem so sleazy it made his skin crawl. After a short talk about his own activities that day (carefully edited), Julia’s voice dropped into a throatier register. “You know,” she said, “I’ve been feeling awfully piqueish.” Steve’s ears perked at that, anticipating the direction this conversation was heading. “Have you?” he asked, and already he felt himself stirring excitedly. He slid his hand under the covers, where he wore nothing but a pair of boxers. “Is John still awake?” “Playing videogames. He won’t hear us.” Steve murmured his contentment, and they whispered into each other’s ears about how lonely they were, how much they wanted to be together, and the conversation eventually shifted to the things they wanted to do to each other, and from there descended into nothing but soft sighs and moans. Steve, however, found that he wasn’t feeling quite as aroused as Julia. His erection had begun to wane, in spite of his efforts. Julia moaned in his ear, and he returned the favor, but it was a hollow gesture, as he simply could not bring himself to climax this way. He frowned and tucked himself back in, going through the motions with Julia until she was finished. She sighed into the phone and told Steve she loved him. “I love you too,” he replied. They said good-night, he hung up the phone, and laid awake thinking of what tomorrow would bring.
The morning came, and Steve found himself at the Pantheon, feeling both excited and nervous. He knew there was nothing on the table besides some mutual companionship, but Elena had something that Steve hadn’t experienced in over twenty years: Passion. Steve and Julia married when he was twenty-four and she was twenty-one. From the start, Steve knew there would be problems, because Julia loved him more than he loved her. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about Julia, quite the opposite. He cared more about his wife than he had for anyone else. But what he lacked, which Julia had in abundance, was passion. At first he felt this was because he’d never been with anyone but Julia. How could he know she was the one, he thought, if he had no one to compare her to? So he went to Vegas for his bachelor party and changed that. Afterwards, he hoped things would be all right between them, for he no longer felt like an inexperienced child. As the marriage wore on, though, Steve felt his dispassion returning, seeping into him bit by bit. Every morning that he rolled over and saw Julia next to him it crept in a bit more. She loved him with all her heart, though, and he wondered if anyone else ever would. He tried to warn Julia off. They argued often about money, because she had a secure job as a nurse and he was nothing but a struggling writer. It was Steve, however, who told her he couldn’t handle the situation, that he didn’t want to leech off of her forever. She, still the good person he’d fallen for, insisted she’d never become frustrated with that situation and he shouldn’t either. He’d wanted her to have the strength he didn’t, to cut him off from her supportive bosom. But she never did, and Steve wanted to at least be secure, if not entirely content. So it had gone for twenty-three years, culminating with Steve sitting in front of the Pantheon waiting on a rendezvous with a woman he barely knew. He felt a pang of regret, but thought maybe this time he could cure it. Have a wild European affair for a few days and eke out twenty years of quiet discontent. Julia was probably just waking up now, rousing their son from sleep so he could get to work at Borders. He thought of his father, an imposing, confident bear of a man. The infidelities of Steve’s father had torn that family apart, and he’d vowed never to do such a heinous thing. Yet here he was. Did it matter that Julia would never know? Steve didn’t know how to answer that. He cared only to keep her happy, even if it was a happiness born of ignorance. A man could only sacrifice so much of himself, after all. He did not want his son to hate him, like he’d hated his own father. But who would know? How would anyone find out? He sipped the last of his espresso, and as he glanced over the top of his cup he saw Elena striding towards him, smiling.
Awesome! (commenting on the first posts) My only comment is that since it's such a short piece, the whole part about his son, where his son works, was rushed. It broke the pace of the rest of the piece. But then, word limits are a bitch.
Yeah, someone in my class commented that the son came out of left field. So I added him in earlier in the story. Like I said, this is evolving into one part of a much larger tale, and I'll be posting the other part, another story I wrote, hopefully next Monday when it's returned in class.
Really? I hadn't meant it to be a shocker, really. But then, there were plenty of criticisms I ignored, such as the several who said I should take out the meditations on Hemingway. But I agreed with them that the son seemed a bit tacked on One thing the professor said, you can't please everyone, so don't try. But then the question is, does it flow better to leave the son out till the end, or should I mention him earlier?
