Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts

Wednesday, January 6, 2016

THE GAUNTLET, a short story by S. L. Lipson



          I still can’t believe Mimi’s here, in spite of Mother having tried to convince her yesterday, on the phone, to cancel her train ticket because “Lia’s not up to hosting visitors, no matter what she told you.” Mimi apparently argued with her because I heard Mother answer in a cold, snippety way, “Fine. Then you’ll just have to ‘hang out’ with your little cousin in our house—no outings. And don’t expect me to serve you like a guest, either; we’re all recovering here. Got it?” I guess Mimi got it, because I’m hanging out with her now, in my room. I can’t stop smiling.

I shudder slightly as Mimi tickles my eyelid with “midnight blue” eyeliner, to accentuate my blue eyes. “Stay still, Lia, or you’ll end up with major cat eyes!” She smiles as I giggle. “You know, I have to tell you,” she says, “I felt so bad after I mailed you the purple hair extension and then found out you had to have chemo and lose your hair again.”
                                                                             
“Don’t feel bad! I’ve been wanting to clip it into my wig to make it look cooler, and now that you’re here, you can show me how! It’s right there, in my top drawer, waiting for you.  Mother forced me to get this poofy, weird doll hair, and I hate it.”
“Well, to be honest, it’s not a wig I would have chosen.”
“I told her I wanted a natural hair wig, but she says they cost too much to use just for a temporary time.”
Mimi rolls her eyes. “She’s a freakin’ doctor…. Have you tried just not wearing a wig at all? Some female celebrities purposely shave their heads, right?” Mimi finishes my eyeliner and steps back to examine her handiwork.
“But I look weird bald. Mother says it makes people uncomfortable.”
“Show me.”
“No, it’s embarrassing.”
“Seriously? This is me you’re talking to.”
I hesitate, and then take off the wig. My new hair underneath is about a quarter-inch long now, very fine and light auburn, like the hair in my baby pictures, except I have pointy sideburns.
Mimi smiles. “It looks kind of punky, like you trimmed your sideburns that way. I like it.” She runs her palm over my head. “Soft, too, like a baby’s head. Nice.”
Grinning, I joke, “Maybe I could get a part in an alien movie, right? My sideburns look like Spock’s on ‘Star Trek’.” I hold up my hand in the form of Spock’s “Vulcan” greeting.

“Live long and prosper!” she says, like a Vulcan. The look in her eyes shows me that she is thinking about those words, as if they were a prayer for me, not just saying them. “Now give me your cute face so I can finish your eyes. You need a little mascara and some shadow. Then we’ll add a tiny bit of blush.”
She removes the packaging as I lean toward the mirror and study my eyeliner. Not too heavy, like some of the “scene kids” at school, but thick enough to make me look kind of…edgy, I guess. Especially because of the contrast with my vampire coloring. But I like the look. I feel cool. “Thanks for bringing me my own makeup, Mimi. I never would have been able to buy it myself. First, Mother wouldn’t give me the money for makeup. And second, I’d have no clue what to buy.”
Mimi shakes her head. “I still can’t believe you’ve never worn makeup.”
“I’ve never done a lot of things that girls my age do. Thanks to cancer.”
As she applies the rest of the eye shadow—pale pink on the lid and indigo in the crease—she says, “Well, I’m glad I could contribute to your proper teenage persona. I hope you’ll use it and feel beautiful.” She pauses, looking thoughtful. “Oh my gosh, I just remembered the first time I used mascara.” She smiles nostalgically. “I didn’t think the brush looked coated enough so I kept dipping it, and then my eyelashes looked all clumpy, and I tried to wipe some off, but then I smudged it all over, and I ended up looking like a raccoon!” She brushes the lightly coated mascara wand over my tiny lashes, holding her breath.
            When she moves out of my way so I can see my eyes in the mirror, I notice not my tiny lashes, but rather, the darkness of the “chemo rings” under my eyes. I mutter, “Speaking of looking like a raccoon…”
She notices, too, and blushes. “Darn, I didn’t bring you any concealer or base makeup. Sorry. I thought that would be too much for a first-time makeup wearer. I just brought what I use myself: eye makeup, blush, and lip gloss.” She rummages in the new makeup bag that she brought me, and pulls out the blush and lip color. “Turn toward me again. She brushes pink powder on my cheeks, and then instructs me to open my lips slightly as she holds the lip-gloss wand toward my mouth. She colors me like a work of art. “Okay, now turn around and look in the mirror. No one will notice the little bit of darkness under your eyes now. You look so pretty. See? Sooo pretty!”
            I see my exotic-looking eyes, cheeks with actual pinkness in them, and lips shining like pale, juicy plum flesh. I see a regular teenage girl, not a cancer patient. And I half-laugh, half-gasp. “Wow. I actually feel pretty.” 

Mimi sings, “I feel prettyyy, oh so prettyyy—’”
“I know that song! From ‘West Side Story,’ right?”
“Right! Remember the next line?” She waits for my reply, but I shake my head, so she sings, “I feel prettyyyy, oh so prettyyyy; I feel pretty and witty and gayyyy….” Then she smirks, and asks, “Did you realize that Maria was gay?”
“Yeah, right!” I laugh. “That song’s from the days when ‘gay’ meant ‘happy.’”
“Okay, how’s this one—just for you…” She waltzes around me, singing in a hilarious falsetto: “I feel prettyyy, oh so prettyyy, even though I feel SHITTY, oy vay!” She twirls at the end, and suddenly my bedroom door bursts open.
Mother stomps into the room, “What’s going on here? You call yourself a role model, Miriam?”
Mimi’s face has turned to stone. “I don’t call myself anything but Lia’s friend and cousin.”
Suddenly Mother looks at my face, all made up, and she erupts: “WHAT THE HELL IS ON YOUR FACE, LIA?” Before I can answer, she jerks her head toward Mimi, her eyes shooting daggers. “How dare you, Miriam! Don’t you know that makeup could be dangerous for her?! She’s got a weak immune system, for Chrissake! She could get an infection?! Why would she need makeup!” She thrusts her hand forward to ward off interjections. “And don’t tell me because her friends wear it. THEY aren’t sick! How DARE you do this without asking ME! Just like you set up this whole weekend visit with her, without asking ME whether she’d be up to such a visit in her condition! WHO KNOWS HER CONDITION BETTER THAN I DO? HUH, HERO? WHO!”
            We all hear Jason slam the front door, leaving the House of Chaos, as usual. Mother stiffens at the banging sound, and her nostrils flare over her pursed lips. Glaring at my pale face, she grasps my arm and turns me toward my mirror. “Look how pretty you look now, smart one! You’re a mess!” Mascara has dripped down my cheeks, and I look like one of the creepy, sad-clown paintings that Mother happens to love and collect. She growls at my reflection, “How could you be stupid enough to let someone put their makeup—and their germs—on you!”
“Mother, she bought me my own makeup—brand new!”
 “Oh, isn’t that sweet of your ‘cool cuz’?” Mother doesn’t look at Mimi (who is fighting tears, I notice). “Well, you listen to me, Miss Teenage Know-It-All: NO MAKEUP FOR YOU. Got it? If you want to look pretty so badly, put on your damn wig!” She picks up the wig from the dresser, and gritting her teeth, yanks it over my head. “There! Now go wash that crap off your face so you can look like a normal girl!” Mother storms out the way she came in, like a tornado.
I shut my door and whisper to Mimi, “Normal? Yeah, right.”
Mimi lifts off my wig, drops it on the bed, and rubs my head soothingly. We hug tightly till I pull away. “I need to wash my face,” I murmur. She sighs.
When I come out of the bathroom with a blank face, her eyes look fierce as she holds out the wig, with the beautiful strand of purple hair clipped in, and declares, “You’ve earned your stripe, Lia.” I nod and accept the wig as if it were a medal.

The End

Note: This short story is actually an excerpt from one of my forthcoming YA novels. Please leave feedback. Writing is about communicating, and I want to know whether my story has touched you in some way. Thanks.

Monday, December 2, 2013

Esteemed YA and MG Authors Share How They Know Their Characters Are Alive

(This article originally appeared in the SCBWI-San Diego newsletter, Dec. 2013)
Turning Words into Flesh:
How Fiction Authors
Bring Characters to Life

By S. L. Lipson

In Greek mythology, the sculptor Pygmal­ion, carves his ideal woman out of ivory and falls in love with her image. But his kisses meet cold stone, not flesh. The goddess of love, taking pity upon him, brings his creation to life.



Like Pygmalion, we fiction authors carve out our characters and await the magic that turns them into real people for us—people so real that our readers will also feel as if they know them.

How does that magic present itself to you? What makes you realize that your new characters have become fully alive? Here’s what some of our esteemed YA and MG novelists say:

Ellen Hopkins: It really is when they talk to you, not only while you’re at your computer, but when you’re trying to concentrate on something else, or attempting to go to sleep. Sometimes they wake me up, insisting I’ve forgotten to write some­thing very important.

Nikki Grimes: When my characters argue with me about the words I’m putting into their mouths, I know they have become their own per­sons! At that point, not only do they walk and talk, but they even tell me off. It’s quite hilarious!

Sharon Flake: My characters lead me like a balloon that is being carried away with the wind. Yes, at times I must get ahead of them and make a course correction. But mainly I write, rewrite and marvel at how much more gifted they are at telling stories than I am.

Heather Petty: For me, it’s when writ­ing their dialogue and responses become intuitive. When I start to anticipate what they will say or not say, and how they will say it, like you can with a best friend or family member—that’s when I know I’ve finally brought them to life.

As for me, I know my characters have taken on lives of their own when they start writing their own songs and poetry, and I record “covers” of their original hits on my computer, and want to share their poetry with my students, who are their age.


Those who don’t write fiction might think we are all “hearing voices,” ready to be committed! And we are! Our commitment to those voices is what pulls readers into our worlds.

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Behind the Armor

I will now share my poem about self-protective behaviors that alienate us from each other. In all forms of communication, we cannot connect with others unless we drop our shiny, unyielding facades to expose our emotions, face vulnerability, and reveal our hearts--our true mettle.




Behind the Armor
by Susan L. Lipson

Clouded knights
wear arrogance for masks,
aloofness for protective suits,
meanness for shields,
while battling insecurity,
fear,
loneliness,
and weakness. 

Ninjas prefer hand-to-hand combat
with emotions,
building thicker skin through baring it,
from struggle to sweat to sigh to
enlightened daze.

No heavy armor required
when we are who we are.
No hasty judgment pronounced
when we know who they are.


The next time you feel insulted by someone's apparent arrogance, feel sympathy for the insecurity that hides behind the actions. When your warmth is iced over by someone's coldness, have compassion for her fear of emotional sharing. And when a bully tries to make you feel small, pity his misguided need to put others down in order to raise himself up. Channel all of these feelings into actions and reactions guided not by judgment, but by understanding. That's how we shed the heavy armor that weighs us down and prevents us from connecting with each other.

That's also how we writers connect to our fictional characters, to make them real for readers: we must first know their naked selves before we can hide them beneath armor for our readers to uncover. The joy of finding the cracks in a character's armor, and eventually uncovering that character's heart, is one of the great joys of reading, isn't it?

Sunday, April 22, 2012

MEMORABLE FICTION: IT'S MORE THAN JUST ENTERTAINMENT--IT'S BRAIN FOOD!

I just read a New York Times article that made my day, not only as a writer of fiction, but as a teacher of writing techniques. Apparently, figurative language stimulates the brain itself, as well as the senses of the reader. Words nourish brain function--that's why they call them "food for thought"! Check out this article (link below) and post your comments, please! http://www.nytimes.com/2012/03/18/opinion/sunday/the-neuroscience-of-your-brain-on-fiction.html?_r=2&pagewanted=print Don't just write words; convey images, from brain to brain. This is what I always tell my students, and it supports my teaching method, the D.A.D. and M.O.M. Techniques for memorable writing!