taking the jump: waverly
I've been working a lot on Waverly, my novelthing, lately. And today I was typing up the bits I wrote in school today and rereading other parts and the urge slowly rose up in me to post part of it, to put a piece of it out into the world. As I write this I'm actually quite nervous about it. I've been writing Waverly slowly for almost two years so far and no one I know has read it. I dote on it and think about it so much and its mythology has become so real in my mind that it is incredibly close to me. But I also want someone to see it and to maybe say what he or she thinks of it...
So here goes.
This is only an excerpt - a longish excerpt which many people from D Period Creative Writing will probably skip over - but I'd really really like you to read it if you have the time.
Parts of it probably won't make much sense since, before this part, there are about 60 pages of set-up impossible to recap in a few sentences! So don't look for the plot because you won't find it in this wee excerpt. And don't criticize the lack of plot, because there is plot in the whole big story!
Some things to know before you start: Eliza is the main character, rather obsessive, a bit compulsive, and overall terrified of the world and clinging to comfort, but a dreamy nice girl really - May is her sister, sophisticated and living in the city, bold - Chalie is the made-up name of a small mysterious fairylike child who "follows" Eliza in a way. Waverly is the town where Eliza has lived all her life, a miniscule, sea-swept sandy place, basically the landscape of Eliza's imagination.
Phew.
--------------------
EXCERPT from Waverly
---------------------
Eliza was trying to write. But the pen felt heavy – writing by hand on yellow pages was so rightfully old-fashioned – but her mind was cold and coiled, fuzzy, like a blanket was wrapped around it.
So she wrote the first truth she thought about herself: She was always cold. "Was" or "is"? She felt faintly frustrated, but her mind was so cold inside, too frozen and mumbly to wrangle any thought to the top of consciousness. The pen went down and the paper away.
I am not a writer, she thought, trying out the feel of it.
Maybe I am a waitress, or a photographer, a journalist?, a… librarian…
I am not a writer.
It was fine for a little while. She felt no itch for a pen and no humming ideas willing themselves to be set down. But then her thoughts turned and folded in upon themselves, like they always did, and she was thinking before she comprehended about her own story, about which part was real and which part was not. She pictured the books she had imagined were published and the editor she had imagined herself to have known. She wouldn't have her picture on the dust-jackets. "My name is Eliza May Minton…"
It hurt! She finally picked a sensation from the jumble of muzzy thoughts, and it was just a dull throb of maybe pain. She tried to grasp at it anyway, but it was fading already.
That child – had she imagined the child? The night she had seen her last, a fairy. It had been snowing – but she felt so much colder now than she had then.
Eliza could see the things, she could see the dust-jackets, the brown-haired editor – she looked a bit like May – what about the child? But this was all nonsense, all more mumbling (when would there be something that wasn't mumbling?), all useless theoretical speculation. If she had been really crazy, actually hallucinating, she would have been able to think this jumble of thoughts without any guilt. But she couldn't stop thinking of the smell of Mr. Malchin's bookcase ------
Once May had sat in Eliza's blue chair, in what she called the "drawing-room", and she had said, "You are so reasonable, Eliza. You are so reasonable that you make absolutely no sense." Eliza looked at the empty blue chair now, and thought about how she always thought of furniture as so friendly. "You are so reasonable, Eliza…"
The most important thing was that, if she remembered, Eliza could drop her tangle at any time – but so often she forgot, and fumbled tying feeble knots for occupation, or to keep her hands warm. So cold –
Something thumped against the door. The newspaper – she saw the paperboy riding away on his bike. (If it were warm enough for bikes, why was it so cold?) She unfroze herself and got the newspaper, set it on the table, and suddenly – suddenly everything was fine. A sunbeam rested on the tabletop. The newspaper sat gently; the grey looked warmer in the morning light. Eliza smiled and sat down to read.
What do people do, Eliza thought, to look for something to do? She opened the paper's wings awkwardly and extracted what she never read – Business, Sports were thrown across the table. As she organized the remaining sections in stacks – what she would read first, what she might read, what she would maybe read if there weren't interesting things elsewhere – the table and its sunlight became strewn with newsprint. It made Eliza grin.
She read an article about iguanas, and a piece about curtains. She thought about how funny it was that she sat in Waverly reading words that had each been printed in a city. She scanned a front page feature about a man from – where? – somewhere in the Caribbean, an author – and debated reading the rest on page G-8 or skipping to the letter in the Editorials regarding a painting that had been discovered in the basement of a 200-year-old building, formerly unoccupied.
She thought – what do people do who want to decide something, but who are always cold and have fuzzy minds sometimes? Do they look in the Classifieds?, she joked to herself.
Would tomorrow be like this? Would this very afternoon be the same? It didn't matter, really, did it? The newsprint and the sunbeams had made her drop the tangle. Even a greyscale picture of a candle in the Home section was warming her hands now. She didn't have to go to the sea and let the winds buffet her into waking up, for once.
----------------------
Later, when the newspaper was picked through and read in places, when the morning table-sunbeams were older, Eliza closed the door behind her and stirred the sand with her spring-mud boots.
---------------------
It is like marsh-light, Eliza thought. Swampy, scraggly branches hung with seaweed in the glow-light – outdoor morning in Waverly by the sea. The grainy beach by the miniature cliffs seemed not a part of the town, but a separate space, a way distinctly out-of-way.
The suitcase kept clanging around in the back – curvy roads, gravelly turny roads. Eliza had not driven in a long time – she didn't like it – she didn't like the impersonal metal separating her from the real, lively world outside, not in nature, not in Waverly morning marsh-light. She thought, though, that she would be grateful for the boundary when she got to town.
The next town – the long-way town, so separate from Waverly, not the small town where the high school was, but the further one, the bigger one – she had gotten directions from May. How strange.
She turned a corner and saw a man walking along the side of the road. He had – he had a purple umbrella. Glow-light in the clouds must have meant rain for him, salty cleanly rain. Eliza thought of what would happen, perhaps, if she stopped for him, opened the door and let him sit down – how he would fold and collapse his pirouette umbrella outside then stand it at his feet on the car floor. She drove past and the road turned again.
It was kind of peaceful, alone on the road save for the umbrella-man back behind, in the early lightening air, soft. There was imagination in the moment, anyway. With the clouds and the little mossy soggy cliffs – Eliza felt like friendship, flowing.
----------
The lights were on when she drove in after sunset, late winter sunset in watery clouds. The inn – she had chosen it so – was at the end of the main road, tall and clapboard, old and shuttered – it had to have shutters.
She went in nervously, because she had to talk to the desk-clerk. The clerk had brown hair pinned up in the simplest of buns and smallish eyes – Eliza wondered if they ever opened wide in sunlight.
She never knew what to say to desk-clerks, though. What were the exact proper words, set down somewhere in a manual for her to read? She always forgot every time and when she left she would forget to write down what had worked. So she stumbled over questions a little and came out with, "I came to check in?" – but, Eliza reprimanded herself, of course the clerk – or was she even a clerk – no, a receptionist – already knew that she was checking in –
"What is your name?" Her voice didn't match her face – it was high and chippy – it threw Eliza off of her practiced rhythm. She paused and then recovered.
"Eliza May Minton," she said (like to that agent, well really, the imaginary agent had looked a little like this inn receptionist).
When the receptionist took the room-key off of its hook, Eliza was strengthened by the look of gold, and took the key kindly. And she let herself stay a little and realized she was there. The carpet was nice, and the ceiling was textured in a friendly way. Comfort was here, too, sometimes.
Her room would be her little sanctuary in a different town – she put her suitcase on the floor by the closet and sat on the bed with the flowery antique-sort of walls close around, forming a kind of bower dashed with wood-paned windows, the calm night outside coexisting with the glass. There was harmony, Eliza thought, in the little room. There was a glowing paper lampshade and flourishes on the walls, and she had a key for opening the big brown wood door.
------------------------
Chalie went into the crabapple grove to take off her wings. She lifted them over her head with a graceful movement and hung the wings upon a twisty and dwarfed branch.
In winter, when there were no miniature apples in the grove, the sandy bareness of the ring still felt sweet, still called up the taste of crabapples and the look of the fiddler crabs that scuttled sometimes underneath in summer. Chalie looked at her wings on the tree-branch, how they filtered winter sun, and filled their see-through calm with light-holding.
Begin, she thought. She took from her belt the birch-wand she had made last week and drew a circle in the sand, and scooped a handful of the grains, blew them all around, watching the drift and shimmer.
She looked up at the wings, then at the sky, the mystery. She felt a dream-thrill chase all through her and held the birch-wand close.
In the wing-light, the crabapple grove twirled and fluttered, the sand rose and swirled in child's-breaths. Whenever Chalie looked at the wings, she felt their stir in her feet and she had to skip a little and dance in a circle where the trees were spaced apart. She sung an on-and-off song while she turned around and jumped and touched the edge of the wings once. The wind swept a little whirl and shook some thin knobby branches, ruffled Chalie's clothes and conjured up the sand.
Chalie thought, I dance like the sand, and slowly the wind heaved outward, pulling away, reaching backward. Chalie sat by one of the trees and let herself settle to the ground like the sand and salty smell in the air.
It was magic, it was magic. Chalie thought about seashells and seaweed and driftwood, of wind stirring fancies and trees living in winter, dwarfed by the salty sea air. But, Chalie thought, the crabapple trees were still like kindly little old gentlemen carrying carpetbags. She giggled to herself and twirled her birch-wand absently in her hands, letting her eyes, her sight, drift, her breath flutter.
She thought eventually of her – thoughts always turned toward the story, the make-believe and the locked real, of Eliza. Chalie puzzled a little about it under the crabapple tree, and turned the images and memories of Eliza, the thoughts of what the secret might be, around like a lightwood birch-wand.
Maybe, Chalie thought, Eliza was older than she seemed. Maybe she sat in drapey garments at night and lit candles for a place over the sea. Chalie mused – Eliza's story must have had something to do with the sea. Eliza's way of walking and the sound of her bell voice were somehow like the sea – how, how? She seemed to call, like gulls maybe, and it was strange how swaying her walk looked sometimes; she swayed like the sea but was not sure where she was, like the sea was – Chalie's thoughts drifted in and pulled back like the sighing tide, the trace of the current.
Sometimes, when she thought too long about the sea, the salt made her feel just a little bit sick, and she had to stop and think of leaves. Did Eliza ever feel the same way in Waverly? Did she love the sea like Chalie did, but fear the ice of the water in most of the months?
Chalie started to hum. She was cold now, despite her big red jacket – maybe she should get up and run around again. But, as she looked down at her wand and up at her wings, she felt like it was time to go. On rising, she wondered a little why the crabapple grove looked so different now, but then she realized that the light had changed. The clouds were tumbling in over the sand dunes; it was sunset now. Chalie remembered how it had almost felt like spring the other day, but now this was the start of one day's winter night. What for the winter night? A blanket on the couch and slippers for her feet, and perfect childhood comfort.
---------------------
Eliza followed the long road with the calm sun pooling along its sides, like she had been told to do by a page of her atlas. The precise lines on the roadmap sitting in the passenger seat made things feel rather clearer than usual – Eliza looked around at definite things as an experiment, away from ambiguity.
Speedometer, arrow at 60 – clock, numbers square and lined, spelling exactly 3:45 – the date in her mind, February 27. And the ever-present backdrop to her direction, lines and labels in the road atlas, symbols whose realities Eliza could follow, on and on.
The thoughts in the middle of the road flowed like this, into each other – the clock, the date, the map – Mr. Malchin's bookcase – May's apartment, Waverly sandy beaches and grainy cliffs, blue shutters and receptionists – cars shining and ocean glinting. She glanced at the clock: 3:47.
Thoughts, presences pulled her along; distractions and the deep meaning of things pushed – until the exit came, number seven, and the road thinned and wavered up to the building. The brick front rose and opened up, and Eliza swerved into the parking lot, parked clumsily in an out-of-way space, near a sign: VISITORS.
She thought she would sit in the car for a long time and maybe turn around, maybe leave, no commitment. She was more scared than she had even anticipated. Actually a little bit faint – no – she felt witherly and cast far off…
But oh, shut up.
Open the door. Get out.
One step at a time. The car door closed behind her. She locked it.
The walk to the building was long, paved, shoe-step semiconsciousness.
There, there, there. The door, a big brown wood door, windowless. The knob, gold and a little bit chipped, in a good way. She felt stifled and scattery, electric with anxiety, in, in, in. Pause, inside – She opened the door.
A little tinkling oasis opened up to her. Light from a ceiling lamp filled the room, was caught by crystal vases and old ripply windows. The carpet cradled diamond pink and blue patterns, skipping across the floor, meeting mahogany chair-legs, stools, calm little coffee-table. At one end was a desk, and a man sat there, tall and dark-haired.
He did not look like Ben.
So here goes.
This is only an excerpt - a longish excerpt which many people from D Period Creative Writing will probably skip over - but I'd really really like you to read it if you have the time.
Parts of it probably won't make much sense since, before this part, there are about 60 pages of set-up impossible to recap in a few sentences! So don't look for the plot because you won't find it in this wee excerpt. And don't criticize the lack of plot, because there is plot in the whole big story!
Some things to know before you start: Eliza is the main character, rather obsessive, a bit compulsive, and overall terrified of the world and clinging to comfort, but a dreamy nice girl really - May is her sister, sophisticated and living in the city, bold - Chalie is the made-up name of a small mysterious fairylike child who "follows" Eliza in a way. Waverly is the town where Eliza has lived all her life, a miniscule, sea-swept sandy place, basically the landscape of Eliza's imagination.
Phew.
--------------------
EXCERPT from Waverly
---------------------
Eliza was trying to write. But the pen felt heavy – writing by hand on yellow pages was so rightfully old-fashioned – but her mind was cold and coiled, fuzzy, like a blanket was wrapped around it.
So she wrote the first truth she thought about herself: She was always cold. "Was" or "is"? She felt faintly frustrated, but her mind was so cold inside, too frozen and mumbly to wrangle any thought to the top of consciousness. The pen went down and the paper away.
I am not a writer, she thought, trying out the feel of it.
Maybe I am a waitress, or a photographer, a journalist?, a… librarian…
I am not a writer.
It was fine for a little while. She felt no itch for a pen and no humming ideas willing themselves to be set down. But then her thoughts turned and folded in upon themselves, like they always did, and she was thinking before she comprehended about her own story, about which part was real and which part was not. She pictured the books she had imagined were published and the editor she had imagined herself to have known. She wouldn't have her picture on the dust-jackets. "My name is Eliza May Minton…"
It hurt! She finally picked a sensation from the jumble of muzzy thoughts, and it was just a dull throb of maybe pain. She tried to grasp at it anyway, but it was fading already.
That child – had she imagined the child? The night she had seen her last, a fairy. It had been snowing – but she felt so much colder now than she had then.
Eliza could see the things, she could see the dust-jackets, the brown-haired editor – she looked a bit like May – what about the child? But this was all nonsense, all more mumbling (when would there be something that wasn't mumbling?), all useless theoretical speculation. If she had been really crazy, actually hallucinating, she would have been able to think this jumble of thoughts without any guilt. But she couldn't stop thinking of the smell of Mr. Malchin's bookcase ------
Once May had sat in Eliza's blue chair, in what she called the "drawing-room", and she had said, "You are so reasonable, Eliza. You are so reasonable that you make absolutely no sense." Eliza looked at the empty blue chair now, and thought about how she always thought of furniture as so friendly. "You are so reasonable, Eliza…"
The most important thing was that, if she remembered, Eliza could drop her tangle at any time – but so often she forgot, and fumbled tying feeble knots for occupation, or to keep her hands warm. So cold –
Something thumped against the door. The newspaper – she saw the paperboy riding away on his bike. (If it were warm enough for bikes, why was it so cold?) She unfroze herself and got the newspaper, set it on the table, and suddenly – suddenly everything was fine. A sunbeam rested on the tabletop. The newspaper sat gently; the grey looked warmer in the morning light. Eliza smiled and sat down to read.
What do people do, Eliza thought, to look for something to do? She opened the paper's wings awkwardly and extracted what she never read – Business, Sports were thrown across the table. As she organized the remaining sections in stacks – what she would read first, what she might read, what she would maybe read if there weren't interesting things elsewhere – the table and its sunlight became strewn with newsprint. It made Eliza grin.
She read an article about iguanas, and a piece about curtains. She thought about how funny it was that she sat in Waverly reading words that had each been printed in a city. She scanned a front page feature about a man from – where? – somewhere in the Caribbean, an author – and debated reading the rest on page G-8 or skipping to the letter in the Editorials regarding a painting that had been discovered in the basement of a 200-year-old building, formerly unoccupied.
She thought – what do people do who want to decide something, but who are always cold and have fuzzy minds sometimes? Do they look in the Classifieds?, she joked to herself.
Would tomorrow be like this? Would this very afternoon be the same? It didn't matter, really, did it? The newsprint and the sunbeams had made her drop the tangle. Even a greyscale picture of a candle in the Home section was warming her hands now. She didn't have to go to the sea and let the winds buffet her into waking up, for once.
----------------------
Later, when the newspaper was picked through and read in places, when the morning table-sunbeams were older, Eliza closed the door behind her and stirred the sand with her spring-mud boots.
---------------------
It is like marsh-light, Eliza thought. Swampy, scraggly branches hung with seaweed in the glow-light – outdoor morning in Waverly by the sea. The grainy beach by the miniature cliffs seemed not a part of the town, but a separate space, a way distinctly out-of-way.
The suitcase kept clanging around in the back – curvy roads, gravelly turny roads. Eliza had not driven in a long time – she didn't like it – she didn't like the impersonal metal separating her from the real, lively world outside, not in nature, not in Waverly morning marsh-light. She thought, though, that she would be grateful for the boundary when she got to town.
The next town – the long-way town, so separate from Waverly, not the small town where the high school was, but the further one, the bigger one – she had gotten directions from May. How strange.
She turned a corner and saw a man walking along the side of the road. He had – he had a purple umbrella. Glow-light in the clouds must have meant rain for him, salty cleanly rain. Eliza thought of what would happen, perhaps, if she stopped for him, opened the door and let him sit down – how he would fold and collapse his pirouette umbrella outside then stand it at his feet on the car floor. She drove past and the road turned again.
It was kind of peaceful, alone on the road save for the umbrella-man back behind, in the early lightening air, soft. There was imagination in the moment, anyway. With the clouds and the little mossy soggy cliffs – Eliza felt like friendship, flowing.
----------
The lights were on when she drove in after sunset, late winter sunset in watery clouds. The inn – she had chosen it so – was at the end of the main road, tall and clapboard, old and shuttered – it had to have shutters.
She went in nervously, because she had to talk to the desk-clerk. The clerk had brown hair pinned up in the simplest of buns and smallish eyes – Eliza wondered if they ever opened wide in sunlight.
She never knew what to say to desk-clerks, though. What were the exact proper words, set down somewhere in a manual for her to read? She always forgot every time and when she left she would forget to write down what had worked. So she stumbled over questions a little and came out with, "I came to check in?" – but, Eliza reprimanded herself, of course the clerk – or was she even a clerk – no, a receptionist – already knew that she was checking in –
"What is your name?" Her voice didn't match her face – it was high and chippy – it threw Eliza off of her practiced rhythm. She paused and then recovered.
"Eliza May Minton," she said (like to that agent, well really, the imaginary agent had looked a little like this inn receptionist).
When the receptionist took the room-key off of its hook, Eliza was strengthened by the look of gold, and took the key kindly. And she let herself stay a little and realized she was there. The carpet was nice, and the ceiling was textured in a friendly way. Comfort was here, too, sometimes.
Her room would be her little sanctuary in a different town – she put her suitcase on the floor by the closet and sat on the bed with the flowery antique-sort of walls close around, forming a kind of bower dashed with wood-paned windows, the calm night outside coexisting with the glass. There was harmony, Eliza thought, in the little room. There was a glowing paper lampshade and flourishes on the walls, and she had a key for opening the big brown wood door.
------------------------
Chalie went into the crabapple grove to take off her wings. She lifted them over her head with a graceful movement and hung the wings upon a twisty and dwarfed branch.
In winter, when there were no miniature apples in the grove, the sandy bareness of the ring still felt sweet, still called up the taste of crabapples and the look of the fiddler crabs that scuttled sometimes underneath in summer. Chalie looked at her wings on the tree-branch, how they filtered winter sun, and filled their see-through calm with light-holding.
Begin, she thought. She took from her belt the birch-wand she had made last week and drew a circle in the sand, and scooped a handful of the grains, blew them all around, watching the drift and shimmer.
She looked up at the wings, then at the sky, the mystery. She felt a dream-thrill chase all through her and held the birch-wand close.
In the wing-light, the crabapple grove twirled and fluttered, the sand rose and swirled in child's-breaths. Whenever Chalie looked at the wings, she felt their stir in her feet and she had to skip a little and dance in a circle where the trees were spaced apart. She sung an on-and-off song while she turned around and jumped and touched the edge of the wings once. The wind swept a little whirl and shook some thin knobby branches, ruffled Chalie's clothes and conjured up the sand.
Chalie thought, I dance like the sand, and slowly the wind heaved outward, pulling away, reaching backward. Chalie sat by one of the trees and let herself settle to the ground like the sand and salty smell in the air.
It was magic, it was magic. Chalie thought about seashells and seaweed and driftwood, of wind stirring fancies and trees living in winter, dwarfed by the salty sea air. But, Chalie thought, the crabapple trees were still like kindly little old gentlemen carrying carpetbags. She giggled to herself and twirled her birch-wand absently in her hands, letting her eyes, her sight, drift, her breath flutter.
She thought eventually of her – thoughts always turned toward the story, the make-believe and the locked real, of Eliza. Chalie puzzled a little about it under the crabapple tree, and turned the images and memories of Eliza, the thoughts of what the secret might be, around like a lightwood birch-wand.
Maybe, Chalie thought, Eliza was older than she seemed. Maybe she sat in drapey garments at night and lit candles for a place over the sea. Chalie mused – Eliza's story must have had something to do with the sea. Eliza's way of walking and the sound of her bell voice were somehow like the sea – how, how? She seemed to call, like gulls maybe, and it was strange how swaying her walk looked sometimes; she swayed like the sea but was not sure where she was, like the sea was – Chalie's thoughts drifted in and pulled back like the sighing tide, the trace of the current.
Sometimes, when she thought too long about the sea, the salt made her feel just a little bit sick, and she had to stop and think of leaves. Did Eliza ever feel the same way in Waverly? Did she love the sea like Chalie did, but fear the ice of the water in most of the months?
Chalie started to hum. She was cold now, despite her big red jacket – maybe she should get up and run around again. But, as she looked down at her wand and up at her wings, she felt like it was time to go. On rising, she wondered a little why the crabapple grove looked so different now, but then she realized that the light had changed. The clouds were tumbling in over the sand dunes; it was sunset now. Chalie remembered how it had almost felt like spring the other day, but now this was the start of one day's winter night. What for the winter night? A blanket on the couch and slippers for her feet, and perfect childhood comfort.
---------------------
Eliza followed the long road with the calm sun pooling along its sides, like she had been told to do by a page of her atlas. The precise lines on the roadmap sitting in the passenger seat made things feel rather clearer than usual – Eliza looked around at definite things as an experiment, away from ambiguity.
Speedometer, arrow at 60 – clock, numbers square and lined, spelling exactly 3:45 – the date in her mind, February 27. And the ever-present backdrop to her direction, lines and labels in the road atlas, symbols whose realities Eliza could follow, on and on.
The thoughts in the middle of the road flowed like this, into each other – the clock, the date, the map – Mr. Malchin's bookcase – May's apartment, Waverly sandy beaches and grainy cliffs, blue shutters and receptionists – cars shining and ocean glinting. She glanced at the clock: 3:47.
Thoughts, presences pulled her along; distractions and the deep meaning of things pushed – until the exit came, number seven, and the road thinned and wavered up to the building. The brick front rose and opened up, and Eliza swerved into the parking lot, parked clumsily in an out-of-way space, near a sign: VISITORS.
She thought she would sit in the car for a long time and maybe turn around, maybe leave, no commitment. She was more scared than she had even anticipated. Actually a little bit faint – no – she felt witherly and cast far off…
But oh, shut up.
Open the door. Get out.
One step at a time. The car door closed behind her. She locked it.
The walk to the building was long, paved, shoe-step semiconsciousness.
There, there, there. The door, a big brown wood door, windowless. The knob, gold and a little bit chipped, in a good way. She felt stifled and scattery, electric with anxiety, in, in, in. Pause, inside – She opened the door.
A little tinkling oasis opened up to her. Light from a ceiling lamp filled the room, was caught by crystal vases and old ripply windows. The carpet cradled diamond pink and blue patterns, skipping across the floor, meeting mahogany chair-legs, stools, calm little coffee-table. At one end was a desk, and a man sat there, tall and dark-haired.
He did not look like Ben.
posted by Laura at 5:40 PM
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