Short story: The day my heart stopped beating

I've been meaning to post this for a while, but just never got around to it. This is the revised/redrafted version of a story I wrote late last year. It was inspired by the sudden appearance of a bench on a patch of grass I walk through on my way to and from the train station every day. I hope you enjoy it.

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“That was the day my heart stopped beating.”

This simple phrase grabs my attention. I had paid little notice as the woman sitting across from me, who is to me both a friend and stranger, related her life story. At least, she went on and on so much that I presumed her story could cover nothing less than the entire passage of one’s life. But now she had me; what was the day, why did her heart stop beating, and how is she still alive?

I cursed myself for not listening sooner. She had mentioned something about her past connection to the charming-yet-destitute hunk of crap just down the road that vaguely resembles a house, which I speculated will be knocked down by its new owner. But as soon as I heard those two horrible words, “I remember,” my attention politely wandered away.

For near-on five minutes now she’s been talking, but I can barely recall four minutes and fifty-five seconds of it.

On love, marriage, and Blue Valentine

My brother got married a couple of days ago. I thought it fitting to revisit something I wrote back in February about love and marriage. Jump to the end for a quick note about the contrast in my experience.

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Today I watched Blue Valentine, a film about falling in—and out of—love. It tells the highs and lows of love; the way that it can both come and go in a day, a week, a month. I was touched by the raw beauty of the couple's entanglement. It wasn't hopeful, nor cynical; just real.

It makes me wonder if true love is meant to be fast, ensnaring you just as quickly as it later releases you—only with heartfelt wonderment rather than gut-wrenching pain. Early in the film, the lead male character, Dean, states that he simply isn't going to die; the couple soon seem equally sure their love will never die. But it does—brutally, passionately, and recklessly.

Dancing, dreams, and finding my way...kinda

I wrote most of this back in early May, but kinda forgot about it and didn’t get around to filling in the unfinished bits until this week. It’s basically the extended concept of what will be my last Flare dance production piece. I went with something quite personal this year, so it’s interesting to see how it developed.

I’m sitting at the back of a dance studio, watching Jenn teach one of the most uniquely interesting routines I’ve ever seen—with a beautiful, complex, melodious song as its meter. It’s the perfect music for writing in a public place—so layered and deep, as though it captures the thoughts of everyone in the room and distills them into this eerily coherent package.

“Head…forward. Down, up,” pierces through the music, and my subconscious, as Jenn directs her dancers.

Short story: Time to write

In the Victorian (my home state, not the era) school system, Year 12 English is assessed by a combination of coursework (primarily, a writing folio) and an end-of-year exam. The coursework, called School Assessed Coursework (SAC) when I went through, is done under exam conditions throughout the year.

The creative writing SAC came towards the end of the year. At my school, we were allowed to bring in a half page of notes to help get the stories started.

I remember my friend Julian thought I was crazy, but I decided not to bring in any notes—or even to consider a topic. Other kids had planned out their entire piece; a few even wrote it at home and tried to memorise it. I figured I didn't need to do that. I believe I may have said, "I'll think of something."

We had four periods split over three days. I spent the first one brainstorming and sketching out a rough plan, then put together a more complete plan at the beginning of the second period. The story came together in the equivalent of two periods (I had time to spare), with ALL of the inspiration coming from around me—I literally looked around the room to see what I could do to the character in the story, and how his story could develop.

I was later awarded the school's senior writing prize. According to the teachers, I was the best writer in my year level—even better than the girl who won the Australasian Schools Writing Competition (I got a high distinction the one and only time I bothered to enter that competition). This story got me the award.

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Writing a story can be difficult at the best of times, but on one fine afternoon in May it was the most difficult thing Trevor had ever done.

Laced with brilliant smiles and shining eyes

I was looking through my journal—as I do every few weeks—when I noticed this piece, which has clear parallels with my previous blog post (Boys don't cry, but they really should). I think it's interesting to see how I tackled much the same issue from a more immediately personal viewpoint.

The quoted text at the start is from The Places You Have Come to Fear the Most by Dashboard Confessional. I tend to use music—especially song lyrics—to help me understand the world. It conveys emotion so succinctly—so powerfully—that a song or a band, or even single chorus or verse, can change your life. But that's a topic for another day...

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Buried deep as you can dig inside yourself
And covered with a perfect shell
Such a charming, beautiful exterior
Laced with brilliant smiles and shining eyes
Perfect posture, but you're barely scraping by
But you're barely scraping by

In this society, we teach people—young men and boys especially—to hide their feelings; we learn to "grin and bear it," no matter the difficulty. It's not fair to push your problems onto others. In many cases, we learn to not deal with a problem at all—rather, we bury it, ignore it, and pretend everything is alright.

They say that if you smile everything will be okay—like the song: "Smile though your heart is aching / Smile even though it's breaking / … / Smile, what's the use of crying? / You'll find that life is still worthwhile / If you just smile."

Boys don't cry, but they really should

Before you read any further, please watch the video below. It is both the context and inspiration of this post.

Now for my story...

Speaking in stutters and fuck the world

This is an adaptation of a shorter piece that I wrote earlier in the year. It was up for consideration for Voiceworks #86: Other, but the editors were looking for more extensive analysis and research to raise the credibility of my personal experience. I figure I might as well share it here.

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I don't think I've ever told anyone this: When I was a young child, I had speech therapy. I expect this would come as a surprise to the people who know me—and perhaps also to those who have merely met me—since I speak articulately and eloquently (usually). I speak with no stammer, lisp, or impediment of any kind. And I never did.

Apparently I was too quiet, too withdrawn, and people thought there must be something wrong with me. They thought maybe the reason I didn't talk was that I couldn't. My parents knew this wasn't the case, but agreed to set me up with a speech therapist anyway—neither they nor I had anything to lose.

Bordering on madness

I wrote this near the end of April, before Borders collapsed completely in both Australia and the US, but didn't have anywhere to publish it...until now. Borders retail stores are all empty now in Australia.

I'm sitting in the midst of an event that is at once bizarre, sad, frightening, and surprising. My local Borders store, like many others around the world, is closing. ‘EVERYTHING ON SALE!’ and ‘NOTHING HELD BACK!’ signs hang all around the store. Additional tables have been put out, with books piled on top. The magazine racks—usually bursting with glossy pages and eye-catching covers—appear ransacked, plain, and sterile. Only the most and the least popular ones remain—the rest having been snatched up by shoppers eager to get their fix (at a lower-than-usual price) while they still can.

The store is packed with people of all ages, shapes, and sizes, with a turnout that better resembles the week before Christmas than a quiet, overcast Sunday afternoon in April. But there's an edge to this crowd. They aren't looking for the right gift—the book they know or hope their loved ones will cherish. No, this has a feral quality. Everyone wants a piece of this dying beast, once so proud and mighty but now collapsing under its own weight.

A note on the name

There's still a strong societal expectation to pick a career before you've even finished high school, and if you pick one that runs against the grain, such as writing, or music, or acting, or dancing, or something else deemed either unstable or not respectable enough, you're told to pick another -- just in case, because that isn't a real job and it probably won't pay the bills. If you aim high and respectable -- say, surgeon or astronaut -- you're told to pick another -- just in case, because you might not make it. Everyone needs a fall back plan.

I have a supportive family that would rather I be happy than respectable -- hell, they even tried to talk me out of going to university -- but I still felt the pressure. And I saw it eating up other kids -- still do. Some want to chase the dream of being a professional athlete or musician, or to drop out and start a business with their million dollar idea. But they're scared. Maybe of their parents. Or perhaps the unknown. Or something else. Few take the chance and go for it.

For me, the story is a little different. In high school, people told me I should become a writer. I didn't know what I wanted, but it certainly wasn't to be put on a path laid out for me by someone else. So I pursued other interests, knowing full well that if I really am as talented as they say, I could fall back on writing.

In an odd twist, writing is -- and always has been -- my fall back plan.

I'll be seeing my undergraduate degree (more specifically, my Bachelor of Arts/Bachelor of Science double degree) through to the end, since I like to stick to my commitments and I'm almost finished. But university is no longer a means to an end (the "end" being a career in a relevant industry) for me; it is now an expensive distraction that I paradoxically want to go away and want to enjoy while I can.

Why? When I graduate, this shit becomes real. I don't have a fall back plan for my fall back plan. If writing doesn't work out, I have to hope I get lucky and stumble into another career that makes me happy. I don't ever want to get stuck in the daily grind, every day the same dream.

This is my fall back plan; I make it up as I go -- always have, and probably always will.