Frankie does Heroin
Tue Sep 07, 2004 4:04 pm
Alright, this is a short story I wrote for my English 404 class (creative writing workshop). My teacher thinks I'm morbid (and she's right) and obviously hates my style, not to mention she thinks she knows what's best....well, she does know a lot, but I don't know about knowing what's best for my work. Anyway, her main knocks on this short story were that...
...nothing happened (i.e. no story)
...the main character doesn't change
...it's confusing
...it's too slow moving to be interesting
Now, being the postmodern writer I am, I'm pretty fucking annoyed at these statements. Something happens, the main character changes, and it's not all that confusing....everything's very subtle, and you have to think a little bit. I'm not hitting you in the face with a frying pan, here...anyway, it's long, but those who actually want to erad it, enjoy and give me some feedback.
Oh...a double space = paragraph markers/dialogue, and a triple space = space break (time, setting change). Formatting sucks in this....
Frankie
The hot water poured off of my head. I stood in the shower, my daily cleaning ritual long completed: the soap and conditioner and body wash all rinsed, the frilly sponge thing my girlfriend insists on keeping in the shower hung on the spout. My hair draped across my eyes in wet strands. I closed my eyes and opened them seconds later, watching the water cascade over my eyelashes, blinking as stray drops entered the white plain punctuated by tiny red rivers running randomly throughout, disappearing into a black abyss at the center.
I had been awake for several hours now. My alarm had yet to sound, and Good Morning America and Willard Scott’s fat ass were still several hours away. I didn’t get out of the shower until the water had grown cold, and I dried myself with one of the thick blue terrycloth towels hung on the wall. The towel, wrapped around my waist, fell after I had entered into the closet adjoining the bathroom. I pulled on a pair of colorful designer boxer shorts and set to strumming through my ties, stopping briefly on the pink and blue and silver tie, and – again – I thought about Frankie.
I’d always thought Frankie had been hired simply because the firm had wanted to prove that they were an equal opportunity employer. His name was Franklin, but everyone called him Frank; I called him Frankie. I don’t really know why, but I had called him that the first time he’d delivered one of the numerous manila envelopes to my office, and it had stuck. I spoke with him a few minutes, just making casual chat with one of the mailroom guys (you have to make them seem somewhat important, otherwise they may just snap and go on a killing spree, and no one would call the cops as it is a law firm, and I like my life…). In that five minute conversation, I thought I had Frankie pegged. His speech was monotonous, slow, and very careful. It almost seemed as if he was struggling with every word. He was normal looking enough, as mail guys go, but the stoic state of his demeanor was a bit unnerving, but not in a bad way, and he even looked almost infantile at times. I had him pegged as a retard.
I had been wearing the pink and blue and silver tie that day, and the only reason I remember that is because Frankie needed a tie. He didn’t have one on his first day, and it was a required part of the dress code. I thought the rule silly, but I have my own bathroom and closet just off of my office, so I had plenty of ties in there, and it was late in the afternoon anyway; I was going golfing with the district attorney, so I’d be changing to casual clothes. I undid the tie and handed it to him, and he put it around his neck, trying to tie it, but failing miserably. He probably had never tied a tie himself; I waited until he looked ready to deal with the emasculating shame of not being able to tie a tie before I asked him if I could tie it for him. Frankie told me he’d give it back as soon as he bought one himself, and I just told him not to worry about it. The smile on Frankie’s face was priceless, and he promised me fervently that he would “brung it back as soon as he gots one himself.”
I dressed, tying the pink and blue and silver tie around my neck. Slipped on my Gucci suit jacket. Put on my Italian leather shoes by Kenneth Cole. Locked my Rolex onto my wrist. Gently mussed up my hair, rubbing TreSemme mousse through it. I looked at the clock: 5:38. I didn’t have to be at the office until 9:00. My stomach was empty, but I didn’t feel hungry. I rubbed my eyes and sat in my office for a few minutes, thinking about Frankie and the tie that used to be mine, used to be his. I thought about our drives. I thought about my problems, his problems. Our conversations, our upbringing. About our differences – and the frightening parallels in our lives. I stood and left the apartment, grabbing the keys to my BMW on the way out.
“Where do ya want to go to eat, Frankie? You feel like Greek tonight?” I glanced sideways, my eyes veiled behind rimless, movie star sunglasses. One hand rested on the top of the steering wheel, the other on the carbon fiber shift knob. I messed with the radio, finding a rock station with some pretty decent music in play. The clock chimed three times: seven o’clock.
“I dunno, I’d be happy with a cheeseburger. What do I like that’s Greek?” his two day old beard warped as he spoke, and his dilated pupils looked into mine.
“Shit, Frankie, I don’t know. Gyros? Falafel? Pizza?” I grinned at him, and he looked at me strangely, obviously confused. “Pizza isn’t Greek, but they have it at this café down the street from my apartment. You can get it with feta cheese or normal cheese, and they even have pizza with lamb on it. Opa!”
Frankie looked even more confused. I pulled into the next McDonald’s, parked away from the other cars. I ordered a grilled chicken sandwich and a side salad, Frankie a Big Mac meal, Super Sized. Frankie tried to pay for his food, but I wouldn’t let him, just like always. We ate in relative silence, every once in a while interjecting random comments from movies and television, him doing Quagmire, (“Quagmire, I have a question for you, what do you do for a living?...And I have a question for you…why are you still here? Alllright!”), me mocking politicians and religion, quoting Lewis Black and Denis Leary. As I watched the heavily salted fries being shoveled into Frankie’s mouth, I wondered why I only ever ate fast food when Frankie was with me.
Frankie was wearing an unbuttoned loose plaid shirt, like something a lumberjack would wear. The sleeves were rolled up, and I could see snake tattoos slithering up underneath, their tails disappearing under the coarse fabric. A stained and tattered t-shirt that read “I play air guitar in an air band” was visible underneath the open shirt. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, which was expected, as he had taken a medical leave from work. His eyes were intelligent, but empty. The brown brightness centered in the sea of white was dulled by something that I had dabbled in many years earlier when I was at William and Mary, and I understood Frankie and his problems because of that experience.
“How’s NA?” I cut my salad with my knife before grabbing a cherry tomato with my fork and popping it in my mouth. “Is it helping ya this time?”
Frankie was quiet, and he chewed the mouthful of greasy shit for minutes, even though it had already been fit to swallow moments earlier. His eyes were lowered, and our differences were now obvious. I realized then, sitting in a McDonald’s, how my life could have turned out. And, in that brief moment, in that miniscule sliver of the pie of life (because really, life is nothing more than a collection of brief moments), I realized I hated Frankie.
Frankie used to be a law student, as I once was. We were both top students, both from affluent families. I suppose that’s why I got along with him so well; we had some sort of connection. I don’t know if I was taking pity on him, or just doing the “right” thing, but I felt obligated to be his friend and protector, but I’m not sure why. I don’t know if I had helped him, or if what I had done was enough to help him. Either way, it didn’t matter anymore. My life had to go on, and I couldn’t let one ripple in my life decide the outcome of everything I had worked so hard to get.
I sat through the day, mindlessly filling out forms, talking to clients. Eating lunch in the cafeteria instead of going out, making inane conversation with my secretary and the new mail boy. The day finally ended around six thirty, and as I slipped the key into the ignition, I realized what I had to do, what I needed to do, in order to get through this time in my life.
Frankie had died of a heroin overdose. He always wore long sleeves to hide the needle marks, and he’d been going to Narcotics Anonymous meetings for some time now. Years, probably, I didn’t know. He had confided in me, though, and I was the only person at the firm who knew about his problem. He had never had any convictions or anything of the sort, so his drug problem was a secret that came out in one of our inane conversations. Perhaps it was a slip, but I doubt it was. Frankie had done other drugs, like meth and coke, but his drug of choice was heroin.
I had pulled strings several different times for Frankie, so he could go to his meetings. I felt like I needed to do that for him, since he had confided in me. Or maybe I just felt like that was my good deed for my life, or maybe…I don’t know why I did what I did, but in the end, it didn’t help Frankie. It just didn’t fucking matter, and that reality forces you to put new perspectives on life.
As I drove home from the firm, I pulled out my cell phone and called one of my clients. He was a known drug supplier in the area, heroin and cocaine, and he had been busted on a minor possession charge that the DA was trying to change to an intent to distribute. I made a stop at his penthouse apartment, not far from mine, and drove the rest of the home not fifteen minutes later.
My nose tingled, and I could feel my pupils dilate. I untied my tie, throwing it into the trash. Frankie’s tie. I looked around the room, the apartment built on other people’s pain. I grabbed the small mirror laying on my coffee table, the source of my pain, and I thought of the client I had just visited, the client who had indirectly destroyed Frankie’s life. I thought of the sudden adrenaline burst I seemed to have, of my quickened heart rate, and I looked into the mirror and the remaining white lines upon it, and behind those lines, I saw my face, and I hated what I saw. My face didn’t even see my fist coming.
I stood in the shower, running my bandaged fingers through my hair. My other hand rested on the wall, supporting my weight, my knees slightly bent. I stood in the shower and cried, thinking of Frankie, and thinking of how I had killed him, thinking of everything and my life in general. I thought of all these things as the hot water poured off of my head.
...nothing happened (i.e. no story)
...the main character doesn't change
...it's confusing
...it's too slow moving to be interesting
Now, being the postmodern writer I am, I'm pretty fucking annoyed at these statements. Something happens, the main character changes, and it's not all that confusing....everything's very subtle, and you have to think a little bit. I'm not hitting you in the face with a frying pan, here...anyway, it's long, but those who actually want to erad it, enjoy and give me some feedback.
Oh...a double space = paragraph markers/dialogue, and a triple space = space break (time, setting change). Formatting sucks in this....
Frankie
The hot water poured off of my head. I stood in the shower, my daily cleaning ritual long completed: the soap and conditioner and body wash all rinsed, the frilly sponge thing my girlfriend insists on keeping in the shower hung on the spout. My hair draped across my eyes in wet strands. I closed my eyes and opened them seconds later, watching the water cascade over my eyelashes, blinking as stray drops entered the white plain punctuated by tiny red rivers running randomly throughout, disappearing into a black abyss at the center.
I had been awake for several hours now. My alarm had yet to sound, and Good Morning America and Willard Scott’s fat ass were still several hours away. I didn’t get out of the shower until the water had grown cold, and I dried myself with one of the thick blue terrycloth towels hung on the wall. The towel, wrapped around my waist, fell after I had entered into the closet adjoining the bathroom. I pulled on a pair of colorful designer boxer shorts and set to strumming through my ties, stopping briefly on the pink and blue and silver tie, and – again – I thought about Frankie.
I’d always thought Frankie had been hired simply because the firm had wanted to prove that they were an equal opportunity employer. His name was Franklin, but everyone called him Frank; I called him Frankie. I don’t really know why, but I had called him that the first time he’d delivered one of the numerous manila envelopes to my office, and it had stuck. I spoke with him a few minutes, just making casual chat with one of the mailroom guys (you have to make them seem somewhat important, otherwise they may just snap and go on a killing spree, and no one would call the cops as it is a law firm, and I like my life…). In that five minute conversation, I thought I had Frankie pegged. His speech was monotonous, slow, and very careful. It almost seemed as if he was struggling with every word. He was normal looking enough, as mail guys go, but the stoic state of his demeanor was a bit unnerving, but not in a bad way, and he even looked almost infantile at times. I had him pegged as a retard.
I had been wearing the pink and blue and silver tie that day, and the only reason I remember that is because Frankie needed a tie. He didn’t have one on his first day, and it was a required part of the dress code. I thought the rule silly, but I have my own bathroom and closet just off of my office, so I had plenty of ties in there, and it was late in the afternoon anyway; I was going golfing with the district attorney, so I’d be changing to casual clothes. I undid the tie and handed it to him, and he put it around his neck, trying to tie it, but failing miserably. He probably had never tied a tie himself; I waited until he looked ready to deal with the emasculating shame of not being able to tie a tie before I asked him if I could tie it for him. Frankie told me he’d give it back as soon as he bought one himself, and I just told him not to worry about it. The smile on Frankie’s face was priceless, and he promised me fervently that he would “brung it back as soon as he gots one himself.”
I dressed, tying the pink and blue and silver tie around my neck. Slipped on my Gucci suit jacket. Put on my Italian leather shoes by Kenneth Cole. Locked my Rolex onto my wrist. Gently mussed up my hair, rubbing TreSemme mousse through it. I looked at the clock: 5:38. I didn’t have to be at the office until 9:00. My stomach was empty, but I didn’t feel hungry. I rubbed my eyes and sat in my office for a few minutes, thinking about Frankie and the tie that used to be mine, used to be his. I thought about our drives. I thought about my problems, his problems. Our conversations, our upbringing. About our differences – and the frightening parallels in our lives. I stood and left the apartment, grabbing the keys to my BMW on the way out.
“Where do ya want to go to eat, Frankie? You feel like Greek tonight?” I glanced sideways, my eyes veiled behind rimless, movie star sunglasses. One hand rested on the top of the steering wheel, the other on the carbon fiber shift knob. I messed with the radio, finding a rock station with some pretty decent music in play. The clock chimed three times: seven o’clock.
“I dunno, I’d be happy with a cheeseburger. What do I like that’s Greek?” his two day old beard warped as he spoke, and his dilated pupils looked into mine.
“Shit, Frankie, I don’t know. Gyros? Falafel? Pizza?” I grinned at him, and he looked at me strangely, obviously confused. “Pizza isn’t Greek, but they have it at this café down the street from my apartment. You can get it with feta cheese or normal cheese, and they even have pizza with lamb on it. Opa!”
Frankie looked even more confused. I pulled into the next McDonald’s, parked away from the other cars. I ordered a grilled chicken sandwich and a side salad, Frankie a Big Mac meal, Super Sized. Frankie tried to pay for his food, but I wouldn’t let him, just like always. We ate in relative silence, every once in a while interjecting random comments from movies and television, him doing Quagmire, (“Quagmire, I have a question for you, what do you do for a living?...And I have a question for you…why are you still here? Alllright!”), me mocking politicians and religion, quoting Lewis Black and Denis Leary. As I watched the heavily salted fries being shoveled into Frankie’s mouth, I wondered why I only ever ate fast food when Frankie was with me.
Frankie was wearing an unbuttoned loose plaid shirt, like something a lumberjack would wear. The sleeves were rolled up, and I could see snake tattoos slithering up underneath, their tails disappearing under the coarse fabric. A stained and tattered t-shirt that read “I play air guitar in an air band” was visible underneath the open shirt. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, which was expected, as he had taken a medical leave from work. His eyes were intelligent, but empty. The brown brightness centered in the sea of white was dulled by something that I had dabbled in many years earlier when I was at William and Mary, and I understood Frankie and his problems because of that experience.
“How’s NA?” I cut my salad with my knife before grabbing a cherry tomato with my fork and popping it in my mouth. “Is it helping ya this time?”
Frankie was quiet, and he chewed the mouthful of greasy shit for minutes, even though it had already been fit to swallow moments earlier. His eyes were lowered, and our differences were now obvious. I realized then, sitting in a McDonald’s, how my life could have turned out. And, in that brief moment, in that miniscule sliver of the pie of life (because really, life is nothing more than a collection of brief moments), I realized I hated Frankie.
Frankie used to be a law student, as I once was. We were both top students, both from affluent families. I suppose that’s why I got along with him so well; we had some sort of connection. I don’t know if I was taking pity on him, or just doing the “right” thing, but I felt obligated to be his friend and protector, but I’m not sure why. I don’t know if I had helped him, or if what I had done was enough to help him. Either way, it didn’t matter anymore. My life had to go on, and I couldn’t let one ripple in my life decide the outcome of everything I had worked so hard to get.
I sat through the day, mindlessly filling out forms, talking to clients. Eating lunch in the cafeteria instead of going out, making inane conversation with my secretary and the new mail boy. The day finally ended around six thirty, and as I slipped the key into the ignition, I realized what I had to do, what I needed to do, in order to get through this time in my life.
Frankie had died of a heroin overdose. He always wore long sleeves to hide the needle marks, and he’d been going to Narcotics Anonymous meetings for some time now. Years, probably, I didn’t know. He had confided in me, though, and I was the only person at the firm who knew about his problem. He had never had any convictions or anything of the sort, so his drug problem was a secret that came out in one of our inane conversations. Perhaps it was a slip, but I doubt it was. Frankie had done other drugs, like meth and coke, but his drug of choice was heroin.
I had pulled strings several different times for Frankie, so he could go to his meetings. I felt like I needed to do that for him, since he had confided in me. Or maybe I just felt like that was my good deed for my life, or maybe…I don’t know why I did what I did, but in the end, it didn’t help Frankie. It just didn’t fucking matter, and that reality forces you to put new perspectives on life.
As I drove home from the firm, I pulled out my cell phone and called one of my clients. He was a known drug supplier in the area, heroin and cocaine, and he had been busted on a minor possession charge that the DA was trying to change to an intent to distribute. I made a stop at his penthouse apartment, not far from mine, and drove the rest of the home not fifteen minutes later.
My nose tingled, and I could feel my pupils dilate. I untied my tie, throwing it into the trash. Frankie’s tie. I looked around the room, the apartment built on other people’s pain. I grabbed the small mirror laying on my coffee table, the source of my pain, and I thought of the client I had just visited, the client who had indirectly destroyed Frankie’s life. I thought of the sudden adrenaline burst I seemed to have, of my quickened heart rate, and I looked into the mirror and the remaining white lines upon it, and behind those lines, I saw my face, and I hated what I saw. My face didn’t even see my fist coming.
I stood in the shower, running my bandaged fingers through my hair. My other hand rested on the wall, supporting my weight, my knees slightly bent. I stood in the shower and cried, thinking of Frankie, and thinking of how I had killed him, thinking of everything and my life in general. I thought of all these things as the hot water poured off of my head.
Tue Sep 07, 2004 4:32 pm
...nothing happened (i.e. no story)
Did she even read it properly?
...the main character doesn't change
It's pretty easy to see, even moreso when it's explained for someone less mentally enabled like me
...it's confusing
For an idiot.
...it's too slow moving to be interesting
What does she think it is? A haiku or something?
I told you what I thought about it on MSN and to other NLSC people I'd recommend you actually read it, and don't get put off because it's more than 2 lines long and doesn't contain any smilies.
Tue Sep 07, 2004 4:41 pm
damnit, i need smilies, where are the smilies 
ahh, relief
will read later, gotta attend to my Law assignment 1st
ahh, relief
will read later, gotta attend to my Law assignment 1st
Tue Sep 07, 2004 4:45 pm
What a sad story. 
Tue Sep 07, 2004 5:06 pm
As you know I've already read it and we've talked about it, but I didn't know your teacher reacted like that.
Nothing much happens in Waiting for Godot, yet it is considered classic literature and is studied at universities. This kind of piece doesn't really need to follow the traditional introduction, complication, resolution framework in my opinion.
I don't consider this a necessary part of a short story like this, so I have to disagree with her here as well. A compelling story doesn't require the main character to change. Using a film example, there isn't much character development in James Bond movies as far as Bond himself is concerned.
In any event, as you said there is some change in the character. This story doesn't need the main character to have some breakthrough and resolve to find the cure for some terminal disease.
No, it's not. Enough said.
Judging by this assertion (and the rest of her points), I really think this is a matter of being critical for the sake of being critical, a case of "I don't like his style so I'll offer up a generic critique". It really sounds like she's skimmed it with the intention of finding fault that isn't there.
...nothing happened (i.e. no story)
Nothing much happens in Waiting for Godot, yet it is considered classic literature and is studied at universities. This kind of piece doesn't really need to follow the traditional introduction, complication, resolution framework in my opinion.
...the main character doesn't change
I don't consider this a necessary part of a short story like this, so I have to disagree with her here as well. A compelling story doesn't require the main character to change. Using a film example, there isn't much character development in James Bond movies as far as Bond himself is concerned.
In any event, as you said there is some change in the character. This story doesn't need the main character to have some breakthrough and resolve to find the cure for some terminal disease.
...it's confusing
No, it's not. Enough said.
...it's too slow moving to be interesting
Judging by this assertion (and the rest of her points), I really think this is a matter of being critical for the sake of being critical, a case of "I don't like his style so I'll offer up a generic critique". It really sounds like she's skimmed it with the intention of finding fault that isn't there.
Tue Sep 07, 2004 5:07 pm
Yo this could be an ill joint if you sent it to Timbaland!!
Well something did happen.
The main character goes through a massive change, from a somewhat ignorant yuppie to a wreck, burdening/blaming him self for whatever - without going into detail that's the way I see it. Clear as fucking day light.
I thought it was alright, a somewhat different take on a drug story.
edit: where are the car chases and the naked chicks?
Well something did happen.
The main character goes through a massive change, from a somewhat ignorant yuppie to a wreck, burdening/blaming him self for whatever - without going into detail that's the way I see it. Clear as fucking day light.
I thought it was alright, a somewhat different take on a drug story.
edit: where are the car chases and the naked chicks?
Tue Sep 07, 2004 5:10 pm
Yo this could be an ill joint if you sent it to Timbaland!!
Word lay those phat beatz and dis mafucka be a classik!
Wed Sep 08, 2004 3:46 pm
It always hurts when you get negative feedback on something that you work hard on...and your prof's remarks didn't really soften the blow or anything. In my experiences I always found that there was usually something that you can learn from those type of comments...regardless of whether you agree with them. For example, to simply state that nothing happened in your story is not true...but perhaps when you write your next story you will consciously add a little bit more "action"...and that little bit may turn a good story into a great story...you never know. I recommend that you store that bit of feedback in your literary "toolbox" and one day you may put it to good use.
As for my impression...I really liked the vivid imagery that you portrayed. I could clearly imagine everything that was happening with the characters and in the surrounding environment etc. I enjoyed it...
I made a disturbing realization while reading your story...I can not remember the last book I read
. I read technical books every day for work and I read the forums and other misc articles on the net every day...but I simply can not remember the last book I read .
As for my impression...I really liked the vivid imagery that you portrayed. I could clearly imagine everything that was happening with the characters and in the surrounding environment etc. I enjoyed it...
I made a disturbing realization while reading your story...I can not remember the last book I read
. I read technical books every day for work and I read the forums and other misc articles on the net every day...but I simply can not remember the last book I read .
Wed Sep 08, 2004 10:56 pm
DANet, I know about that, and I accept critical feedback (ask Andrew and Jae), in fact I WANT people to bluntly tell me what's wrong. The reason why I posted this on here was to get a second opinion because I felt a lot of her comments were way off (mainly the 'no story' and 'nothing happens' and 'confusing' comments). I KNOW I'm a good writer, and I dind't think the story was as subtle as she and the rest of the class thought.
If the prof actually gave me critical feedback instead of telling me it was wrong (and only wrong because she said so), then I'd probably take it. I've learned a lot from the teacher in the past, but she obviously hates my style and probably doesn't care for me too much and thinks I'm a waste of talent. *shrug* She really doesn't like me much, or she's being harder on me than she should...she isn't helping by saying things like this.
I'm not concerned about it, I'll write a really cheesey story she'll probably love for my next story...
If the prof actually gave me critical feedback instead of telling me it was wrong (and only wrong because she said so), then I'd probably take it. I've learned a lot from the teacher in the past, but she obviously hates my style and probably doesn't care for me too much and thinks I'm a waste of talent. *shrug* She really doesn't like me much, or she's being harder on me than she should...she isn't helping by saying things like this.
I'm not concerned about it, I'll write a really cheesey story she'll probably love for my next story...
Wed Sep 08, 2004 11:33 pm
maybe there's sexual tension there
For your next story write about the student who pounds his teacher on her desk Should get some great feedback on that one
For your next story write about the student who pounds his teacher on her desk
Should get some great feedback on that one
Wed Sep 08, 2004 11:34 pm
Hey Mr. Shane,
Congratulations on a great story. I loved it. It's the first piece of yours that I've read in a long time. (In fact, I did get your e-mail about your other piece, and I've been meaning to get back to you on it: for some reason or other, I can't seem to open it. If you're still working on it and/or would like me to read it, send it again to elee@middlebury.edu).
I don't know that I agree with your professor, but here's a couple of the things I noticed:
You do a great job setting up your story and you take your time. I think that really adds to the tension. The story builds to the moment--the moment--when the narrator comes to his conclusion. But I don't know that it moves to it.
It seems to me you describe a day-in-the-life for the narrator then a day-in-the-life for Frankie, when the most dramatic moment is the interaction between the two of them in the McDonald's parking lot (oh and I love that they're in the parking lot, not in the dining area itself). And as you sketch your characters in broad strokes and I don't really get the sense of just how close the narrator came to being Frankie. I really think the McDonald's scene has great potential.
So what does this shift do for the narrator? Does he change visibly? Or does he just go out and buy drugs, wrapped up in self-hate as he is. This seems (and I say this at the risk of offending you but without meaning to) trite and cliche in the context of the story. I think you need to earn this moment right here:
"My nose tingled, and I could feel my pupils dilate. I untied my tie, throwing it into the trash. Frankie’s tie. I looked around the room, the apartment built on other people’s pain. I grabbed the small mirror laying on my coffee table, the source of my pain, and I thought of the client I had just visited, the client who had indirectly destroyed Frankie’s life. I thought of the sudden adrenaline burst I seemed to have, of my quickened heart rate, and I looked into the mirror and the remaining white lines upon it, and behind those lines, I saw my face, and I hated what I saw. My face didn’t even see my fist coming. "
If that's all that is, it's just the guy being depressed and doing drugs, then you didn't do your story or yourself justice. This moment, along with the McD's scene should resound in every part of the story.
All that being said, I feel that this story can be shorter. And I even think it might be better if it were shorter. The first ten paragraphs were really good and really effective in setting up everything in a sequential way so we get a good sense of who the narrator is and what he thinks of Frankie and the contrast between the two characters. But they pale in significance and meaning to the McD's scene and the drug scene. I think if you condensed it, this could be a much more powerful story.
Finally, I have one more question. Why do we care about Frankie? Why do we care about the narrator? That is, what shifts in us that makes us sympathize with either character? How does this story resound in the readers?
I know this was a lot of stuff. You know, take my advice at your own risk knowing that I've only taken the introductory course to writing and only managed a B in the class.
All the best,
Eugene
Congratulations on a great story. I loved it. It's the first piece of yours that I've read in a long time. (In fact, I did get your e-mail about your other piece, and I've been meaning to get back to you on it: for some reason or other, I can't seem to open it. If you're still working on it and/or would like me to read it, send it again to elee@middlebury.edu).
I don't know that I agree with your professor, but here's a couple of the things I noticed:
You do a great job setting up your story and you take your time. I think that really adds to the tension. The story builds to the moment--the moment--when the narrator comes to his conclusion. But I don't know that it moves to it.
It seems to me you describe a day-in-the-life for the narrator then a day-in-the-life for Frankie, when the most dramatic moment is the interaction between the two of them in the McDonald's parking lot (oh and I love that they're in the parking lot, not in the dining area itself). And as you sketch your characters in broad strokes and I don't really get the sense of just how close the narrator came to being Frankie. I really think the McDonald's scene has great potential.
So what does this shift do for the narrator? Does he change visibly? Or does he just go out and buy drugs, wrapped up in self-hate as he is. This seems (and I say this at the risk of offending you but without meaning to) trite and cliche in the context of the story. I think you need to earn this moment right here:
"My nose tingled, and I could feel my pupils dilate. I untied my tie, throwing it into the trash. Frankie’s tie. I looked around the room, the apartment built on other people’s pain. I grabbed the small mirror laying on my coffee table, the source of my pain, and I thought of the client I had just visited, the client who had indirectly destroyed Frankie’s life. I thought of the sudden adrenaline burst I seemed to have, of my quickened heart rate, and I looked into the mirror and the remaining white lines upon it, and behind those lines, I saw my face, and I hated what I saw. My face didn’t even see my fist coming. "
If that's all that is, it's just the guy being depressed and doing drugs, then you didn't do your story or yourself justice. This moment, along with the McD's scene should resound in every part of the story.
All that being said, I feel that this story can be shorter. And I even think it might be better if it were shorter. The first ten paragraphs were really good and really effective in setting up everything in a sequential way so we get a good sense of who the narrator is and what he thinks of Frankie and the contrast between the two characters. But they pale in significance and meaning to the McD's scene and the drug scene. I think if you condensed it, this could be a much more powerful story.
Finally, I have one more question. Why do we care about Frankie? Why do we care about the narrator? That is, what shifts in us that makes us sympathize with either character? How does this story resound in the readers?
I know this was a lot of stuff. You know, take my advice at your own risk knowing that I've only taken the introductory course to writing and only managed a B in the class.
All the best,
Eugene
Thu Sep 09, 2004 3:15 am
Philosopher
Thu Sep 09, 2004 4:03 am
It was a nice read.
I like the way you explain everything that's happening, I enjoyed the fact that I could see everything happening as soon as I had read it. I appreciated the fact that you took the time & effort to be so precise about the movements that were made & the thoughts that were thought.
I wish you'd give me a bit more info about Frankie though, the title says Frankie does heroin & in the title character (I) expresses his feelings towards Frankie, he felt bad for him, he felt responsible for him. Why? A more in-depth explanantion of the Frankie character would be cool to me since I'm into those weird type people. I enjoy analysing the weirdness in people. I would have liked to know what lead Frankie to what he did. Was it the pressure of his profession? Since he was practicing law & all, what caused him to turn to heroin.
Another thing I would've liked to know is why exactly did this person find himself in any way responsible for Frankie? Because Frankie confided in him? Why does he feel so strongly based on such a small detail? Does he blame himself for Frankie's death because of his client? Who "inderectly" killed him?
I'm just asking these questions for personal knowledge, I'm not critisising (sp) the work. I enjoyed reading it.
Another thing I noticed is that Frankie spoke quite badly for a law student.
I suppose you're implying that he was high at that time? If he was...the speech is a bit slurred, not gangsta. (I'm refferring to the gots & brung.)
If he wasn't high at the time why does he speak this way? Did he go through law school speaking like that?
All in all it was a well written piece, reading it you can sense the pain the I character felt. You can sense the frustration he holds within himself.
What did she expect? Something like aliens taking over the world? I'm reading Mario Puzo's Omertá at the moment, the story starts off slowly & builds momentum, most books do. Did she expect you to make it an action packed thriller in that small piece?
Since when does the main character have to change for the story to be interesting? This is a bogus observation on her part. He doesn't change but from the story you are able to take out that his life did change along side Frankie. Frankie had an impact on his life, ofcourse the man changed.
Is she dyslexic? Or is she foreign? I didn't think it was confusing, I'm a 17 year old that lives in a dutch enviroment. I think it would be confusing for me.
Aah yes, she really did expect an action packed thriller/edge of your seat nail biter. Shove your foot up her ass. Etching out the situations & giving minor details that make the story interesting are seen as "slow" to her. Why is she teaching? I could sum up a list of books that start of slow & end up being one of my favorites.
Anyways, thanks for the read. I'll also proceed to advertise Mr. Puzo's book, his skills are un-deniable, all of you pick up a copy of his book Omertá. It's the first book I've read with so much stuff happening yet it's not confusing. The change in times etc has been handled with so much care you can't get confused.
All in all, nice read Shane.
I like the way you explain everything that's happening, I enjoyed the fact that I could see everything happening as soon as I had read it. I appreciated the fact that you took the time & effort to be so precise about the movements that were made & the thoughts that were thought.
I wish you'd give me a bit more info about Frankie though, the title says Frankie does heroin & in the title character (I) expresses his feelings towards Frankie, he felt bad for him, he felt responsible for him. Why? A more in-depth explanantion of the Frankie character would be cool to me since I'm into those weird type people. I enjoy analysing the weirdness in people. I would have liked to know what lead Frankie to what he did. Was it the pressure of his profession? Since he was practicing law & all, what caused him to turn to heroin.
Another thing I would've liked to know is why exactly did this person find himself in any way responsible for Frankie? Because Frankie confided in him? Why does he feel so strongly based on such a small detail? Does he blame himself for Frankie's death because of his client? Who "inderectly" killed him?
I'm just asking these questions for personal knowledge, I'm not critisising (sp) the work. I enjoyed reading it.
Another thing I noticed is that Frankie spoke quite badly for a law student.
brung it back as soon as he gots one himself
I suppose you're implying that he was high at that time? If he was...the speech is a bit slurred, not gangsta. (I'm refferring to the gots & brung.)
If he wasn't high at the time why does he speak this way? Did he go through law school speaking like that?
All in all it was a well written piece, reading it you can sense the pain the I character felt. You can sense the frustration he holds within himself.
...nothing happened (i.e. no story)
What did she expect? Something like aliens taking over the world? I'm reading Mario Puzo's Omertá at the moment, the story starts off slowly & builds momentum, most books do. Did she expect you to make it an action packed thriller in that small piece?
...the main character doesn't change
Since when does the main character have to change for the story to be interesting? This is a bogus observation on her part. He doesn't change but from the story you are able to take out that his life did change along side Frankie. Frankie had an impact on his life, ofcourse the man changed.
...it's confusing
Is she dyslexic? Or is she foreign? I didn't think it was confusing, I'm a 17 year old that lives in a dutch enviroment. I think it would be confusing for me.
...it's too slow moving to be interesting
Aah yes, she really did expect an action packed thriller/edge of your seat nail biter. Shove your foot up her ass. Etching out the situations & giving minor details that make the story interesting are seen as "slow" to her. Why is she teaching? I could sum up a list of books that start of slow & end up being one of my favorites.
Anyways, thanks for the read. I'll also proceed to advertise Mr. Puzo's book, his skills are un-deniable, all of you pick up a copy of his book Omertá. It's the first book I've read with so much stuff happening yet it's not confusing. The change in times etc has been handled with so much care you can't get confused.
All in all, nice read Shane.
Thu Sep 09, 2004 8:37 am
That, Eugene, is what I wanted from my professor. I agree, the McDonald's scene could be fleshed out more and could definately give more of a sense of who the characters are....if/when I rewrite/edit this, that'll be the main focus. I don't know about shortening it, as the main character in the story is the narrator and the first 10 paragraphs (I'll trust you 
) are showing his personality. She did tell me to have more of the McDonald's scene, but not for reasons that fit the story....for reasons that that was the only part of the story she liked.
Part of the reason I didn't flesh out the McDonald's scene more was because I was already over the 1200 word limit (or close to it)....my patience and love of detail doesn't work for word limits. Basically, I didn't want to push it. Now, I won't care, though, when/if I redo it.
I'm thinking what I'll probably do is expand on the mcdonald's scene, get Frankie to actually talk about NA a bit, and have some more reflections from the narrator on his previous life that makes the displaced hatred of Frankie more evident. You're right, it was rather cliched, but I was over hte limit by that point, so I was rushing it, which I obviously hate.
I haven't edited at all, but if I flesh out the McDonald's scene more and reveal the narrator in that respect, then I can edit out the beginning appropriately. It might be better if it was shorter, especially if I'm adding to it, but I feel that I write well enough to move the story along and keep the reader hooked even if nothing is happening.
As for why we should care about Frankie? Well, I know why, but I just need to make it far less subtle....so that my teacher can get it. Good questions, Eugene....you'd be a great writing teacher, which is why I love it when you help me out.
Psycho:
The title of the thread is "Frankie Does Heroin" because I wanted people to read it. The actual title is simply "Frankie."
Fleshing out of Frankie would be easy with the McDonald's scene, and talking about NA would sort of get some history and background on the two.
The blame...well, that'll make more sense if I get some background of the narrator's drug use in college. Basically, the idea is that the narrator got clean, and if he hadn't, he would have been like Frankie....but after frankie dies, he feels guilty for not getting Frankie out of it like he should have, and then he turns into Frankie, not to mention the client....too subtle, I'm guessing.
As for the dialogue, I just fucked up. *shrug* I didn't proof or edit it at all, that's exactly what it was after I wrote it. If I had proofed it, I would have caught that. I was going in a different direction at the time and didn't know what Frankie's background was yet....I was leaning towards high school drop out, but then I had to make the narrator and frankie have something in common to explain why the narrator gave two shits about him....
As for change, the main character did change...he reverted to what he used to be, he turned into Frankie. Irony, of a sort...but I admit that wasn't clear that he did drugs in college.
Oh, one last thing Eugene....I'm still working slowly on that particular project (the book), but I'm rewriting it from scratch. I think I sent you the new version, but I'm not sure. I'll have a book of poetry coming out in a few months...not sure how long exactly, I have to mail off my contract. (yay for 8% royalties on a $15 book
). I'll be sure to let everyone know.
) are showing his personality. She did tell me to have more of the McDonald's scene, but not for reasons that fit the story....for reasons that that was the only part of the story she liked.
Part of the reason I didn't flesh out the McDonald's scene more was because I was already over the 1200 word limit (or close to it)....my patience and love of detail doesn't work for word limits. Basically, I didn't want to push it. Now, I won't care, though, when/if I redo it.
I'm thinking what I'll probably do is expand on the mcdonald's scene, get Frankie to actually talk about NA a bit, and have some more reflections from the narrator on his previous life that makes the displaced hatred of Frankie more evident. You're right, it was rather cliched, but I was over hte limit by that point, so I was rushing it, which I obviously hate.
I haven't edited at all, but if I flesh out the McDonald's scene more and reveal the narrator in that respect, then I can edit out the beginning appropriately. It might be better if it was shorter, especially if I'm adding to it, but I feel that I write well enough to move the story along and keep the reader hooked even if nothing is happening.
As for why we should care about Frankie? Well, I know why, but I just need to make it far less subtle....so that my teacher can get it. Good questions, Eugene....you'd be a great writing teacher, which is why I love it when you help me out.
Psycho:
The title of the thread is "Frankie Does Heroin" because I wanted people to read it.
The actual title is simply "Frankie."
Fleshing out of Frankie would be easy with the McDonald's scene, and talking about NA would sort of get some history and background on the two.
The blame...well, that'll make more sense if I get some background of the narrator's drug use in college. Basically, the idea is that the narrator got clean, and if he hadn't, he would have been like Frankie....but after frankie dies, he feels guilty for not getting Frankie out of it like he should have, and then he turns into Frankie, not to mention the client....too subtle, I'm guessing.
As for the dialogue, I just fucked up. *shrug* I didn't proof or edit it at all, that's exactly what it was after I wrote it. If I had proofed it, I would have caught that. I was going in a different direction at the time and didn't know what Frankie's background was yet....I was leaning towards high school drop out, but then I had to make the narrator and frankie have something in common to explain why the narrator gave two shits about him....
As for change, the main character did change...he reverted to what he used to be, he turned into Frankie. Irony, of a sort...but I admit that wasn't clear that he did drugs in college.
Oh, one last thing Eugene....I'm still working slowly on that particular project (the book), but I'm rewriting it from scratch. I think I sent you the new version, but I'm not sure. I'll have a book of poetry coming out in a few months...not sure how long exactly, I have to mail off my contract. (yay for 8% royalties on a $15 book
). I'll be sure to let everyone know.