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***The CRC Blog welcomes submissions from published and unpublished fiction genre writers for INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION. Contact CRC Blog via email at caccoop@aol.com or personal Facebook messaging at https://www.facebook.com/car.cooper.7
****Kristi Petersen Schoonover’s THE SHADOWS BEHIND
is #93 in the never-ending series called INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION where
the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC)
focuses on one specific excerpt from a fiction genre and how that fiction
writer wrote that specific excerpt. All INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION links
are at the end of this piece.
Name of fiction work? And were there other names you
considered that you would like to share with us? I’ve chosen to talk about my short story
“Hairless Girl Does the Hula,” which appears in my most recent collection, The Shadows Behind.
I have a strong emotional connection to
almost every piece I write, but some connections are stronger than others. I
considered my novellette, This Poisoned
Ground, because that was written during an extremely dark time in my life,
and its creation was both torturous and cathartic—I had to let someone I’d
loved very much go. In the end, I chose “Hairless,” because it deals with more
complicated themes than grief and loss for me; I was trying to understand the
concept of resolution, and it took nearly a decade for me to be able to reach
closure so I could finish the story. In short, my emotional journey with this
one was much longer and more complex.
I also considered the longer project I’m
working on right now, but I’m still emotionally “living” there, so I don’t
really understand my relationship to it yet, and I can’t really discuss it
without ruining my mojo to get it done.
Has this been published? And it is totally fine if the
answer is no. If yes, what publisher and
what publication date? Yes. It appears in my short story collection, The Shadows Behind, which was published
by Books & Boos Press in April of 2019.
What is the date you began writing this piece of
fiction and the date when you completely finished the piece of fiction? I started “Hairless” in
January 2008. I pulled it out to work on it several times over the years—in
2009, in 2010, in 2011. I messed with it a little bit in 2013 and in 2015. When
I had an offer on the table for The
Shadows Behind in 2018, I made up my mind to get it completely finished,
come hell or high water, so that it could be included in the collection. The
official “finish” date was July 4, 2018, although it went through a couple of
rounds of minor edits after that.
Where did you do most of your writing for this fiction
work? And please describe in
detail. And can you please include a
photo? Because this
story took a decade to finish, it’s been physically penned in countless places,
including my dorm room up at Goddard College and a friend’s house in Rhode
Island.
But my two favorite places to write are in my home office and on
my back porch—the latter I mostly use as an “office” from the first nice day in
April through November, and I love it, because it’s a large space that faces
the untamed woods (I hate landscaping) and is very private. “Hairless” was
completed on my back porch, and I was so excited that my journey with it had
ended that I even wrote a blog post about it, which you can read here: https://kristipetersenschoonover.com/2018/07/04/independent-girl-does-the-hula-why-the-writing-life-is-worth-it/
What were your writing habits while writing this work-
did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper,
directly on laptop; specific time of day? How I wrote “Hairless” evolved with how I grew older.
I also used to smoke in my home office,
so there was always a cigarette burning in that ashtray back when I started
this story. We no longer smoke in my house, so that’s also a habit that’s
changed. Now I only smoke when I work outside.
If I’m writing in my home office, I
listen to music—usually film scores. I can tell you that the early pages of
“Hairless” were probably written to the scores for Sideways, Gettysburg, and The
Haunted Mansion (2003). When I finished it in 2018, I was sitting outside
on my back porch, and my accompaniment was the noise of the twenty-odd species
of birds we have in our yard thanks to my husband’s feeders, as well as the
distant whine of motorboats on a nearby lake.
I have a candle burning, no matter where
I am. I believe fire powers creativity.
I almost always write everything directly
on some type of typing instrument, because I type 80 wpm and, therefore, it’s
much faster than handwriting. “Hairless” was probably one of the first stories
I wrote on a laptop—everything prior to 2008 was written on my old Dell desktop
that I bought in 2004 (which I still use, actually, for video projects, believe
it or not). I didn’t get my first laptop until right around the time I started
“Hairless.”
When I started “Hairless,” I was a
night-writer. When I finished it? I was an early-morning/all day writer. Time,
though, has never been a factor for me. I write when I’m inspired. Inspiration
doesn’t keep a clock.
What scene/excerpt of the book was the most emotional
for you to write? This scene/excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer. Although the flashbacks with Hailey’s
father were very difficult—my dad had just passed away when I started this
story, and through Hailey’s relationship to him I could see the damage in my
own relationship to my dad, and it would often make me cry while I was writing
it—the most difficult was the scene at the end, in which Hailey and her love
interest, Toke, finally connect.
His apartment building is older, garden-style and only two
floors—he lives on the first one, and I am fortunately clear-headed enough to
remember which door he’d come out of when I picked him up this morning.
I knock, and suddenly feel like I’m going to pass out. This
is your last chance, Hailey; this is the last chance you have to call this
whole thing off. He doesn’t come to the door for what seems like forever,
and then, I think, what if he doesn’t answer—
—it opens with a click-swish and I’m hit with the
smell of beer and cigarette smoke. He’s in a gray T-shirt and navy shorts and
seems so much taller than he did this afternoon; then I realize there’s a step
up to enter his apartment. “Hailey.”
I nod and force a smile, but I know it’s a nervous one.
“Yeah. I just . . . changed my mind, is all.”
“Jesus, woman. You’re practically white. You good?” He
motions me inside, and the second I cross the threshold I feel comfortable
and . . . safe; not what I’d expected to feel. I set my bag on
the floor in the corner and glance around his apartment. It’s not bright and
typically Floridian—it’s got walnut paneling. There are two mission-style
futons. Gray-and-blue flecked rug. Cheap, badly put-together furniture, like
the kind you buy in boxes at Walmart and assemble with flimsy included tools.
No colors match: green cushions, maroon cushions, rust curtains, gold
raised-velvet wallpaper.
I was right. There are no hula girls here.
I realize I’m not really drunk anymore, probably a
combination of fear, adrenaline, and the fact that I’d puked up most of the
remainder of the bottle of rum and the last couple of shots of SoCo before
they’d had time to seriously take effect. “Fine. Like I said, I changed my
mind.”
Terrified I’ll see the hula girl standing in the parking
lot, I peer outside before closing the front door.
He motions to the futon. “Come. Sit.”
I do. The cushion is much more comfortable than it looks; I
sink into it.
He goes into the kitchenette and opens the refrigerator; I’m
close enough that I can see all that’s in it is alcohol, a couple of Chinese
food containers, and what looks to be a pile of onion peels or something on the
very bottom. “Want a beer?”
I’m not big on beer, but recall with horror that, yes, I had
gotten sick, and yes, I hadn’t brushed my teeth. I was going to need something
to cover that up. “Sure.”
“Miller Lite, Killian’s Red, or Bud?”
We don’t serve any of that at the Kahiki, so I don’t really
know what the difference is. I decide on the most interesting name. “Killian’s
sounds good.”
“Woman after my own heart.” He bends over and I hear him
slide out a drawer.
For the first time, I notice a long mark on the back of his
left thigh. It’s like the amoebas I used to see in my science textbooks way
back when, a big white blob fringed in a brown fuzzy ring.
I’m afraid to say anything, so I don’t.
He struts into the living room and hands me the beer, then
settles down on the floor across from me. “It’s a burn scar, by the way. Really
old. It was back when I first started training.”
I flush with embarrassment. “I—I didn’t mean to stare.”
“Didn’t know you were. Just everybody asks when I wear
something short enough to see it, so I figured I’d get it out of the way.”
I bring the bottle to my lips and can barely get past the
smell of it—like rug shampoo and cat piss. I don’t sip and say instead,
“Weren’t you afraid after that?”
“Sure. Was I supposed to give up? I’d already told myself
the fire thing wasn’t something I was going to fail at.” He sips his beer and
reaches for his cigarettes. “Every fear you have you can pretty much trace back
to the fear of failure. All fear is rooted there.”
I’m skeptical. “Fear of spiders?”
He shrugs matter-of-factly. “Fear of the failure to protect
yourself.”
“Okay. Fear of . . . sleep.”
He lights his cigarette. “Fear of the failure to be
impervious. When you sleep, you’re vulnerable.”
I think about the hula girls, how they’re a defense
mechanism and nothing more. But a defense mechanism—that’s a manifestation of
fear. The hula girl who chased me out of my apartment—her, too. But fear of
what?
“And you’re sitting way up there. I don’t bite.” He pats the
floor. “Come down here.”
I feel a flush. I join him, kneeling sideways.
I can see the bulge in his shorts.
Oh my God.
This moment is here.
I try in vain to suppress a nervous smile.
He shifts closer. “Don’t be afraid of me.”
“I’m just—”
He sets his burning cigarette in the ashtray. “Remember
before, when I was talking about fire and water? How they need each other?”
“Yes,” I say. Not that I care at the moment.
“Comes from Hawaiian legend. There’s many variations. But
there’s one that says Pele, goddess of fire, was actually married to Kamapua’a,
the god of water.” He inches forward.
Our knees are touching.
Small shocks travel up my legs.
“Story says Pele got mad at him, chased him out of their
home with lava all the way to the sea.” He reaches out and takes my hands. “But
it’s the lava, its collision with the sea, that creates more land. Makes the
island grow.”
His hands. I could write novels about his hands, forceful
with a fire knife but tender now, rough but gentle as he manipulates his large
fingers between mine.
“Chase me to the sea,” he whispers, and then his mouth
smashes on mine.
His tongue butterflies in my mouth. I’m overwhelmed by the
taste of hops, the smell of beach sand and the white gas they use in his knife.
Hot fireworks of want explode inside me in places I never knew existed as he
bulldozes me to the floor.
Our beers spill. The ashtray goes flying. Something plummets
from the coffee table.
Oh, God my wig. My wig is going to come off.
His weight bears on me and forces the air from my lungs, but
I suck hard and sounds I don’t recognize escape the back of my throat because
this feels right and wonderful and amazing and all sorts
of other words I couldn’t really fathom until this moment.
“I want to be inside you right. Now.”
Nothing excites me more than this. I watch him as he hefts
off me and straightens up, wrestles with his shirt, throws it over by the glass
sliding door that leads out to a small patio.
In the window stands a familiar figure.
Only it’s not a hula girl this time.
It’s Izzy, her eyes glowing like hot coals.
I scream.
He leaps off me. “Oh God. Did I hurt you? Shit!”
“No, no—it’s not that it’s not that it’s not that, there’s
just . . .” There’s what? What the fuck do I say?
She’s gone.
He grins. “Oh . . . you’re a screamer.
When you get worked up.”
“Yes,” I lie. Eager to distract him, I sit up and work out
of my tank top. I’m not wearing a bra.
He crawls back to me, runs his hands up my legs, using words
like smooth and soft and that it’s like I have no hair.
I try to quell the rising tide of fear, but he keeps going,
furiously fingering the button and zipper on my jeans. He lifts me off the
floor and works them down to my knees, then does the same with my thong and
gasps. “You shaved!”
My breath catches in my throat. Oh, shit. “Is that
bad?”
“No.” His eyes meet mine, and he looks amazed. “I’ve never
been with a woman who shaved and that’s . . . something I
always wanted. That’s—” he stops.
He’s looking at me—well, not me.
At the top of my head.
Panic grips my soul. The warm flush throbbing in every
corner of me abruptly halts.
“Your hair is crooked.”
“Um . . .” Tears well up in my eyes. I can’t
stop them. “It’s—it’s a wig.”
Under my tense fingers I feel his arm muscles have gone taut
and still.
There’s a long moment. The only sound is the whoosh of the
central air kicking on and the quiet hiccup of the tears I’m trying to control.
“It’s okay.” He shifts slightly off of me, puts his head
down on my shoulder and wraps his big arms around me. “It’s okay. Cry it out.
When you’re done, you can tell me.”
When I open my eyes between jags I see Izzy in the corner,
but I know she can’t get to me because he’s between us. I want to tell
him the whole thing, everything, but I can’t, not now when I know that the best
I can hope for is these last few moments before it’s a sure thing that this
won’t finish, that I’ll have to leave and go back to my apartment, forced to
hold on to only a few tactile memories and the fear that he’ll tell everyone.
That I’ll become some backstage failed sex story shared with the other
performers over a few beers while Izzy tortures me in every waking moment, in
every hula dancer glass, clock, picture frame and bathing suit in my house.
I’m finally cried out. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to be.”
“I have—it’s alopecia. It means I have no hair. Anywhere.”
Stillness again.
“This is a bad thing because why?” His hand pets my
shoulder. “Don’t women spend fortunes on Brazilians? Razors? Nair?”
“But I’m bald.”
“I don’t care,” he says. “Personally? Can’t stand a hairy
woman. This guy right here? Left women ’cause they were too hairy. I know. I’m
a bastard. Just a thing I have.”
I let this sink in. “What?”
“Can I see it?”
“Can you see what?”
“You. Bald.”
I bite my lip. This is the one step I’m not sure I can take.
He lifts himself, rolls off me, and sits up. “Take it off.”
Something comes over me, a peace I’ve never felt before.
He holds out his meaty hand. “Come on. Take it off.”
I do.
He gasps and for one second I think it’s in horror. He
reaches up and touches my head. His fingers tickle and it’s sensitive—no one’s
ever touched it before. I don’t know whether to scream or wince.
“You’re perfect.”
I blink in surprise. I’m not sure I’ve heard that correctly.
He can’t mean that, can he? What the hell is going on here? Is he real? Is this
actually happening? “Really?”
“God yes.” His breath is hot in my ear. “Bed.”
He stands up and yanks me to my feet and into the adjoining
room, eagerly splays me naked on the bed, mounts me. I wait for the pain—like
the stabbing of knives—that Izzy told me girls have when they have sex for the
first time. Strangely, it doesn’t come. All I feel is an odd sense of
fulfillment, completeness.
I see Izzy in the doorway. Glaring.
But the whole world is different now. He’s inside me,
pounding, using words like tight and I feel beautiful and bold. I peer
over at his shoulder at her and feel remorse; that trophy, now, seems like a
meaningless trinket, its value squat. It should’ve been hers. I never should’ve
taken it from her. Never should’ve done what I did. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Toke hesitates for only a second. “What?”
“Nothing.” I shift so I can look into his eyes, wide open
and boring straight into mine, unwilling for even a softening of her malignant
stare to miss the thrill ride that is Toke.
There is fire and water, and no more fear.
Why is this scene/excerpt so emotional for you to
write? And can you describe your own
emotional experience of writing this specific scene/excerpt? That scene’s specifics were
taken from a real experience which had happened a dozen years prior, in 1997.
Things were ripped, word-for-word in some cases, from the detailed journal
entry I’d written about it. I had to relive that painful day all over again,
and see—especially in 2018, 21 years later, when that scene was finally
completed—what had actually been
going on between me and this other person. Trying to take that raw, painful
memory and shape it into a scene that was meaningful and made sense for the
story was like being stabbed with knives; it was about acceptance and self-love
in an environment where there wasn’t any in the real world. It was like taking
my own personal tragedy and putting a happy ending on it, even though, in the
end, no one wins, and there are no happy endings. I’d say now it’s probably why
the damn thing sat in a drawer on and off for a decade: I simply wasn’t ready
to deal with the truth.
Were there any deletions from this scene/excerpt that
you can share with us? And can you please include a photo of your marked up
rough drafts of this excerpt. Oh my, yes. That
scene had about four or five different ways it was going to go, and I had no
idea how it was going to end—essentially, it’s the end of the story; there’s
just a brief tag after that, but that was a decision that was made later (I did
not include how the story ends in the excerpt I provided). I’m afraid my
mark-up photo isn’t going to show much, because I mostly do it on the fly,
typing over the old draft, fixing it as I go. But this screenshot of an old PDF
I saved from two days prior to finishing illustrates that the dialogue, and who
was doing what, was completely different from the finished version. It also
looks like the appearance of the ghost is in a different spot.
Other works you have published? I’ve been published in
many magazines and anthologies over the years, and some things were back before
the days of the Internet, so they’re completely out of print.
My main works include this most recent collection, The Shadows Behind, which is about the
monsters that chase us from within; my short story collection, Skeletons in the Swimmin’ Hole: Tales from
Haunted Disney World; my novel, Bad
Apple; my novellette, This Poisoned
Ground; and my novella, Splendid
Chyna, which appears in The Terror
Project’s Three on a Match. All of these are available on Amazon and other
places books are sold, as they’re with several different publishers.
Links to short stories of mine that are still available in online
magazines for free are here: https://kristipetersenschoonover.com/where-to-read-me/. I’d recommend giving
“Wailing Station,” “King of Bull,” and “A Bone to Pick” to get a sense of my style.
Anything you would like to add? One of the most important things about
writing, at least for me, is to be able to let yourself go while you’re doing
it.
I have had times when I’ve cried or laughed writing a certain scene, times
when I was just devastated or inebriated by what I was feeling. It’s hard to
allow yourself to go to those extreme places, and that’s why some people avoid
it. But when you are truly engaged in the emotion of what you’re creating, it
breaks through to the page without your having to work at it.
Just
let it flow, let it come out. If the raw material of emotion is there? It will
be there when you shape, revise, and craft later on. Feel it in the draft.
Don’t stifle your feelings when you’re working, or you might just find you’ll
have nothing but a bunch of dead words. Writing is as much about your personal
journey as it is about entertaining others. If you are being truthful and
honest on your journey, some reader out there will be very grateful that you
did.
Kristi Petersen Schoonover has always wanted to take hula classes.
Her
work has appeared in many magazines and anthologies, and she’s the author of
the collection The Shadows
Behind. She curated
the Ink Stains anthology Volume 7, was the recipient of three Norman Mailer
Writers Colony Residencies, and holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Goddard College.
She serves as co-host of the Dark
Discussions podcast and lives in the Connecticut woods with her husband,
Nathan.
Follow her adventures at www.kristipetersenschoonover.com
INSIDE THE EMOTION OF
FICTION links
001 11 15 2018 Nathaniel
Kaine’s
Thriller Novel
John
Hunter – The Veteran
002 11 18 2018 Ed
Protzzel’s
Futuristic/Mystery/Thriller
The
Antiquities Dealer
003 11 23 2018 Janice
Seagraves’s
Science
Fiction Romance
Exodus
Arcon
004 11 29 2018
Christian Fennell’s
Literary
Fiction Novel
The Fiddler
in the Night
005 12 02 2018 Jessica
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Adult
Paranormal Romance
Death
Adjacent
006 12 04 2018 Robin Jansen’s
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Fiction Novel
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Indomitable
007 12 12 2018 Adair Valerez’s
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Fiction Novel
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008 12 17 218
Kit Frazier’s
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Dead Copy
009 12 21 2019 Robert Craven’s
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of a Thousand Tigers
010 01 13 2019 Kristine Goodfellow’s
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Romantic Fiction
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Twin
011 01 17 2019 Nancy J Cohen’s
Cozy Mystery
Trimmed To
Death
012 01 20 2019 Charles Salzberg’s
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Story Man
013 01 23 2019 Alexis Fancher’s
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014 01 27 2019 Brian L Tucker’s
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POKEWEED: AN ILLUSTRATED NOVELLA
015 01 31 2019 Robin Tidwell’s
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Legal
Fiction/Mystery
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Lost
017 02 08 2019 Paula Shene’s
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ScieFi/Fantasy/Romance/Adventure
My Quest
Begins
018 02 13 2019 Talia Carner’s
Mainstream
Fiction/ Suspense/ Historical
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Moscow
019 02 15 2019 Rick Robinson’s
Multidimensional
Fiction
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Collectors
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TINSMITH 1865
072 08 19 2019 Carolyn
Breckinridge’s
Short Story
Collection
KALIEDESCOPE
& OTHER STORIES
073 08 21 2019 Alison Ragsdale’s
Emotional Women’s
Fiction
THE ART OF
REMEMBERING
074 08 22 2019 Lee
Matthew Goldberg’s
Suspense
Thriller
THE DESIRE
CARD
075 08 23 2019 Jonathan Brown’s
Mystery/Amateur
P.I.
THE BIG
CRESCENDO
076 09 02 2019 Chera Hammons Miller’s
Literary
Fiction w/ suspense, concern with animals & land management
Monarchs
of the Northeast Kingdom
077 09 09 019 Joe William Taylor’s
Literary
Mystery
The Theoretics of Love
078 09 15 2019 Linda Hughes’s
Romantic Suspense
Secret of the Island
079 09 19 2019 Max Elliot Anderson’s
Middle Grade Adventure/Mystery
Snake Island
080 09 22 2019 Danny Adams’s
Science Fiction
Dayworld: A Hole In Wednesday
081 09 24 2019 Arianna Dagnino’s
Social/Historical/Adventure
The Afrikaner
082 09 29 2019 Lawrence Verigin’s
Thriller/Suspense
Seed of Control
083 10 05 2019 Emma Khoury’s
Fantasy
The Sword And Shield
#084 10 07 2019 Steve McManus’s
Mystery/Suspense/Thriller
SEVEN DEVILS
#085 10 08 2019 Sheila Lowe’s
Mystery/Psychological/Suspense
with Scientific Bent
PROOF OF LIVE
#086 10 10 2019 Jess Neal Woods’s
Historical Fiction
THE PROCESS OF FRAYING
#087 10 11 2019 Karen Odden’s
Historical
Suspense
A TRACE OF DECEIT
#88 10 14 2019 Kate Maruyama’s
Love, Loss
& Supernatural
“HARROWGATE”
#89 10 17 2019 Sherry Harris’s
Mystery
“LET’S FAKE A
DEAL”
#90 10 18 2019 Linda Mooney’s
Science
Fiction Apocalyptic/ Post Apocalyptic
“THE TRUNK”
#91 10 19 2019 Jayne Martin’s
Flash Fiction Short Story Collection
“TENDER CUTS”
#92 10 22 2019 Janice Cole Hopkins’s
Inspirational
Romance
“IT ALL STARTED AT THE MASQUERADE”
#93 10 29 2019 Kristi Petersen Schoonover’s
Short Story Collection
“THE SHADOWS BEHIND”
https://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2019/10/93-inside-emotion-of-fiction-shadows.html
“THE SHADOWS BEHIND”
https://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2019/10/93-inside-emotion-of-fiction-shadows.html
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