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  • The endless process of revision

    Perry White, Editor
    Jackie Cooper as Perry White in Superman (1978). This is what the editor in my head looks like. Photo courtesy of Warner Bros.

    One day in grad school, a professor was trying to make a point about the importance of editing and asked me how many drafts of a certain assignment I had written before turning it in.

    I knew what she wanted to hear. As one of her favorite students, I was supposed to corroborate her recommendation to complete multiple drafts. But the truth was, I hadn’t. The assignment I turned in — the piece she loved so much — was a one-off: One draft and done.

    But I couldn’t tell her that. I didn’t want to contradict her in front of the class. So before I answered her, I thought for a moment about what went in to that “first draft” I had turned in.

    Here’s the answer (more or less) I gave to the class:

    I revise as I write.

    Every time I sit down to work on something, I reread what I’ve already written. For short stories and poetry, I might start from the beginning. For longer pieces, it may be the start of the previous chapter or whatever I wrote the previous day. But I always approach my writing first as an editor, looking at it with fresh eyes. Once I’ve made sure what came before is clear, I start writing more.

    And the next time I pick up my pen — or sit down at the computer — to write, I start the process over again.

    Nowadays, editing is such an integral part of my writing process, I don’t think about it unless I’m working off of someone else’s notes. Then I always save my original draft and start a new one, out of fear that a paragraph I cut or a favorite line that I change may be lost forever.

    I like to start off each session with the skeptical eye of an editor, looking for the pitfalls in the narrative and reminding myself of the seeds I planted along the way. It’s a lengthier process.

    It also goes against the spirit of NaNoWriMo, and just about every other bit of writing advice I’ve ever read. Stephen King recommends writing “with the door shut,” keeping your editor away until you’re done writing. I prefer to work in tandem with my editor, revising as I go along.

    However you do it — whether you choose to write first and edit later, or edit as you go — keep your editor’s hat handy. No first draft is good enough. Revise, revise, revise.

  • The Editorial Casting Couch: Making Dreams Come True

    I have this sketchy-looking couch in my basement, perfect casting couch material.  It’s only a couple shades away from I’m-a-naughty-harlot red, it’s broken down on one side so you kind of sink into the cushions if you sit in the wrong spot, and did I mention it’s a hide-a-bed?

    We’re talking total class, all the way.  And whenever I have fresh pages in hand, I grab my red pen and head for that skeevy little spot because the editorial couch is where dreams come true, baby.

    I like to take it slow at first, try to warm up to the words, make sure everybody’s comfortable.  Then I might make a suggestion or two.  You know, you’d look a lot better if we just got rid of that little phrase right there.  I mean it’s only a thin four or five words.  It’s not like it’s making that much of a difference.  I bet no one would even notice . . . now, see.  Doesn’t that feel better?

    Sometimes I have to get onto the verbs for being too passive.  Come on.  Show me what you really want.  What do you mean?  I want to be able to picture it.  Be specific, but keep it fun.

    There are other times when I know a character’s heart just isn’t in the scene.  Make me feel your desire.  Show me that your pursuit transcends just wanting something; it’s a need.  Make me believe it.  Make me care whether or not you make the cut.  Show me what you’ll do to make it happen.

    Then there are those times when the words themselves matter more than anything else.  Let’s say that last part out loud and see how it sounds . . . No, I’m just not feeling it.  We need to try again.  Maybe if we change it up a little, experiment, see where things take us.  You do want to be in this story, don’t you?

    For the innocents among you, this may seem like a cruel, manipulative, even dirty, process, but it’s how the game is played.  The words need you to take control.  When they first come to you, they don’t even realize their full potential, but they’re looking for someone who’ll put in the time to get them there.  The words need a voice, a purpose, and direction.  And sometimes a little coaxing can go a long way.

  • Teaching Turkeys to Fly

    “More than half, maybe two-thirds of my life as a writer is rewriting. I wouldn’t say I have a talent that’s special. It strikes me that I have an unusual kind of stamina.” – John Irving.

    Congratulations, you wrote a first draft. You are a novelist, a screenwriter, a playwright, a storyteller…by God, a writer.

    Now, are you ready to get to work?

    Some people compare writing to being god-like. If a first draft is like God creating the world in seven days, then re-writing is Darwinism. It takes millions of years, a lot of your favorite creatures won’t survive, and you still might end up with a bird or two incapable of flight.

    There are a lot of different ways to re-write. I’ve read about and experimented with a ton of them trying to figure out how to get my turkeys to fly more than a few feet.

    I have to fight the desire to correct spelling and grammar during my first trip through the manuscript. Every sentence glares at me with the accusation of “You did this to me! Now fix it!” But alas, they will have to wait their turn.  Before I spend a bunch of time etching a coat of arms on my great sword of war, I need to know if the blade is going to snap the first time I swing it at someone.

    Does the story work on a functional level? Every scene should move your plot forward while simultaneously throwing obstacles at your protagonist.

    Dwight Swain, writer of Techniques of the Selling Writer refers to “scenes” and “sequels.” “Scenes” show the protagonists acting. “Sequels” show how he reactions to the fallout of his actions. He goes so far as to break them down even further, but the idea is that protagonist spends a story pursuing a goal and failing at every turn, causing change.

    All my scenes address that goal, essentially (stealing a phrase from my first screenwriting instructor Ron Peterson) answering the story question. The characters’ actions must feel real. If my character acts in an unbelievable way, given what the reader knows, then I failed and the scene needs changed or cut.

    Even if a scene is perfectly good, if it doesn’t give the story something special or isn’t necessary, it gets axed. This is very hard to do sometimes, and is a by-product of my screenwriting training. Watch special features on DVD’s. You will quickly see how many scenes are deleted, even ones that were already filmed. Usually, they don’t add anything. (more…)

  • ‘Edit’ Is a Four-Letter Word (week of 2 April 2012)

    Have you ever encountered someone who said that writing a novel is easy?

    Settle down, we know it’s not. We’ve been through the process as recently as November, which is – as you know – National Novel Writing Month. We call it NaNoWriMo and those of us that have taken on the challenge are known as WriMos.

    Ask any of us here in the Cafe on any given day what’s harder than writing the novel or even coming up with an idea that should be fleshed out and researched and you’ll get one answer: editing.

    Hands down the most difficult, though for some enjoyable, process is going through your creation and hacking away at it. Cringing at the bits that seemed to make sense when you were writing really late that night and buzzing on coffee and energy drinks is the least of what happens. Hair is torn out, teeth are gnashed and foreheads slapped. Despair settles easily around a writer’s shoulders when it looks like the story isn’t salvageable.

    All is not lost, however. This week is where the Confabulators share how we edit; what our goals are, what our particular process is and just how do we decide to make the cuts. It’s a little peek into the restless minds of writers trying to make their stories better.

    So come back all week long to see if we do things the same ways or what the variations might be. At the very least it ought to be entertaining as we detail how to ‘murder our darlings’.

  • Are You Editing Your NaNoWriMo Novel?

    The Confabulators have been meeting once a month for the last several years. Every November, they’re the core group of WriMos who encourage others to sit down and write 50,000 words in a month. The local message board is rife with taunts, excerpts, questions and support that I’m sure happens in every region for National Novel Writing Month.

    We like to think our group is special because we don’t just write in November. We started the Cafe to  share our enthusiasm with the rest of the world. This last November we had several successes. Among them, one of the books completed during NaNoWriMo is going to be published. This barista can’t tell you whose it was or when or where it will be published, but maybe you’ll find a hint here in the Ephemera question for this week: Are you editing your NaNoWriMo novel?

    Jason Arnett:

    HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Ahuh. Sorry. Ahem. Yes, I’m editing my NaNoWriMo novel. I laugh because I had intended to have a real first draft done and out to my sharp-eyed friends who would so kindly read it. Obviously I don’t have that done yet, but I am in the process of trying to get to that point. I can offer all kinds of excuses (and you can read them on my blog) but I’m diving headfirst into in come April 1. Ask me again in a month how it’s going.

    Nancy Cayton Myers

    Yes, I’m editing my 2011 NaNo book.  I’ve gone through it in hard copy and wrote a long, act by act treatment/synopsis to find the holes, explore what to expand on, and determine ways to raise the stakes for the various plot lines and characters.  I’ve gotten some great feedback from the few readers that would put up with the super-rough NaNo draft.  Now I need to get busy rewriting so I can send it out for more.  It’s going to take awhile to revise to my satisfaction, but I love this story.  Wish me luck!

    Jack Campbell, Jr.

    Not yet. I have a strict rule that I will not edit without writing something else in between as a palette cleanser. With Script Frenzy being in April, a screenplay will allow me a complete mental break from my novel. My plan is to start editing Kill Creek Road in May, and hopefully have it ready for submission by the end of the Summer.

    Sara Lundberg

    As of right now, no, am not editing my NaNo novel. I want to. Someday. It deserves the attention. I received invaluable feedback and a great deal of encouragement from my fellow writing group members for it. So I plan to. When the thought of revising it doesn’t make me want the throw up anymore, I will.

    Amanda Jaquays

    If I said, “yes” I would be lying. If I said “no” I would equally be lying. A better response to whether I’m editing my NaNoWriMo novel would be that I’m trying. I’ll get a solid week of editing in before I get distracted by something… anything. It’s a bad sign when cleaning the litterbox is more appealing than editing. I keep telling myself I will dive back into the editing process–I’ve already gone through and made the edits on paper, I just have to type them up–but it’s really hard to get motivation. Especially when there are books to read… and reread.

    Ted Boone

    Am I editing my NaNoWriMo novel? No. I’m still writing the first draft. 🙂

  • Girls Should Be Fearless (Flash Fiction)

    September 18, 1919

    My dearest friend,

    Girls should be fearless.

    That’s what my Aunt Julia always says to me when ever I begin to doubt myself, and when she and Miss Haversham announced they were starting a troop of Girl Scouts, I was the first to put down my name.

    Girl Scouts! Just the name gives me shivers of excitement. The idea that girls could do the same things the boys do in their Scouting adventures thrilled me to no end. My own brothers— I have five, all of them older— have all been heartlessly smug and manly as they return from their camp! I had been pining to go with them, but they persisted in teasing me that there are certain things that girls are not able to do, sleeping on the ground being one of them.

    Didn’t Grandmother sleep on the ground when she settled out west from Bradford, Pennsylvania, to take up homesteading in Kansas? Didn’t she ride her horse own all the way? Wasn’t she a crack markswoman, as well? She used to tell me about buffalo hunting trips, and brag that she brought down just as many beasts as the men.

    Well, our Girl Scout troop has had the most remarkable adventures already! And better, we have had adventures such as none of my brothers ever had! Indeed, they were so jealous when I told them that they went about denying to the worlds that such a thing had ever happened. But I stand by my word, for a Girl Scout is always truthful and forthright.

    It all began last summer, during the school holidays. Aunt Julia had arranged for us to go almost all the way to Springfield, Missouri, to have a camping holiday. While were were there, we were to sleep inside tents, and cook our food over a campfire, and tell tales and sing songs in the evenings. Aunt Julia even arranged for a minister to come to our camp to deliver Sunday Services— dreadful, I know, but I am informed that appearances must be maintained. (Frankly, I’d just as soon be a pagan— wear skins and run around in the woods like a wild Indian— it seems so much more interesting and romantic than the same old wearisome lessons about Ruth and Esther that we get all the time. A shame on me, but I know you, dear friend, would never breathe a word to anyone!)

    We had been encamped for several days, getting gloriously filthy in the process and having grand old times. We even explored a magnificent cave in the hills north of the city! The weather had been fine, and there was constant bickering in the evenings as to whether we should leave the tent flaps open to catch the night time breezes or to keep them tied shut in order to exclude the mosquitos, which could be dreadful at times. That night the mosquitos won.

    I came awake when Hattie poked me firmly in the ribs. “Jane!” she hissed. “There’s something in the camp!”

    Hattie is prone to flights of imagination, as well as speaking in italics, but Alice, who is neither, said, “I hear it too!”

    I held my breath and listened hard, and could just barely hear something moving about outside. Then there was a ghastly shriek, a wild, wailing growl like nothing I had ever heard before.
    My heart nearly turned to ice in my chest, but I reminded myself that cowardice is for other, weaker souls, and carefully lifted up the bottom of the tent side, just an inch or so, to peek out.

    There was something in the camp. I could see a long, sinuous shape prowling between myself and the still glowing embers of our campfire. It was an enormous cat, one hundred pounds at least, and had a tail as long as its own body, with a little white tuft on the tip.

    “Try not to panic, girls,” I whispered to the others. “It’s a catamount.”

    Hattie squeaked at the news. “I’m going to faint!” she wailed. “Suppose it came her to eat one of us?”

    “It’ll eat the one that faints first!” I furiously racked my brains, remembering one of Grandmother’s favorite stories. “We have to frighten it away. We have to bang on something, shout, make a loud noise. Have we got any saucepans?”

    “No,” Alice whispered. “I’ve got my whistle, though.”

    “That’ll help. Here’s my canteen— it’s empty. We can bang on that. Has anybody else got anything?” We lit a lantern and rummaged around, finding several objects that we thought would suit the purpose.

    I carefully untied the tent flaps and peeked out. The catamount was still prowling around, I thought. I whispered, “All together, now! One, two…”

    We burst out of the tent whooping and shouting, waving our lantern and making as much noise as possible. I caught just a glimpse of angry green eyes and teeth bared in a snarl just before the animal bounded away.

    This, of course, woke everybody else in the camp, and they came boiling out of their tents in their night dresses. We explained about the catamount, but they didn’t believe us. Not at first. Miss Haversham suspected us of playing a joke, but then Aunt Julia pointed out that some of our bundles of food had been torn into.

    It wasn’t until the next morning that Mr. Davis, the man who owns the campground, showed us the large paw prints down at the muddy streambank. “It’s a good thing that creature didn’t visit you girls in the night,” he warned. “He’d have et you up!”

    So that was my Scouting adventure, the first of many, I hope. We have such fine times planned for the future! But I must close this letter, now— the other girls and I are putting on a play about Anne Bonney, and they’ve given me the lead. I must dash to make it to rehearsal on time.

                                    Yours most affectionately,
    J. Hungerford.

  • Salt (Flash Fiction)

    He slowly crawled out of his tent and looked around, shielding his eyes against the glare of the sun. For at least a mile in any direction, right up to the foothills that surrounded the plain, he could see nothing but sharp-edged salt formations that he knew would lacerate his bare feet and break his ankles if he tried to walk across the formations. At least that’s what he’d been informed after the trial.

    The snow-streaked mountains in the distance seemed to dance and shimmer as he gazed at them, and he tried not to recall the military judge’s final pronouncement: “The jury has declared you guilty of the crime of second-degree murder by negligence of three civilians. You shall now serve a ten-year sentence which also will result in either your complete rehabilitation or your death. You will be placed in isolation for a term of not less than six months in an inescapable setting known as the Devil’s Golf Course and then returned to a prison stockade, the location to be determined. You will be monitored and returned to your camp if you do attempt to escape, and you will not be provided with anything more than the basic means of survival – a regular supply of food and water and soap, shelter, toilet facilities, but certainly no electronic device to allow you to communicate with others, especially not one similar to the texting device you employed to cause the deaths for which you have been hereby adjudged as directly responsible. So rules the court.”

    He glanced back at his one-man tent, and sure enough, a package about the size of a basketball had been placed behind it during the night. Probably a gallon jug of water, some fresh vegetables and fruit, another MRE, a container for his waste. He knew that already from his last briefing.

    His thumbs moved involuntarily, and he shook his hands and jumped up and down until his body was calm again, but not until after sweat had popped out on his forehead. Even during an early morning in late October, the temperature in Death Valley was already climbing, and in spite of the anti-heat inoculation he’d received, he did not feel comfortable.

    The images that had been imprinted on his brain pushed into his consciousness … the three mangled, bloody, and burnt bodies inside the crumpled vehicle from which the roof had been removed after his transport vehicle had ridden over it and crushed before it caught fire. The medical officer had told him that in time they’d fade away, but he’d dreamed last night, all night, each dream starting with him texting his fiancée and ending with him staring down at the nest of bodies in the car.

    Breakfast? Why not? He certainly wasn’t going to bash out his brains with a rock or a piece of salt, or stop eating and drinking and die of dehydration, and even if he did try to commit suicide the hidden cameras would alert a supervisor who would be on top of him before he could shed more than a few drops of blood. And then he’d be yanked out of here so quickly that his sweat wouldn’t have a chance to dry before he’d be dumped in a cell underground, with stale air pumped in and out and a single bulb in the ceiling, protected by a grill, instead of the sun and fresh, if overheated, air he had out here.

    He lit the propane burner and poured a little over a cup of water into a disposable aluminum pan and waited for it to boil while he pulled the tab on a  cinnamon-oatmeal mush MRE. He dropped a rounded spoonful of instant coffee into an enameled cup, and when the water started to roil he poured it into the cup, turned down the flame, and placed the MRE atop of it, wondering how long he should leave it. And how long he should wait until the next MRE, and whether it would be turkey or pork or beef pot pie, and when the next time would be that he would see an actual human being, and if his fiancée would be thinking of him now, and what the high temperature today would be and the low tonight, and whether the relatives of the three people he’d kill would hunt him down and enact vengeance … and he slowly crumpled to his knees, salty tears running down his face and into the salt crystals that made up much of the ground, knowing that the wet crystals might melt for an instant, but at least they’d be whole again when they dried.

  • Not Suitable (Flash Fiction)

    I stood on the strip with my feet tightly pressed together and my back as straight as I could make it. My scalp and underarms were moist. My teeth tense. I could see down the line with my peripheral vision. Although I gave the impression of looking straight ahead at the mountains beyond the runway, I was studying the other pilots, sizing them up.

    When we split into flight teams we all scuttled around, grabbing equipment and getting to work while Thomas barked orders at us. Formation had been easier since I could slyly look sideways at the men. But in the open while prepping for takeoff I could feel all eyes on me. I was different, not one of the guys. They knew it and I knew it. Takeoff could not come soon enough.

    In the air a limited number of things need attention. These are the things you pay attention to. Because these are the things that your life depends on. I ran through my checklists, routinized and a part of me, and forgot about the pettiness of the world on the ground.

    I watched the land beneath us turn into calm cerulean as we flew over the ocean. We would dash to the closest island which also happened to be the smallest, and then jump from one to another along the archipelago. We would hit each island in sequence like a frog jumping from one lily pad to another. Only a few places off the mainland were suitable for a new building and our job was to discover the best one. There were no airstrips where we were going, only the wild. We wouldn’t even stop unless we had to. Each touchdown would roll right into another takeoff. “How long?” I yelled over my shoulder. “75 minutes.” Someone replied. The weather was peaceful and clear. I deliberately forced my shoulders down, unaware until that moment how close to my ears they had become. I felt the muscles unclench a little. “Thanks.” I said under my breath.

    The time passed too quickly. My respite from the other men’s scrutiny while in the calm portion of the mission would soon turn back into a test, another gauntlet where they would be expecting me to prove myself. I saw the first island appear on the horizon. My Nav hadn’t even told me it was coming up. He was probably hoping I’d overshoot it. “That our spot?” I asked. “Affirmative. That’s the south side of the island.” The navigator’s voice held a slight humor. I couldn’t tell if he was tickled that I’d asked for confirmation on the target or if he was amused by his own juvenile plan to not offer any help until it was asked for.

    A quick trip around the island told me there was only one place to land. I descended and banked to the right. “Prepare for touch and go.” I told the crew. As I brought the plane down to the beach an uncomfortable confusion clouded my judgement for a moment. It was completely nonsensical, but for a split second I thought for sure I saw something. The trees that lined the beach about 20 yards from the water were walking. I took a deep breath and blinked hard once and quick. The trees were still. I hoped I had not let any of my disorientation show. I steeled my nerves against the nausea and that couple of lost seconds was enough to ruin my approach. “Prepare for landing. Repeat prepare for landing.” I barked at the crew. Out of the corner of my eye I could see their surprised body language as they followed my orders and adjusted their expectations.

    I touched down on the sand and felt a sickening slosh as the tires sank into the soft ground. I was thrust hard forward and I heard one of the men fall against his equipment. This was one of the risks we had foreseen, but I didn’t expect to encounter it so soon in the mission. The ground was completely unsuitable for building an airstrip, probably because the island was never more than an inch above at sea level and flooded with every rain shower. The plane skidded as it came to a stop near the trees. For a sacred moment no one said anything. They were happy to be alive and unharmed. But all too soon that gratitude melted into fury that we were stuck.

    “Why did you not bump!? Now we are sunk in. Thomas put me on your team because he’s still holding a grudge about that shower curtain. Now I’m going to rot on this island with…” one of the men was ranting when the Nav interrupted with even louder shouting. “Shut up! Just get out and dig and we’ll be on our way.” Seat belts clicked and the door clanged open. Everyone knew the drill. I was the last one out of the plane. When my feet hit the ground the horizon dipped and spun. I felt bile rise in my throat and my knees wobbled. I went down softly onto the waterlogged earth. When I woke the trees were upon them. The men were hunched over digging out the wheels and didn’t even see what was coming. They had ignored my fall and left me in a pool of my own vomit. I opened my mouth to warn them but the only sound I could make was a raspy grunt. One tree for each man, their branches reached out and curled around the crewmen like cocoons. The men kicked uselessly until their bones broke in the embrace of leaves and twigs. Then the trees stilled. I found my strength and raised up on one arm, twisting my head to look behind me and fulling expecting to see my own death. But there was nothing. The trees spared me. They knew I was different.

  • The Blood on His Sleeves (Flash Fiction)

    I wasn’t expecting to meet him like that. When I’d received the call from a Keeper that my intended was at the station I wasn’t sure what to do. Ideally my father should have taken the call, but he was off at the train station, where he was to pick my intended up. How had he ended up in a Keeper’s custody?

    I pulled on my sensible navy wool driving coat over my practical lavender day dress, checked to make sure my driving goggles were still in my reticule, and summoned our driver to take me to the station. Belatedly I cursed my foolishness and had the butler send for a public car. It would not do for me to arrive at the station in a hackney cab.

    He was sitting in the chair with a Keeper standing at his back.

    “You must be Mr. Garrison.”

    “John.” He inclined his head with no trace of a smile. If I stared at his whiskerless cheeks, I could ignore the drying blood on his shirtsleeves. He looked at ease sitting under the watchful gaze of the Keeper. (more…)

  • Lyla (Flash Fiction)

    Click here to see the photo that inspired this story. The owner disabled sharing. It’s worth going to look at, folks.

    Lyla was always the first one to get cold. She wouldn’t run the ceiling fan if the air conditioner was on. She would give in come July and August when temperatures outside peaked in the high 90s or 100s and just put on a long sleeved t-shirt and jeans so I could be comfortable. Lyla never broke a sweat.

    We never went to the lake with our friends, either, because she didn’t want to swim. She would tell me that without clothes, meaning wearing a swimsuit, she would be too cold and she wouldn’t enjoy herself.

    “What do you mean? How could you be cold with it almost a hundred degrees out there and the sun right on your skin?”

    “You don’t understand.”

    “You’re right,” I said, raising my voice. “I don’t. Help me understand. Are you ashamed of something?”

    That started an argument.

    Our fights were epic: near-hysterics, shouted words, slapped faces (mine, anyway; I never hit her), thrown glasses shattered on the kitchen tiles, slammed doors and tires squealed in anger down the driveway. Sooner or later Lyla would text me and tell me to come home. I refused only once in the seven years we’d been together. I was so angry that I stayed at a hotel overnight and the next morning there were forty texts and a dozen voicemails begging me to come home.

    The house was 85 degrees when I got there.

    Lyla was wrapped in a comforter, shivering. I thought it was because she was cold.

    “I was afraid you wouldn’t come back,” she said. “I was afraid I’d lost you forever.”

    I put my arms around her, over the comforter and I made soothing noises. It took a while, but she finally let me under the comforter with her and I held her a long, long time while she cried. I sweated like a pig, but she didn’t mind.

    I didn’t understand anything about why she was cold.

    Neither did her doctors.

    It was explained that her core temperature was a hundred and two point nine, four plus degrees hotter than the rest of the human population. “But she’s not feverish,” the doctor would say. “I don’t know why. Her hypothalamus is functioning normally and her blood pressure is fine. Everything is fine.” He would scratch the back of his head or adjust his tie or lean back in his chair, then exhale a long time. “I can’t explain it. For all of me, it looks like you just run hotter than everyone else.”

    Which is why she had a passionate hatred of winter, especially ice and snow. “Why can’t we move to a nice tropical island?”

    I was pulling up the knot on my tie and checking it in the mirror.

    “Because my business doesn’t have an office in Barbados, dear.”

    “Couldn’t you telecommute? How hard is it to be a mid-level government functionary from an island?”

    I shook my head and closed my eyes. This wasn’t the first time she’d diminished my work. “I’m not a government functionary,” I said. “I’m a recruiter. I develop talent. You know that.”

    “Well, they could fly the talent to you,” Lyla said. “I mean, couldn’t they?”

    She was serious. I went to her and rubbed my hands slowly up her arms. She was beautiful. The gown was perfect for her figure and she had a faux mink stole to wrap herself in. The white rose in her hair was a perfect accent to the silvery dress. She looked like a movie star on the red carpet. “My darling,” I said in my best Cary Grant voice, “I know you hate these things. I have to be there. My bosses and my team are expecting me and it’s important. It’s important you come, too.”

    Lyla acquiesced with a small nod, defeated.

    The party was a subdued affair with everyone in their best suits and spectacular gowns. The liquor flowed and the food was delicious. The government knows how to throw a Christmas party. Lyla met everyone she was supposed to, was gracious in the face of compliments and hung on my arm all evening. The hotel had rooms for those too drunk to drive. Lyla insisted we go home. I was tipsy but I could drive. “Take the long way,” she said. “Do you mind?”

    I didn’t. The bypass would drop us off on the far west side of town and we could take a country road or two and come back in on the south side. I’d be less likely to run into a saturation checkpoint that way, too.

    The sound of gravel bashing the pans and axles was kind of calming and the low hum of the tires on loose rock was something we both liked. Lyla took my hand and her smile was soothing, too. She had that look that said we were going to have sex when we got home and I squeezed her hand and brought it up to kiss it.

    All I remember is the whitest light I’ve ever seen. There was no sound, no flash. It was just white light and heat and then darkness.

    I came to in the ditch. The car was still on the road, its lights on and the radio playing but the engine was off. I called out for Lyla. No answer. An hour later, I finally gave up and called 911. All I ever found was the white rose that had been in her hair.

    It’s been a year. The police and the psych people agree that I had some kind of outre experience but they won’t say UFOs out loud or anything like that. I’ve finally been cleared to work and everyone’s offered their sympathies.

    I wish I knew what happened. I wish I knew where Lyla went or if she’s coming back.

    The rose sits in a vase on my desk at home, perfect as the night she wore it. It still smells like her.