Author: Tracy Johnson
Date:   11-20-09 17:02

Julius, what a beautiful soul you have, to write so kindly and encouragingly to me. Did your memoir get published? If so, I want to know how to get my copy. Kate B., thank you for writing too. Have to say, I think \"cleaning it up\" would take away pieces of its dark soul. Just don\'t think it would have the same punch if I did this.

Anyway, wanted to post the second excerpt. I realize that this has to be it if I ever want to see publication. Hope you enjoy reading it. Feeback always welcome at this hotel....

Sorry for my compulsion to include the first bit again, guys.

Hugs to all of my fellow writers.
Tracy
NYC, 1986




“Mother of God, would ya have a look at that!”
“Jays, she’s a right hoor … think I’m in love, lads.”
“Can see you bringin’ that home to Wexford, Niall!”
“Fetch her another drink. Maybe she’ll let us ride ….”
“She’s all yours, Ronan. Too dodgy, sticking my mickey into that.”

It was after closing time at Fleming’s Bar. The last grumbling drunk has been flung out the door and onto deserted 2nd Avenue. The neon clover sign no longer flickered through the blind-drawn front windows. Piles of preppy cash have been counted by the bartenders, seated in a semi-circle around me. And as the Car Bombs dribble down their hairless chins, Bono is breaking my heart over the sound system.

If I could throw this lifeless lifeline to the wind
Leave this heart of clay, see you walk, walk away
Into the night, and through the rain,

“Tur-up!” I holler, tripping over a power cord left behind by the night’s cover band. “And bring me anodder drink.”
“Been waitin’ on you all fookin’ night, ya little gob****e. Better check yerself….”
“You soft in the head, or what? Turn up yer man on the stereo and bring the girl a drink!”

CONDEMNATION
REVELATION
IN TEMPTATION
ISOLATION
DESOLATION
LET IT GO…..

I pirouette around for them, butt naked, like some blind ballerina. The booze pumping through my bloodstream making me forget all about the interstate of self-inflicted gashes that streak across my breasts and arms. I crash into tables where decent people had sat hours earlier, lip-syncing and swaying to “Brown-Eyed Girl” and “Proud Mary.” Blackening the soles of my shoeless, leaping feet while my heart thumps like a bodhran drum inside my chest. Their knee-slapping hoots fuel me on as U2’s front man urges me, with breaking voice, toward the “half-light” and “through the flame.” Soon, I will be scooped up and laid out like a rag doll across one of these four tops, still sticky from the decent people’s jostled drinks. And thick, filthy fingers will flick and scratch inside me. I will cry out for their owners to be careful because I am a virgin. Causing them to snort, and say that I’m about as pure as the “River fookin’ Liffey” while they unzip their black pants and pull the rag doll down to her knees. I want to die, I will tell myself, when they hose down their hands with bar wands before padlocking the door behind me.

There was a time when it was all so cheerful and clean. When Fleming’s offered warmth and friendly cover from snowy, dark streets. I felt happy, huddled with the working masses on barstools, ticking off the hours sipping hot whiskeys before crunching back through the flurries to my sagging futon and unfriendly roommates. There were no emotional executioners then. Just barmen hailing from sleepy Irish cities with tongue-tripping names. Who were cocky and prone to back-slapping whenever their winks and nods of the heads sent kohl-eyed Jersey girls into giggling tizzies.
“Do that wink again,” I’d say. And, after muttering a ‘jaysus’ or two in mock irritability, they would.
“Say ’Jesus’ again.”
“Jaaaysus,” they would drawl, to my hand-clapping shrieks of delight.
They slipped me free drinks and bundled me into taxis. They said I was pretty enough to be the Rose of Tralee. They patted my hands whenever the Pogues song “Fairytale of New York” came over the jukebox and made me cry. They accepted my help in bottle-collecting at closing time. And one night, long after the snow had melted from car rooftops; when the July heat was driving city dwellers to shorelines in droves, I sat again on a barstool, knocking back too many drinks the color of butterscotch.
“Have you any clue how utterly lovely you are?”
We were almost alone, Niall and I. Almost alone in the entire hot, squinting city.
It was a word this 19 year-old had heard before---“lovely.” Maybe on some episode of “Dynasty” back in Alabama. “Mrs. Carrington, you do look lovely!” “Why, Blake, darling ….” But never directed at the girl who couldn’t keep her fingernails off her pimples. The compliment embarrassed me.
“No, I mean it,” he persisted. “Not a girl in this place is lovelier than the one sittin’ in front of me here.”
“Gee, thanks, Niall,” I giggled, looking down the lonesome row of stools.
“Bet yer man who you’re always ravin’ about---oh … what’s his name … Bozo?”
Back then, they were the big brothers I never had. Always ready with the gentle jabs and conspiratorial winks over my endlessly amusing naiveté.
“Bono!” I chastised him, wiggling so hard I almost knocking over a highball glass filled with cherries.
“That’s the one,” he said, cracking a hand towel across the counter. “Bet he would think you were lovely too.”
It was a notion I had entertained many times, flopped across my bed back in Alabama, daydreaming myself away from my father’s terror. Bono had picked up where Dylan had left off. What Bob had given me was invaluable---the indignation and the outrage that put me on that Greyhound bus. Bono voiced the scrambling desperation that would come later. Would the lead singer of my favorite band see past my acne and find me pretty, I would ask my diary. Would he herd me out of harm’s way before giving my old man the ass-kicking he had coming? Yes, yes, yes. Always yes in those locked, scented pages.
“Nah, he’s married,” I said, coming to my senses. “To Ali. They live in Howth.”
“Jaysus, bet you know his fookin’ blood type too. C’mere to me, got a question for you,” he said, leaning in close. “Why don’t you show us?”
I didn’t understand and grinned. “Show what?”
“What the good Lord blessed you with, pet. Under all that,” he said, pointing with furrowed brow to my rolled up long-sleeved shirt.

Author: C. M. Avanti
Date:   11-20-09 18:07

Powerful writing, but as I advised before the stumbling block for meis the dialect, it takes me out of the story others may nto agree..

Author: Tracy Johnson
Date:   11-20-09 19:43

Hmmm....have to think this dialect thing through, C.M.

Author: Smiling Curmudgeon
Date:   11-20-09 23:01

Tracy,

Near the beginning, you wrote "Jays, she’s a right hoor … think I’m in love, lads.” This is a nit, but did you mean "Jaysus?" You used the same spelling at least a couple times later.

I started to read/finish your earlier threads. They were so thoroughly bombed all I saw was wreckage. Others may have offered my thoughts. If they did, I missed it in the rubble. So, feel free to yawn.

Your tenses in the opening are all over the place. Mebbe that can work in a memoir. I dunno, but I doubt it.

Here's my main reason for replying. As an experiment, use the dialect for the opening passage. Perhaps even a bit longer, although not much. Then dump the dialect. I think there's a good chance your reader will slip into dialect to whatever degree she/he is comfortable with. And your other readers who aren't comfortable with it will be happy to read along without puzzling out what the characters are saying.

Put another way, Irishmen will see the dialect and read along in that vein. Readers who are bumped by it will swan along in "normal" English.

Prolly others have said all all the above.

Before I quit I want to add that the abuse you received was unconscionable. I read snippets of it before I bailed.

WN is pretty much a free-fire zone. Always wear full body armor.

Cur

Author: nancy drew
Date:   11-20-09 23:06

I guess I'm one of the few who doesn't find the dialect an obstacle. I think somebody might have mentioned Frank McCourt does roughly the same thing with cadence alone. Still feels the same to me either way.

Quite like your writing, Tracy.

Author: Smiling Curmudgeon
Date:   11-20-09 23:14

Nancy,

I went back, looked closer at how long the dialect went on.

I suspect you're right. I was in a hurry, but it doesn't appear the dialect goes on very long.

Tracy, you've got a jump ball, but I think Nancy is likely right.

Grumble on me.

Cur

Author: Marianne Mihkelson
Date:   11-21-09 03:15

I like the dialect. It pulls me into the feel of your story. I know others have advised you to drop it. Maybe your publisher will as well, I don't know. But for what it's worth, I think you should keep it.

The main change in tense that bothers me is in the second paragraph where you go back and forth from past to present in between sentences. At least stick to the same tense in each paragraph. It will make it flow better.

Author: julius christensen
Date:   11-21-09 23:02

you have a very powerful voice and you work it well. The dialogue, I believe, is needed to balance the work but you will need to remember it word perfect to remain authentic. I am not sure how long ago this particular piece took place but for me, when I got a bit hazy on exact wording for my memoir, I scrubbed the dialogue in preference for authenticity and in doing so also ran the risk of too much tell and not enough show. Hard balance. No, my book is still looking for a home, have submitted Q's to too many agents but nothing other than little nibbles so far. I will not give up--or in, I am going to follow my dream for publication. Hope you do too.
Bless ya mate.

Author: junel ;-)
Date:   11-21-09 23:58

Tracey,

I'm glad you posted this again, as it gives me a chance to comment on it having failed to do so the first time around.

Before I do, it is your posted writing I am only commenting on. I am not interested in your past, only the story, so naturally, it's not you i'm judging, but your writing.

Okay,... however hard a tried I cannot get rape from this.

You have chosen to write this in a very paculiar way, that to this reader and many others I feel (although others perhaps couldn't quite grasp it, but i believe felt it), seems at odds with it self. Here's what I mean:

- There's a tone of nostalgia about the scene you paint, and nostalgia is associated with joy and longing, which is at odds with the dark content you write about. It blurs the line between whether as readers we know your looking back at this moment with joy or pain.

- I don't get the upbeat sountrack you provide. That too is at odds with the content.

- Your choice of words at times is problamatic and plain baffling. It's not absolutely clear if the scene above is the first instance of abuse, but I don't think it is. That is to say we are introduced to you after years of abuse has already occurred - the gashing on the arms implies this. Hence, when you use the word "holler", it is a word that would suggest gusto and confidence, this is entirely at odds with "the interstate of self-inflicted gashes that streak across my breasts and arms" and a woman being alone in a room with her abusers. This is also true of your dialogue. You present a woman who is quite forward and able to hold her own, showing impressive wit and verbal vigour - ""Bono" I chastised him..." Granted, it may all be a pretence uderlying the "self-inflicted gashes", but your choice of words are too forceful to allow any possibilty of this.
- The same is also true of the words "pirouette" and "lip-syncing". Again, these are words and actions that would be associated with joy, and to some degree, a sense of expression and freedom. But more importantly, this joy seems to be exhibited by yourself by complete free-will. The reader can only assume it is an instictive reaction to your surroundings as nothing was stated or depicted that would suggest you felt compelled to pirouette or lip-sync. It seems entirely of your own free-will and even goes so far as to show an ease and comfort of your surroundings. It rings truer of a woman brimming with confidence (as I touched on earlier) than that of a beaten-down victim. If your trying to paint the picture of a ghostly figure, who's not altogether there, and in your mind your somewhere else, hence the pirouetting and lip-syncing, that's kinda difficult to gulp, because you've made yourself so apart of the 'furniture' prior and after.

- You "pirouette around for them, butt naked, like some blind ballerina" while the "booze pumping through" your "bloodstream" makes you "forget all about the interstate of self-inflicted gashes that streak across" your arms and breasts. You have an authenticity problem here. Your naked despite having a very scarred body. Firstly, one would expect you to be very concious of your scars, especially to your abusers, secondly, no one comments on your scars.

I could go on, but I think you get the jist.

It's very well written. Very well indeed actually. But I just found the picture being painted too confusing. I wasn't sure where I was being led as a reader.

All this is only my opinion of course, and I hope you use it in the best way it benefits you. Even if that means ignoring it. :-)

Author: Tracy Johnson
Date:   11-22-09 01:03

Cur, while I don't agree with much of what you pointed out, I wanted to thank you for taking time out to respond.

A few things:

*the U2 song "Bad" isn't "upbeat" at all. At least not to me. It's downright haunting.

*I've never once, ONCE, said I was "raped."

*Drunk people often have "gusto" and "confidence." And I don't believe that having gusto and confidence due to being drunk is at odds at all with past self-mutilation in moments of sobriety.

*The "Bono" bit with Niall, that displays my "impressive wit and vigor," happened months before things grew seedy in the bar. I indicate this in the excerpt with the change of seasons.

*Yes, lip-syncing is associated with joy. Which is exactly what the "decent people" felt hearing the cover band playing music.

*Yes, pirouette" is associated with joy. Which is what people getting plastered sometimes feel, however falsely and however fleetingly.

*A very drunk person wouldn't necessarily be conscious of scars, even while naked. Alcohol eradicates self-consciousness. Loosens hangups, at least temporarily.

*No one comments on my scars because it's a dimly-lit bar, which I've since mentioned in the scene.

Thank you again for your input.

Author: Author Pendragin
Date:   11-22-09 01:19

*A very drunk person wouldn't necessarily be conscious of scars, even while naked. Alcohol eradicates self-consciousness. Loosens hangups, at least temporarily.


The sad part is that you have to remember what happened afterward.

Author: Author Pendragin
Date:   11-22-09 01:24

Tracy,

I am going to say this hopefully for the last time, savaged or not, there was still no call for rude behavior and insensitivity. I hope you finish you're memoirs and that they get published. Have you picked out a title?

Author: Smiling Curmudgeon
Date:   11-22-09 03:04

Tracy,

Uhm, do you have me mixed up with someone else? Junel, perhaps?

Cur

Author: Lily
Date:   11-22-09 03:44

"Tracy,

Uhm, do you have me mixed up with someone else? Junel, perhaps?

Cur"

(LOL) This really IS rich. Grovel, grovel, grovel. Cur is such an insignificant lump of doggy do that even all his efforts to brown nose and curry favour -- one can only imagine why ;-) -- have been overlooked. Up off your knees sh!thead. You can't win 'em all. Oh golly, this is really too much. I'm splitting my sides.

BTW, I read the poem you wrote about me. Now it's my turn:

Mangy old Cur went down on his knees
to lick the harlot's arse
He came up with fleas, but still didn't please
"I thought you were Junel," she rasped!

Author: Author Pendragin
Date:   11-22-09 04:29

Back...Back... Fowl creature.

Author: Author Pendragin
Date:   11-22-09 04:30

:)

Author: Smiling Curmudgeon
Date:   11-22-09 13:33

Lil,

Screech away, popinjay.

Cur

Author: Lily
Date:   11-22-09 14:38

"Back...Back... Fowl creature"

Gosh this made me laugh. You're so bloody useless you can't even get the spelling correct in an insult! (ROFL) But by all means, try again.

Cheers

Author: Lily
Date:   11-22-09 14:41

"Screech away, popinjay."

Another lame duck. Pathetic. Third rate.

Author: Henry Domke
Date:   11-23-09 02:34

Tracy,
I thought it was well written, though at the time didn't realize it was a mem.
As far as the dialect goes, personally I feel it should stay, as it is the main thing seperating one speaker from another, and gives a tiny sliver of individual personality to each of the men. (Just my two cents.)

It sounds as if you've had an interresting life, though not alltogether pleasant. Hope things are better now, and continue to improve in the future. Good luck in your writing career.

Author: Jo Mazz
Date:   12-03-09 14:06

Tracy, I loved it. You've done something I don't believe I could ever do. You "Showed." I couldn't stop reading it. I'm jealous and intimidated by your talent. I also loved the Irish scent of the whole piece.

Bless you!