Interviewing Gerry from "Rain"

With Rain scheduled to come out on the 15th of May, I thought getting Gerry to sit down and talk with me might be a good idea. He agreed to answer a few questions. Here's a partial transcript. l apologize for a few of the words. Gerry can come up one now and then if pushed. I didn't edit them out.

Partial Interview Transcript- Gerry StClare

How would your best friend describe you?

I have to laugh. Tom has described me to others in several ways. I won’t say I agree with him on all of them, but he’s described me as “tall, too good-looking for his own good”, “Hard-headed”, and “a secret mensch”. Generally all three in a sort of light-heartedly disgusted way.

How would your enemy (or least favorite person) describe you?

I never thought I had enemies until recently, but, yeah, I know how they describe me. Privileged. Arrogant. There were a few more words. I won’t say them in polite company.

Do you agree with either (or both) of those descriptions?  Why?

I’m not sure I agree with Tom or not. I do tend to get on a track and stay on it, until someone or something really knocks me off of it. So I’ll go with the “hard-headed”, though I’d prefer “persistent”. 

The first description? I know I’m tall. That’s kind of hard to ignore. The other half? Try growing up male with nothing but sisters. They never thought or told me I was anything but average. They quickly squashed anything else.

The “secret mensch”? I’m not Jewish, Tom is, but I understand the word. That is not something many know, I don’t go around sharing it, but, yeah, I probably am.

Were the others right? Some would say yes to the first. I did grow up in what some would call a rarified bubble. My grandfather owned his own construction company and helped to establish the local country club. My godmother is highly regarded in “society” circles. So, although my immediate family could be considered “middle class”, I grew up with certain expectations–learning to dance and attending cotillions at the country club, going to college, and all that sort of thing.

Do I agree with them? I’m sure they saw it that way–the “privileged” part anyway. To me it was just home and family. The “arrogant” part? There were things I had to do I didn’t enjoy doing. but they had to be done.

You’re working with a group of people on some kind pf object.  What role do you play?  (Leader, strategist, laborer, etc.)  Do you like your role?

I would say leader. Actually that’s what I do for a living. I’m a supervising architect at my firm. I do have an original job from time to time, but I supervise construction most of the time right now. I grew up following my grandfather around when he was running his construction company, worked for him, and supervised jobs for him when I was older.

Do I like it? Yes. There's something very satisfying about getting a group of people to work hard and produce something you know is going to be around for years. Centuries, if it's the right project, and the job is done right. I like it a lot. Pretty sure it will become even more satisfying when I can do more of my own stuff.

What kind of baggage do you carry around?

Excuse me? Baggage? It depends on how far I’m traveling for and how long I’m going to be gone. My briefcase almost always.

No, Gerry, not that kind of baggage. The other kind--memories--regrets--that sort of thing.

Oh, that’s what you’re talking about. Kind of an invasive question. You’ll forgive me if my answer is short.

Yes, I have memories and regrets. Who doesn’t?

Okay, a silly question then, as people seem to enjoy them. Boxers or briefs?

You have got to be kidding me! No? Damn. Okay, okay. I’ll be brief. Son-of-a. . . I can’t believe I just said that.

I’ll answer the question. Boxers. Just don’t ask me why.

Why?

Enough!

Please note that is not a photograph of Gerry up there. I declined to take one. He is not shy, but I wanted you to form an opinion from his answers, not his face.

What he could not tell her-- A Writing Prompt Completed

From Writers Write, 21 August 2015.

 

 

From Rain

What three things could Gerry never tell Cheryl?

There's actually very little Gerry could never tell Cheryl by the end of Rain. There may be things he simply has forgotten, but to say he could never tell her would be difficult. At least, not anything from the past. She knows his inner demons, his past mistakes.

The future is different and I'm foreshadowing a future story here.

I don't think he could tell her of the terror he experienced when he came home when she was pregnant and found her slumped over the kitchen table with a pool of blood at her feet.

I don't think he could ever tell her about coming home from the hospital that night and calling his father, not to simply inform him or his mother of the medical emergency, but because he needed to share his terror with another man. Tom would not have been enough. And he felt Cheryl didn't need to see or share his fear. Not that she could have.

I also don't think he could or will share his fear of losing her both during the birth and  in the estrangement which followed. His anger, yes. His fear, no.

 

 

From Snow

What three things could Aaron never tell Desiree?

I'm not sure yet what things Aaron could never tell Desiree. He is, after all, both an attorney and a judge. "The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth" is something he believes in. Yet, he also knows, as an attorney, you instruct your client to answer only the question put to them, as simply as you can. He has a deep respect, if that is the word, for the truth.

But what three things would he refrain from telling her? Best I keep to the past with him. Their complete story is still very much in process. And Aaron is a particularly hard nut to crack.

I don't think he would ever tell her about meeting someone from the estranged branch of his family--the Cavalleros, his Italian mother's family. Not his Great-Aunt Bianca, who had, until she died a few years back, maintained a sporadic link with his grandmother, but a cousin who appeared as a witness in his courtroom.

I don't think he would ever tell her about the woman he almost became engaged to in law school.

I don't think he would ever tell her about Belinda Upstead, his senior year in high school. In the storage room of the bookstore. After closing. [Ha! Caught you, Aaron. :) ]

Just How Tall does a Hero Have to Be?

It must be silly question time. I've been doing a lot of reading this past week in what will end up being my genre--romance. And I look over at the bookshelf sitting next to me on the left and see two book series (best sellers all of them). Out of the twelve books there it dawns on me.

EVERY SINGLE MALE PROTAGONIST IS WELL OVER SIX FEET TALL.

Let me repeat that without the caps. Every single male protagonist is well over six feet tall. A fact which started me thinking. Lois McMaster Bujold managed an engaging male protagonist under five feet tall but Miles Vorkosigan is the only one who breaks the rule.

I don't know if research and statistics will back me up. This is strictly anecdotal and one shelf of the bookcase.

• Jondalar from the Earth's Children Series by Jean M. Auel                     Six foot six inches
• Jamie Frasier from the Outlander Series by Diana Gabaldon                   Six foot four inches*
• Matthew Claremont from the AllSouls Trilogy by Deborah Harkness     Six foot three inches

I just finished reading my fifth book of the week and, yes, out of five male protagonists, not a single one of them was under six foot three. I'm not going to name titles/authors with those five. It was research, not fun, and I don't want it known I read them. Yes, they were that bad.

Not a large enough number for statistical purposes but enough to get me to asking the question. Is this becoming a rule?

So I have a question for those who write and read romance (or even other genres with a romantic subplot).

 

How tall is your male protagonist?

How tall were the last five male protagonists in the books you read?

 

 

*not totally sure of the accuracy of this but I recall reading it in the discussion surrounding the casting for Jamie Frasier in the new Starz series.

 

It's not my Bad Poetry this time --- Not Exactly

White Mountains of New Hampshire
S.E.Hudnall 2014 

That's correct. This isn't my "bad poetry". I was in New England this spring, having a grand old time and, yes, writing in my little spiral notebook. I knew I was going to be bringing back "bad poetry".

But this one, while written there, isn't really mine. It was my notebook. I held the pen. But it's really Desiree's. It's her poem. Who is Desiree? My female protagonist in Snow.

Honor for Sale

They're selling honor and glory on the street corner,
Hawking them like precious wares.
And the price---the rock bottom price
Is the blood of your fathers, sons, and brothers
A few hundred body bagsT
Caskets to be unloaded on a western dock
A sister's tears--- a father's aching emptiness
A mother's son-less arms
A future caught in crossfire on a rice field
The skein of brightness, love, and laughter
Cut by a sniper's bullet---no Fates involved.

They're selling honor and glory on the street corner
Special offer today
Death half off or two for one
Your choice of bargains.

Elizabeth Desiree Williams

 

 



They say there's a little bit of yourself in every character you create. I'll say "Amen" to that. I can't deny it. But it's never more than just a piece or two. Desiree, quite obviously, is the poet of the bunch. And also writes 'bad poetry'.  

Character File for Aaron Johansson

I said in one of  my last posts, where I described my character sketches that I would post one from a current WIP. So I decided on the male protagonist from Snow. This is a very fluid document. Things can and do change. Would you like to meet the honorable Aaron Johansson?

 

Character Dossiers: What goes in my Character files

I've read a lot about character development and downloaded a boatload of questionnaires and other tools. Some of them boggle my mind. One hundred questions for your protagonist to answer? An MMPI (Multi-Phasic Personality Index) would be far more accurate and only take a couple of hours. I spent three days (on and off to be sure) doing that one for one of my characters.

Finally I came up with something of my own, with those things which helped me see the character clearer, hear their voice, know where they came from, and where they are going. Although not as detailed as those one hundred questions, it works for me and, yes, I plan on posting one of my actual dossiers later. Just for the fun of it. Care to take a look at the working file?

Why Kill a Heroine?

 

 

 

 

She's right. So many male writers who write love stories do kill off the heroine. I remember a best seller in 1970 called "Love Story". The book was, of course, made into a hit movie. Everyone was talking about how grown men were coming out of the theater with tears streaming down their faces. Exaggeration? No, not really. I recall seeing the movie, not being super impressed, but both of the guys (it was a double date) had traces of tears on their faces.

 

Sparks does it. Segal did it. Shakespeare did it. A lot of notable male authors do it. OK, Shakespeare killed off the hero, too.  Come to think of it, didn't Sparks kill off the hero in The Horse Whisperer?

 

But why do they do it? I mean why do they kill off heroines? Predominately, anyway. I have a little theory of my own which may or may not hold water.

 

One word: perfection. It's probably not the best word but it's the best word I can find and what I am thinking may be just a little 'anti-male'. But thinking back on stories I've read I cannot help but draw the conclusion. If the love interest dies she never changes in memory. She remains beautiful, loving, intelligent, and full of laughter. Back to the original word: perfect, whatever attributes she embodies. The love remains perfect. It's never tested by time, marriage, children, and age. There is weeping for her removal at the peak of her life---the 'potential' of their possible idyllic life together. As a couple, they will never bury parents or (heaven forbid!) a child together. He will never forget her birthday and she will never forget he hates green peppers. Time will be frozen while everything is still perfect.

 

Killing off the heroine preserves all the romantic perfection. It will never change or be challenged by life and its circumstances. It does make for a beautiful love story, doesn't it? Romance . . . love. . . tragedy.

 

I can't even say I will never write such a story. I might. But I will confess that even though I have said my stories do not start with a theme a writing friend recently found one. After practice pitching both Rain and Snow with her, she found one. Yes, running through the both of them and so simple I was taken aback at first--- Love Endures.

 

She was right. It's there. I didn't consciously start out with a theme; I was just writing a story.

 

No, I probably will not kill off a heroine. It goes against my nature and doesn't fit my writing or my philosophy currently. I prefer love to change, grow, and endure.

 

 

 

 

 



What No Vacation? Writing Every Day

Someone posted this meme to my Facebook page and I started to respond to it there but decided not to. I'm responding here instead.

I've really kind of realized that over the past year or so. When I go on an adventure* I'm thinking about writing. When I went to Vermont last spring I was thinking about writing and actually writing. The first Christmas Day, after I made the Decision, I wrote over 800 words. So yes, I do this. Every. Single. Day. Yet I feel less deprived of leisure than I did before when I was employed at a 'regular' job. It's so strange.

No, I don't always get 800 to 1000 or more words out every day; I have had days when less than five hundred are written down. No, my fictional work doesn't always get all the day's words. Sometimes this blog does. Sometimes it's simply a collection of snippets and notes for what I am working on. But it happens every day before the darkness of night fades into daylight brightness and, with a few exceptions, stops by lunchtime. The only days in the past year it hasn't happened I was anaesthetized for major surgery then hooked up to a morphine drip. (How's that for an excuse, Chris?)

Now it is a part of me like the way I make a pot of coffee in the morning without measuring the grounds or water. When something tries to intrude I feel uncomfortable. . . strange. I don't sit down in front of my laptop with twittering delight every morning. Some days I feel like I'm scratching the words directly out of my skin with a warped, over-used razor blade. But if I try to stay away it feels even worse.

Do I feel deprived writing every day? Oh, no. I feel deprived if I can't. Big difference. It's not always easy or easily achieved. But it does feel good, in and of itself. It feels good to be doing what I actually love doing. It feels good to finish a project, a blog post, or a chapter.

Vacation? One goes on vacation to break routine, get fresh perspectives, to get away from stress-makers, to find or see something new and different, and perhaps to make new friends or visit old ones. I do that all the time when I'm writing. I'm never at home; I'm always somewhere else. What is happening around me is interesting and new. Visiting friends? Oh, yes. Writing to discover new ones and editing to visit old ones. It works for me. I don't do vacations anymore; I do trips and when I do the writing goes with me. And I have the added pleasure of writing down descriptions of new places, thoughts, and people.




*adventure- a series of actions or process used to clear mental pathways and/or induce reticent fictional characters via vehicular kidnapping to disgorge crucial backstory, plot points, and/or dialogue. The process consists of choosing a cardinal direction via random methodology, filling up the gas tank of a vehicle, and heading in the chosen direction, and not turning back until the aforementioned fictional character starts disgorging the needed information. Primarily used by SE Hudnall when frustrated with characters, storyline, and other more generalized forms of writers block. Oddly more effective than would be rationally expected.

Break-out Character: Does It Happen in your Writing?

Not too long ago I commented on another writer’s blog. Well, I actually didn’t comment–I asked questions since she had asked for questions. The questions I asked at the end were fairly simple:

·       Just how often does a secondary character morph into a primary character for you?

·       How often were you surprised when that happens?

·       Does it not surprise you at all?

 

When I look over my own project list I can see that happening. All. The. Time. Right now I’m revising Rain and working on Snow. His Honor, the honorable Aaron Johansson, came directly out of Rain and now has his own set of troubles in Snow.  Summer Heat will feature two characters from Rain, albeit in an earlier time period. And as if there isn’t enough characters from Rain jumping up and down and waving their arms–well, there are the kids! Fatherhood I will have to create a file folder for so I can keep the kids corralled and quiet for a little while.

Even in Dani’s Song, my fairytale, I have characters in the back of my brain waiting to have their story told. I simply refuse to listen to them right now. I know they are not happy but there is a limit to the number of voices I’m willing and capable of listening to at a time. Get all of them into my living room at the same time and I’d require a DSM-IV diagnosis with treatment plan and appropriate medication.
 
Troika has even more but Jerome is the most insistent of that group, aggravating pushy male that he is. I don’t care how much he grins at me or how charming he is! He will have to wait his turn as well.

Every single one of them is a love story, not always a romance but always a love story. At least they’re consistent.

 

Stories within stories: a Snippet from "Snow"

I talked about characters in yesterday's post. How I create them and they tell me the story. Sometimes little pieces of story simply become snippets---a story they told me which influences them but serves as back story, much like "Judith".

I've been revising Rain over the past few weeks but I've also been working on my second project, Snow, with an eye to having them both ready (possibly) for next year's writing conference. As happens with me, a name caught my eye and, while I knew she was important, I didn't or don't pursue that particular story in Snow. It's backstory again. And, yet, I liked it. Another story is folded up inside. Would you like a peek at the snippet? It's unedited rough draft and incomplete (even now my fingers itch to rephrase and elaborate some things). I think I'm going to finish it up as a short story and put it up on Scribophile. The story folded inside? Please tell me in the comments if you see it as well as I do and ,if I wrote it, would you read it?

Writing in a Crowded Room

No, this isn't about Nanowrimo, that mega-writing event taking over next month in some writing circles. I write every day so I don't need the incentive. It would be like performing the Heimlich maneuver on someone who isn't choking.

I've said I started late to writing and I've said my teachers in junior and senior high didn't see half my writing. That is all true. But I remembered something I did a very long time ago which should have told me something. The memory drifted back into my current consciousness after I asked someone if they would like to look at some character sketches. I may be a pantster in the plotting department but sometimes I think I overdo it a bit in the character department. Where did that come from? Where did that start? Very simple

When I was around 13 or 14, maybe younger, I started doing something when dragged by my parents to an event I didn't want to go to. Sometimes it was a public event; sometimes it was a family reunion where half of the people were unfamiliar to me.

I took a notebook and a pen with me. Looking around I would spot a face in the crowd that interested me. Where my older brother would start drawing a picture I would start describing their face, the way they wore their hair, what they wore, what caught my attention, how they moved. how they used their hands as they talked, their facial expressions. After getting down all I could see (but actually could not hear---I was never close enough to hear and too shy to approach), I would start my usual Pochemuchka-like behavior.

• What did they do for a living?
• What were they doing in that venue?
• How did they fit or not fit?
• Why were they happy or unhappy?
• What was making them feel/act that way?

Shall I stop now? I could write more questions. It comes easily to me. And, yes, out of all those questions a little story would arise. I didn't write down the story I'm sad to say and all of those character sketches have been lost over the years. Probably stuffed into a box and tossed out as useless later. I'd probably have them in a zip file if it had all happened in the Internet Era.

I do think it molded my method. Character comes first--story comes out of the character. I don't think I can state without hesitation my stories are character-driven. I don't think they fit that definition. It's more a matter of creating a character complex enough, real enough for them to tell their story to me.

How long or how well I can execute that method I don't know. But I keep discovering characters and listening.

What's the Question?

I've already confessed I don't care much for the conscious development of theme and such here. It's on my list of current 'failings', I'm sure. I've gone to various writing boards and pages to ask questions. I've finally decided I'm a "special snowflake": I don't choose a theme before I start writing a story.

Oh, it isn't that I don't have a clue. OK, maybe I don't have a clue. But what I always have is a question, which leads to another question then another. The story begins.

For example, here are some of the questions I asked with some of the projects I'm working on.

1. Rain: The initial questions were: Is a one-night stand or getting picked up at a bar always a bad idea? Does anything like love ever come out of them? What if was romantic destiny? Yeah, pretty much very stupid, very risky questions to answer realistically. But why not?
2. Snow: This one came right out of Rain. What if Cheryl's old boss was not the kindly silver-haired gentleman so frequently associated with the job title of judge? What if he were young, unmarried, and attractive? How would Gerry respond when this man shows up? Why/How would the judge? What is he looking for?
3. Familiar Strangers: By this time I'm sure some of us (if not most) have met someone in real life (IRL) we first met online, both in a romantic sense and a friend sense. Can the 'friend' become a romantic partner? What happens when it's discovered they are not what they first appeared to be?
4. Dani's Song: Let's just ditch this worn-out cliché that only a woman can be the Beauty and only a man can be the Beast. Really! What if it was the other way around?

No, none of them will end up answering all of the initial questions. One question leads to another---always. Sometimes---OK, quite frequently--- the question becomes irrelevant or morphs into something totally different. One of the things I've discovered about questions is one must learn to ask the right questions. It makes all the difference in getting the right answers.

I sometimes think I ask too many questions but my characters seem bent on answering them.

Do Your Characters Ever Invade Your House?

I'm so sorry. I couldn't help myself. In a recent email exchange with another "writing buddy" I wrote:

I am busy with my 'own stuff' but I think the guys improve when I make them sit in the living room and amuse themselves while I do something different. (Now there would be a funny scene to write!) I better stop thinking about that image!!

Of course, I looked up from my laptop into the living room and the images started popping up. The urge became overpowering. My fingertips tapped out the following little scene. Maybe it will make you giggle like it did me.

The Perfect Question

I subscribe to a lot of blogs and writing sites. One of them I particularly like is Writers Write. Every day in my mailbox I find a writing-related comic, the latest blog posting,  a literary birthday,  a writing-related quote, and a writing prompt. All of them make me smile, think, and sometimes laugh out loud. The only thing I don't like--- they're in South Africa and when they send me an announcement about an upcoming class I growl. "I can't come! You're in South Africa!" Yes, I talk back to my computer screen, don't you?

I really like some of the prompts, though I don't really need them right now to get me writing,  Just as an example I'll share a few.

• List the gifts your protagonist received on his or her birthday. Which one did your hero like best?
• Make a list of five things your protagonist does not want to do.
• Write about missing a plane.
• Your hero and villain are on a train. Where are they going?

Sometimes one intrigues me to the point I want to use it so I do and end up stuffing it into a character's dossier. Today I'm going to take that up a notch and do a posting with a recent prompt. I thought I would apply it to each project just for fun. So here goes.

What is the perfect question to use as the opening line of your novel?

1. Rain: Cheryl's here at the club?

2. Snow: Get placed again in that trice-cursed area of the female psyche known as friend? Not only no but hell no!

3. Dani's Song: What do you suppose the story would be like if the Beauty was a king and the Beast his bride?

4. Troika: Didn't she know she was too small to be lifting weights like that without a spotter?

5. Familiar Strangers: What in the hell did she think she was doing waiting beside Buckingham Fountain in December for a man she had never met?

It's more difficult than it sounds. Only the question for Familiar Strangers and Troika come close to being acceptable. I cheated on Snow by adding Aaron's answer and the question for Dani's Song is in the old narrative voice which I am re-doing for the revision. All of them hold true to the beginning of the story though. Interesting.

A "Snippet" from "Rain"

I can't make up my mind on whether I was going to present Rain or  Snow at the upcoming Romance Workshop at the DFW Writers Conference. I've worked up both of them. So I've written two queries and two plot summaries. The activity should teach me something, shouldn't it? The rough draft of Rain is complete at least. Snow is a work in progress. I'll let you know my final decision and its ramifications after the conference.

But this posting I thought I would do something I've not done before---post what I call a 'snippet'. Frequently they don't make their way directly into the story but do form one of the building blocks of a character. I write them and stuff them into my character dossiers. This 'snippet' is from Rain and involves Gerry, the male protagonist. Right now it exists simply as a nightmare in the rough draft.

Charles: Eulogy

A small note: this is one of my 'old' essays from the nineties but it's not really an essay. It's a eulogy I wrote and gave (as one of three or four speakers) for a very dear friend of mine, the first, last, and only of its kind. If I have my way about such things it will remain so.

 

Charles. Not ever Charlie or Chuck. Always Charles. The last time I tried to describe Charles I was writing a new email friend in PA a couple of years ago when she asked me about friends I had here in Arkansas. Charles topped the list as he has for the last almost twenty years I think.

Well, he’s just a friend I told her. A dear friend, a confidante. He isn’t pretty but his eyes are warm and thoughtful and I’ve grown fond of his face over the years. He’s a character; I really should put him in one of my stories I told her. He belongs in one. How do I say this without being trite? Charles is unique. . . comparable only to himself. If you met him for the very first time you’d wonder for a moment or two. Is he teasing or not? Believe me. . .he is. Picking up a line of improvisational fussing and carrying it with you until both you and he started giggling. Changing subtly as the subject turned more serious. His voice a little firmer perhaps. You just knew. Listening with a calm, accepting intentness that is so very rare. . .and so. . .just Charles. I don’t think my PA friend knew what to think.  I know when I had written it there was still something missing. Ah, well. . .Charles was always meant to be experienced. And I don’t think anyone ever experienced him exactly like another. . . even though I know there were similarities.

Life never seemed to have enough experience for him, I think. He always seemed to be wanting to do more things. . . explore other things. I remember his stories about his brief career as an assistant to a funeral director. Harrowing. . wrenching. . .yet he told the stories with a deceptively light touch but again you knew somehow. He was horrified. . .not by death. . .but by the pain of those around it. He didn’t. . .couldn’t stay with it. Psychology . . . History. . . Law. . . . . .Justice. Always intent. . . perpetually curious. . . full of questions. . . and always interested in what underlined them all. . .People.

 

I have always thought in musical terms about a lot of things. It’s a curse really as I have no voice. . .no musical talent whatsoever. . . just an ear. . a cursed appreciation for the beauty I cannot replicate. But perhaps I can be forgiven for working in musical terms. . . making life a song. . . .a full fledged polyphonic chorus that grows richer and deeper every year of your life. One of the voices in my chorus. . .your chorus. . . is still. The cadence reached. And yet I know by its very silence how so much poorer the song of my life. . .the song perhaps of your life. . .would have been without that voice and how much richer that voice has made it.  I close my eyes and listen to my memory of the melody. . .and I feel. . .privileged.

 

July 20, 1997

Excerpts and Snippets: "Snow"

Another excerpt today I think. This one is from "Snow". I think the era or time frame should be explicit.

“Mark, I want to know why you came all the way to Wisconsin,” Desiree asked as they sat down at the small dining table at the apartment for a late night snack.

“It’s complicated, Lizzie.” Mark played with the pickle she placed next to the grilled cheese sandwich he had asked for. “I guess I’m looking for some support for a decision I don’t really want to have to make.”

Desiree propped her arms on the table and looked at her brother for a moment. “What decision?”

“I graduate this May,” he said and snapped his pickle in half. “My degree will be finished.”

“Yes, Mama is so excited about it.”

“I know. But I don’t think she realizes what will come with it. And I do. I’ll have . . . do have some choices to make and none of them are ones I want to make.”

“What choices?”

“Lizzie, for God’s sake. You read the newspapers; you watch Walter Cronkite. Have you been living in a cave?” His voice rose and his eyes gleamed bright with tears she hadn’t seen since their father died. “Listen to me again. I graduate this May; my degree will be finished. I’m not married with kids like Monroe and Tal.”

Desiree dropped her head to her propped arms and fought the urge to pound her head against the wood. He was talking about Vietnam and she knew it. She looked back up at her brother. “Mark, what happened to med school? You’ve been dreaming and planning for med school since junior high.”

“I got my fifth application back. ‘Thank you for applying’, ‘our best wishes in your pursuit of a medical career’, and all that other crap that adds up to ‘tough luck, buddy.’ I’ve got two more applications still out but I can read the writing on the wall.”

Mark seemed to grow smaller in the dining chair like he was physically shrinking in front of her. The words finally began to sink into her, calling up images of fallen baby sparrows and the wounded rabbit he had brought home when he was only in the fifth grade. Big, tough football player he might have been but his grades were stellar and his scholarships were not based on his athletic ability. Medicine was his dream. Pediatrics to be specific. She had always known that. To see the big guy with children, newborns in particular, sent some girls she knew into hormonal overdrive.

“You’ll have a degree, Mark. They’ll probably send you to OCC.”

“Maybe,” he answered. “It would be a sure bet if I had joined ROTC like Monroe told me to last year.”

“Why didn’t you? It sounded like a good idea at the time,” Desiree asked.

Mark sighed and shrugged. “I thought about it. I already had the short hair and with the family history no one would have thought anything of it. But I just couldn’t. It was fine for Monroe and Tal but. Lizzie, even officers have to be ready to shoot to kill.”

Mark’s blue eyes looked hollow in his face, his mouth drawn. Desiree sat silent, not knowing what to say next.

“Dad did what he thought was right and , God knows, we were raised to believe in our country and all that. But the stories I hear from guys who’ve been in Vietnam make me want to puke. It’s not the war Dad was in. The reporters don’t tell half the story, even if they’ve been trying lately. But it’s not just that. Hell, I go deer hunting every year with Tal and his friends and every year I have to pretend I like it. I don’t. I never have. Imagine that, a southern boy who doesn’t like guns or shooting. Pull up a gun and shoot another human being? I can’t do it, Lizzie. I just can’t.”

No, it's not the most romantic part of the story. I just like Mark, my female protagonist's youngest brother.