Thesis WORK OF ART A COLLECTION OF STORIES AND ESSAYS Submitted by Judea Franck English Department In partial fulfillment ofthe requirements For the Degree ofMaster ofFine Arts Colorado State University Fort Collins, Colorado Spring 2005 PS3606 .R384 W6 2005 COLORADO STATE UNIVERSITY March 22, 2005 WE HEREBY RECOMMEND THAT THE THESIS PREPARED UNDER OUR SUPERVISION BY JUDEA FRANCK ENTITLED WORK OF ART: A COLLECTION OF STORIES AND ESSAYS BE ACCEPTED AS FULFILLING IN PAR1~ REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF MASTER OF FINE ARTS. Committee on Graduate Work Bruce R .onda Department HeadIDirector 11 "GJ[ORADO STATf UN'V. lIRR4R,P:: ABSTRACT OF THESIS WORK OF ART: A COLLECTION OF STORIES AND ESSAYS This collection ofwork, composed over a period ofthree years, contains stories and essays that explore the emotional struggles ofpeople in fictional and real-life experiences. These stories and essays are concerned with the idea of resilience-how people and characters reshape their lives after fracturing events. It is a collection influenced by the idea ofloss, but also by the hope ofresurgence. It details the ways in which characters and people can be hurt, maimed, broken- hearted, and yet find a way to recover. Judea Franck English Department Colorado State University Fort Collins, CO 80523 Spring 2005 III WORK OF ART: A COLLECTION OF STORIES AND ESSAYS INTRODUCTION 1 FICTION WORK OF ART 6 CALL ME WHEN IT'S OVER 32 ENOUGH 55 SUMMER SPARRING 75 PLA YING HOUSE 90 LOVE ANATOMY 101 SHIPPING OUT 123 NONFICTION WALKING SEX ACT 144 DANCING IN AMERICA 158 L'INDEPENDENCE 170 A WAKE AND WATCHING 188 IV INTRODUCTION My mother and I suffer from the same disease-s-complete strangers confess to us their innermost secrets. This can happen anywhere, on a plane, at bus stop, in a quiet coffee shop, in a gym locker room. A stranger will engage in conversation ultimately to reveal something dire-an affair, a hidden sexual orientation, a dream to kidnap a child from an estranged spouse. Maybe it is that we share a friendly face, my mother and I, an unassuming nature, a hidden tattoo printed across our foreheads that reads, "I listen." Regardless, it is a captivating experience to be so instantly trusted., so instantly befriended, and ultimately laden with the truths ofother people's lives. It is, no doubt., why my mother became a psychologist. It is also the reason why I have come to write both fiction and nonfiction and is the source ofmuch ofthis collection. Writers will often talk about voices that they have heard that contribute to their writing-voices from childhood, voices from the work ofother writers. This is no less true for me. Those voices, which have grown from my life experiences and my literary exploration, undoubtedly sing in these pages. Yet, each ofthese stories also holds the voice ofa fascinating stranger whose unexpected revelation haunts me until I can weave it into my work. To give an example, one ofthe voices inhabiting these pages is that ofa man I met in a country-western bar in Greeley, Colorado. He was about my age, very clean-cut, looking totally out ofplace in the loud music, smoke, and haze, which was probably the reason we started talking in the first place. He told me that he was a soldier, just back from Afghanistan, getting ready to start classes in the fall at the university. After a while, I asked him what he thought about being back. What he thought about the war, the upcoming election. He told me that America was right to be doing what we were doing. Then he got sort ofquiet, started peeling the label offhis bottle. Finally, he looked up at me and said, "There were people, whole families ofpeople, hanging in trees." I was shocked and saddened by what that soldier said to me and this became the seeds for the story "Enough." It was not so much the violence ofwhat he revealed, but rather that he had this quiet, honest, almost innocent look about him-blue eyes and dimples-and his button-down shirt was tucked into his pressed jeans. I knew he had a mother and father in Yuma, that he had been raised up surrounded by wheat, and that he only joined the army because ofthe 01 bill to eventually pay for higher education. I wondered what seeing lynched families would do to someone like that, how it might have changed him. There was also something about him that reminded me ofmy own older brother and I became interested in how a family might change because one ofits members was irrevocably damaged by the course oflife. This was enough to get me writing and then I discovered the little girl, Janey, who could tell the rest ofthe story with the insight, longing and innocence that only a child-a sister aching for her brother--ean have. Part ofme lives in 2 that little girl, and the other part comes from a sadness that I felt for that soldier that night in the darkened bar. The stories ofthis collection have come from instances like those. moments of private revelation. Because I firmly believe that a writer must have a personal stake in her work, these stories are also bound with an element ofsomething emotional from my own life-some primal experience or something I witnessed-an instant that I am still trying to understand, still trying to master. I like the idea that what happens to people, what happens to characters. through the course ofour lives changes us, changes our constitutions. Coming up against another person is oftentimes the force ofthat change. Those are the experiences I hope to capture in my fiction, the experiences I try to give my characters. All ofmy stories seem to be about loss, but also about recovery. I am in awe ofthe resilience ofpeople. I want to understand how it is that people rebuild themselves after a fracturing experience. How we can be hurt, maimed, broken-hearted, and find it within ourselves to love and live again. Because many ofthe seeds for these stories were planted by unfamiliar people telling me their stories, I tend to write in first person. I am fascinated by the power and immediacy that comes from allowing a character to tell hislher own tale. At times. it did not prove appropriate to tell the story in that way and so I employed the use ofa third person narrator, but my writing process always involves starting with the voice ofa character. It is the fastest and surest way I know to become intimate with the people who populate my work. This collection also contains four nonfiction pieces. These stories, I believe, share a thematic bond with my works offiction in that they are about struggle, loss, and a 3 reaffirming configuration ofself. I would like to say that I write nonfiction because I'm interested in the convergence ofthe two crafts. This would be a wonderful and academic response, and I'm sure that this is partly the case. But really, writing nonfiction comes from a stubborn, almost child-like desire to tell my own story, one that is completely mine, my own secret revelations. Nonfiction comes with its own particular challenges. Characters become people who are playing for keeps, who no longer have the luxury to act in the way most consistent with their natures. Writing fiction involves a certain mastery ofmaking characters behave in ways that are most revealing to the reader. Character ultimately dictates what happens in stories; and whether or not those actions ring true seems to determine the satisfaction for the reader. This is true in life to some extent; people's natures dictate how they act. However, in life, or in my life, I would not always act the way that I can allow my characters to behave. One cannot turn away from the crisis of her own life in the same way that a character can, even ifin her heart ofhearts she's tempted. I rely heavily on speculation to "solve" this particular constraint ofnonfiction­ weaving what really did happen with my fictional imagining ofwhat might have happened. I would also like to say that the success ofthese stories and essays comes from the fact that I am not afraid ofrevision. For my fiction, it takes a long time for me to walk around with the voices ofthese strangers. They sort ofbump and jostle up against each other until finally they emerge as characters who teach me something about life. This is no less true for my experience ofwriting nonfiction. It takes me a long time to digest the elements that go into my essays-the threads ofmy life that I need to connect. I write 4 scene after scene after scene. I throw out more than halfofwhat I write. I try to resist the temptation ofthe "maybe later" pile, although, like most writers, I have one. At the very least, the process ofcreating this collection has taught me to be compassionate and patient-I listen first, then I write it down. 5 WORK OF ART I hold Aimee's hand in the pre-op room. She's wearing a thin, paper jonnie with tiny blue checkers and we are laughing about something stupid, about how little her wrist looks with the dangling plastic band. Only it is not funny. We both know it isn't, but I focus on her forehead and she looks at my chin, avoiding eye contact that would cease our laughter and threaten silence or worse. Aimee says that nothing good ever begins in bed anyway, hospital or otherwise.