FADE TO GOLD
by Loy Carlos
IN MEDIAS RES
Every writer has been told that the best stories begin in the middle of things. The theory is that in the midst of everything, there is momentum. Readers are quick to engage when seemingly obscure actions or thoughts could potentially be significant clues to unraveling a mystery or in explaining why a certain character behaves the way they do. The game begins when the hook and lure are in the water. Not before it’s cast. Not on the boat ride home.
Technically, it’s an efficient and effective tool. It allows the writer to draw from an unscrutinized past or leap to the unexplored future. The writer gets to choose the different arcs of a story line. In the journey of storytelling, they get to dictate what is and isn’t relevant. They get to frame each scene. They get to draw which twist and turn lead somewhere, and which paths meander and lead nowhere. But as with all struggles in life, the devil is in the details.
So we begin on the eve of Thanksgiving standing on a field of gold.
Well, not a field but the front yard of an unassuming cape house in the North Shore. The air was brisk and wet. It had been raining for several days. The towering hundred-year-old oak trees were now a deep umber, and the seven surrounding sugar maples pale—all having shed their spring and summer vestments.
The ground was a mix of red and yellow ochre. All around was surprisingly matte. I had always imagined that autumn in the suburbs was crisp and cinematic, like that last scene in Big when the young Josh was walking towards home, after an ideal "big" life courtesy of Zoltar and a well-spent quarter.
I stood there silently, the mist of the cold air and my breath adding to the ethereal texture of this once-in-a-lifetime moment. The impression it gave was more of a painted image, but not of any artist I had ever known, nor of any specific work of art I had ever seen. A painting, rather, by Whitman. By Frost. By Yeats.
We bought a house. Our forever house. In my mind’s eye, I envisioned a couple of rocking chairs on the porch. Maybe a pitcher of lemonade on a side table for the hot, lazy summers. I pictured the many days we’d spend planting the flower beds, trimming the nonexistent hedges around the property. I had yet to learn about shade, part shade, part sun, direct sun. And weeds. And crabgrass. And over a hundred large garbage bags full of leaves and the hours and days it took to bag them. And how heavy they are when wet. But the vision was clear then. I had written the story of the rest of my life.
Continue
FADE TO GOLD
by Loy Carlos
IN MEDIAS RES
Every writer has been told that the best stories begin in the middle of things. The theory is that in the midst of everything, there is momentum. Readers are quick to engage when seemingly obscure actions or thoughts could potentially be significant clues to unraveling a mystery or in explaining why a certain character behaves the way they do. The game begins when the hook and lure are in the water. Not before it’s cast. Not on the boat ride home.
Technically, it’s an efficient and effective tool. It allows the writer to draw from an unscrutinized past or leap to the unexplored future. The writer gets to choose the different arcs of a story line. In the journey of storytelling, they get to dictate what is and isn’t relevant. They get to frame each scene. They get to draw which twist and turn lead somewhere, and which paths meander and lead nowhere. But as with all struggles in life, the devil is in the details.
So we begin on the eve of Thanksgiving standing on a field of gold.
Well, not a field but the front yard of an unassuming cape house in the North Shore. The air was brisk and wet. It had been raining for several days. The towering hundred-year-old oak trees were now a deep umber, and the seven surrounding sugar maples pale—all having shed their spring and summer vestments.
The ground was a mix of red and yellow ochre. All around was surprisingly matte. I had always imagined that autumn in the suburbs was crisp and cinematic, like that last scene in Big when the young Josh was walking towards home, after an ideal “big” life courtesy of Zoltar and a well-spent quarter.
We bought a house. Our forever house. In my mind’s eye, I envisioned a couple of rocking chairs on the porch. Maybe a pitcher of lemonade on a side table for the hot, lazy summers. I pictured the many days we’d spend planting the flower beds, trimming the nonexistent hedges around the property. I had yet to learn about shade, part shade, part sun, direct sun. And weeds. And crabgrass. And over a hundred large garbage bags full of leaves and the hours and days it took to bag them. And how heavy they are when wet. But the vision was clear then. I had written the story of the rest of my life.
Continue
© Classiques Modernes All Rights Reserved
© Classiques Modernes All Rights Reserved
