Prologue - Early summer of 1994

Hot beams of sun stippled through patchy June foliage. Sandra ducked and darted in between masses of shade, her hand sweatily fixed to the tender grasp of her son, who teetered along behind her without much sense of urgency (or direction, for that matter). Sandra plowed sweat from her forehead, then checked her watch in one fluid swipe of the arm. Never one to be late, she scooped her son up, and strode on much faster with the child on her hip. Onward through the baked Chicago streets she stormed. Sandra came to the end of the block, and slowed her pace under an awning, which in faded lettering, advertised “Colleghan Dance”. 

Cold air welcomed Sandra as she descended a narrow, claustrophobic stairway. She soon entered what looked to be a lobby of sorts, with floors covered in the same palm-print carpet that cloaked the stairs. She seated herself at a bench which was pushed flush against the cool brick wall, and urged for young Marco to do the same. He sat for a moment, then bobbled off to stare at the pictures and framed medals that decorated the room.

Sandra’s attention was caught by a girl who looked to be about fifteen. Behind the front desk, and a row of glass panels, she busily sorted and arranged stacks of files. 

“Excuse me,” Sandra called. The girl looked up, and pointed to herself with a tilt of the head. 

“Do you work here?”

The teen hesitated, then nodded. 

“Could you go get your manager for me?”

The girl gave a thumbs-up. She dipped out of view, soon returning with a lady who, presumably, was her boss. Sandra stood for a firm handshake. 

“Hi there. I’m Felice Colleghan.” The boss introduced herself with soft confidence. 

“Sandra Rodriguez. It’s good to meet you. I believe we spoke over the phone a couple days ago.”

Felice took a seat behind the front counter and sighed. “There’s been a lot of that going on lately. You’ve gotta be more specific.”

”My son here is interested in dance. I mean,” Sandra lowered her voice. “he won’t shut up about it. Took him to see The Nutcracker last December, and he’s been mesmerized ever since.”

”Isn’t that right?”

”He’s never shown this much interest in anything, frankly.”

  “That’s him?” Felice nudged her knuckle towards Marco, who had his feet kicked up against the wall, with his back to the floor. 

“Honey, c’mere and greet Miss Colleghan,” ordered Sandra.  

He rolled over, and pushed himself up by his knees. Adhering to his mother’s side, he uttered a quiet “hello”.

”I see you’re interested in those pictures. Can you read?”

Marco eyed his mother.

”He’s definitely capable of it.”

“Shy, is he?” Asked Felice. 

“He’s not the talkative type, which makes it all the more surprising that he’s so… passionate about this “dance” thing.”

Felice smiled. “It’s certainly exciting to see a boy take interest, considering dance is so girl-dominant. Good that he’s young, too. How old exactly?”

”He’s five.”

”Oh, just perfect. That’s the youngest age we offer classes to. There’s still time to sign up, if you act fast. The window closes in July.”

Sandra took her son’s hand. “You’re really very sure about this, aren't you?” She asked, putting extra emphasis on “really” and “very”. 

Marco uttered a quiet “Yeah”.

”Good. Can I sign him up today?”

”As long as he’s got a valid physical, you sure can,” said Felice. “You there, little miss Glenn,” she growled to the teen in the other room. “Go print out a sign-up form.” 

The girl stopped what she was doing immediately and practically jumped to the printer. 

“While you do that, can I get to know this soon-to-be club member?”

”Sure. Marco, dear.” Sandra conducted him to go along with this stranger. “Be good to Miss Colleghan.” 

“Mhm” he said. With apprehension, he stumbled along. 

Beyond the door labeled “studio”, there was a long, straight hallway. On one side, windows gave view to a chamber about thrice the size of the main lobby. It had shiny wooden floors, and walls encompassed in mirrors and bars. There was a group huddled around an upright piano. Though her speech was muffled, an elderly woman appeared to be giving directions. His observations were limited, since Marco had to stand on his tiptoes to even push his eyes above window level. He didn’t seem to be noticed by the group.

Miss Colleghan put a hand on his back. “We call this part of the facility “the studio”. It’s where you’ll spend most of your time here. When we’re in the studio, we’ll need to be very quiet. You’re already doing great.”

They advanced through the hall. Miss Colleghan carried on. “This room is the costume closet. Many items here are very old and very delicate. You won’t be able to visit here most of the time.”

Rows upon rows of black bags hung from hangers along metal bars. Piled up on racks high above, colorful fabrics of varying textures looked inches away from all falling down. 

Miss Colleghan picked a key from her lanyard and knelt to free the lock on the door neighboring the previous one. The space was smaller and shabbier than the one shown off in the hall. The wall-mounted bars were lower, and the mirrors didn’t quite reach the ceiling. The space they left was occupied by diagrams of people in poses. 

“We call this the little classroom,” said Miss Colleghan. “The other one is the big classroom. Just like in school�"you aren’t in school yet, are you. Anyhow, we come here to learn and focus. Making friends is good, but when we’re in these spaces, we need to work hard and to put distractions aside.” The lady lowered herself to meet Marco’s eyes. “Do you understand?”

He nodded yes. 

“Then I think we’ll have no issues at all.” Miss Colleghan assured.

Marco gazed around some more. The alleyway was just barely visible through escape windows caked in a few millimeters of dust. There was a box in the corner of the room labeled “lost and found”, home to a myriad of hair ties, a handful of water bottles, and one lonesome mitten. A square in the ceiling was patched with cardboard, likely marking where a tile once laid. 

 Miss Colleghan held the door open for Marco to pass through. Now standing in the hall, he noticed music drifting out from the big classroom. Most students stood on the outskirts while a few in the center rehearsed. The piano’s melody was sharp and passionate. Miss Colleghan raised her eyebrows at Marco, and dabbed a straight finger to her pursed lips. She folded her arms and observed the classroom. Many straightened upon noticing her. One girl, who leaned by the window where Marco and Miss Colleghan stood, pressed her palms to the glass. 

“Oh my gosh, look, there’s a baby!” She whisper-exclaimed to her nearest companion, who promptly oohed as well. Soon, a small crowd began to huddle around the window where Marco stood. Many expressed a variation of “he’s so cute!” or “is he joining?”. Marco extended his hand to the glass, and was met with many hands, attempting to match his own. He grinned with a warm sense of importance. 

“They’re practicing for Dracula,” said Miss Colleghan, who added a spooky tremulo at the end. “They’ve only begun, but by October, these dancers will be perfect. You’ll be like them one day.”

The elderly woman who hunched over the piano hollered for practice to resume. The group slowly bid Marco farewell, and dissolved into their original stations. 

“Let’s see if your mother’s finished filling out those forms, shall we?” Miss Colleghan asked. She gave a gentle nudge to his measly hand, but Marco’s feet stayed planted. He didn’t want his eyes to leave the scene. 

“Come on now. We shouldn’t distract them any further," said Miss Colleghan, speaking in a wee whisper. Once more, she tugged on Marco’s hand, this time convincing him to cooperate. 

The subway rumbled through another bend in the tunnel, and Marco’s head rattled against the window with every quake. 

“Careful. You don’t want to bump your head,” warned Sandra. Her son shifted in his seat, opting to place his head against her arm instead.

”Is that comfortable for you?” Sandra chuckled at the rather puzzling angle of his neck. 

“Mhm,” Marco assured. 

“How was your little tour of the studio?”

”Good.” 

”Miss Colleghan seemed like a really nice lady.”

”She was.”

”Are you excited?”

”Yah.”

”You’ve got a lot of things starting up in the fall. This, and also kindergarden. Do you feel ready?”

”Yah.”

Sandra curled an arm around Marco’s side. “I think this’ll be good for you.”

”It smelled weird in there,” he stated. 

“Oh yeah? What sort of weird?”

”Old. Like a basement.”

”I can’t imagine why.” Sandra laughed. Indents around her cheeks and eyes appeared when she smiled. 

Marco gazed out the window, at the long, dark nothing, and occasional something. A door with cryptic signage whizzed past. He wondered what could be in there. Maybe secret trains for special people, like business men. Maybe a utility room. Either way, it was long gone now. Marco closed his eyes, and felt the train gradually lift above ground. He knew exactly when sunlight would begin to fall on his face. He knew when there would be a turn, or a stop, even before the lady in the intercom said so. This path was familiar, like the arm he rested below, or the family of Chickadees that lived outside his bedroom window.

The walk from the train station to his house was about six blocks. Marco wondered if his mother would carry him if he pretended to be asleep. What if he actually fell asleep? Sometimes she threatened to leave him there and let him figure out how to get home from whatever stop he woke up at. He knew she was only joking, though. He knew she cared too much. When time came for them to get off, he dragged himself along behind his mother. The distance wasn’t so bad when the weather was pretty. Besides, Marco’s little legs made this journey all the time. 

Reviews

[JayG]

I truly wish I had better news, but like almost everyone who turns to writing, you’ve been caught by the most common trap in fiction: You’re telling the reader a story by transcribing yourself as storyteller. So your focus is on the progression of events. And because it is, it reads like a chronicle, of the form, “This happened...then that happened...here’s why that matters...and after that...”

Sure, it works for you, because you’re TRYING to be storyteller, and when YOU read it, you perform, placing emotion into your performance that the reader can’t hear, see, or, duplicate. Nor can the reader see the gestures, facial expression changes, or, body-language. So what’s filled with life for you is a storyteller’s script that, to work, would have to be performed as you would do it, by the reader who can’t know how.

In short: To write fiction we need the skills that writers have spent centuries refining, because nothing else works. Our schooldays writing skills are great for the reports, letters, and other nonfiction that employers need, but useless for fiction because its techniques inform, while those of fiction entertain.

We pretty much all forget that Commercial Fiction Writing is a profession, which means we can no more write fiction with our school-day skills than perform surgery with what we learned in Health Class.

So...you have the desire and the story. Add the skills to bring that story to life, and there you are. Skip that step and you’ll rediscover the traps they’ve learned to avoid, never knowing it’s happening.

To see what I mean, look at the opening, not as the author, but as the reader, who has only the context you supply:

• Hot beams of sun stippled through patchy June foliage.

I give up. What’s “patchy June foliage?” Summer begins in June, so the leaves are all out. And given that we don’t know where and when we are, this could refer to trees in the woods or someone’s bushes by the house. Remember, your intent for nuance of meaning doesn’t make it to the reader. All they have is what the words suggest to them, based on their life experience.

• Sandra ducked and darted in between masses of shade, her hand sweatily fixed to the tender grasp of her son, who teetered along behind her without much sense of urgency (or direction, for that matter)

1. Not possible for her to dart while her son “teeters.” And given that he’s being dragged, his “sense of urgency” is irrelevant.
2. Have you ever, in your entire life, seen anyone “darting” between patches of shade, hunching down as they pass through sunlight? I sure haven’t. And given that the whole purpose of this is for her to enrole the boy in dance class, who cares how she walks, or the weather?
3. You use 112 words on visual description of her going to the dance studio. Why? Would the story change in the smallest way had she driven there? No. How about had you begun with her opening the door to the studio, while admonishing her son to be “good.”

The answer to that last one is, yes, it would change for the better, because you would be beginning with story rather than a description of the establishing shot in the film version that the reader can-not-see.

In short, to write fiction you need to acquire the skills of writing fiction. It is a profession, after all. They make a huge difference in reader enjoyment, because no one reads fiction to learn what happens. They expect you to make them feel like the events are happening to THEM, in real-time—which is a learned skill. Readers don’t want to be informed. They want to be entertained. And the nonfiction skills of school can’t do that.

So, while this may seem a disaster, it’s a problem that every successful writer faced and overcame. Why not you? Make those skills yours and you avoid the traps, and instead, make the reader NEED to turn the pages, using skills that make the act of writing a lot more fun.

So, try this: Trot over to your favorite bookseller site and read the excerpt from Debra Dixon’s, GMC: Goal Motivation & Conflict. It’s an easy read and filled with things that will make you say, “Damn...so THAT’S how they do it!” Before you reach the end, you’ll probably be pushing the “Add to cart” button.

And for an overview of the traps and gotchas lying in wait for the hopeful writer, you might check some of my articles and YouTube videos.

Jay Greenstein
Articles: https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/
Videos: https://www.youtube.com/@jaygreenstein3334

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“Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.”
~ E. L. Doctorow

“Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.”
~ Alfred Hitchcock

“It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”
~ Mark Twain

[LH Weiss]

Man, why are you such a debbie downer? You aren’t doing anybody a favor by bashing their work. All that just to advertise yourself? Nobody wants to watch/read your stuff because all I’ve ever seen you comment on posts that belong to me or to anybody else is prejudice and personal opinion based hate. This especially irks me when the author is clearly a child/beginner. Let people make mistakes, get a better marketing strategy, and get off my precious prologue.

[JayG]

• Man, why are you such a debbie downer?

If you want praise, you have three choices.

1. You can take the time to learn at least the basics of writing fiction.
2. You can post a "praise only" notice.
3. You can close the comments window.

Checking says that 4 months ago, in response to my previous critique, you said, "Thanks for the advice. I will gladly take your suggestions into consideration. I also appreciate the resource. I’ll take a look at it sometime."

We seem to have a different understanding of the term, "sometime," because you've done nothing to fix the problems. So you certainly can't complain when the same school-days report-writing approach generates the same response.

Someone you don't know took time they did not have to give you, to point out the basic, and common problem that's holding you back.

In this case, it's someone who's taught writing at workshops, signed multiple literary contracts, and, owned a manuscript critiquing service. So if that makes me a debbie downer, so be it. Most people would make use of the information to become a better writer.

[LH Weiss]

I changed my mind and do not want your rude critique anymore. I take suggestions from people who give me tangible ways to solve them, not from folks who read the first few paragraphs and call it quits. It’s called constructive criticism, sugar, look it up. If your only advice is for me to read your articles, or watch your videos, you’ve given me nothing to work with. Your experience means nothing to me. You’re the one who keeps commenting on my story, bucko. This is my turf. You’re free to leave.

[JayG]

• I take suggestions from people who give me tangible ways to solve them,

Hmm...a recommentation to read a respected book on writing technique isn't tangible, now? Lashing out without thought never works.

• not from folks who read the first few paragraphs and call it quits.

You forget that readers are volunteers, not constripts. They''ll read until you confuse them—which you do in paragraph 1—or lecture them, which you do from start to finish. Were this posting part of a submission package the rejection would come before the end of paragraph 1.

Why? Because readers at a bookseller's will reject it there.

• This is my turf.

Sorry, but you don't own either the site or the thread. You posted your work in a public forum and left the comments window open, remember?

And, you definitely need to remove the comment: "If my stories needs a little attention in some areas, don’t be shy to let me know. I appreciate the criticism," from your bio.

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“A writer, shy or not, needs a tough skin, for no matter how advanced one’s experience and career, expert criticism cuts to the quick, and one learns to endure and to perfect, if for no other reason than to challenge the pain-maker.”
~ Sol Stein

“When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.”
~ Mark Twain

[LH Weiss]

I hate to be that guy, but my manuscript has already been accepted by a number of hybrid publishing companies such as Atmosphere Press and Clover Publishing. Stop being a bully. You write fast, low quality, “just for fun” poetry all the time. My work is just for fun too. Only sometimes, fun makes you money.
Also, it’s pretty embarrassing for a grown adult to be beefing with a 15 year old. Go knit some mittens, boomer.

[LH Weiss]

Another thing: I don’t owe you anything.You chose again and again to come back and complain. If you’re so angry, leave. I will not listen to anything you have to say because you’re rude and biased.

[JayG]

• Atmosphere Press

Hmmm... You were accepted by a “publisher,” that charges YOU to be “published.” And you BRAG about that? The term for such a company, for centuries, is: Vanity Press. And their “publishing package” costs YOU thousands of dollars, which violates the first rule of publication: money flows TO the author, never from them.

You might do a bit of research on them. For example: https://www.facebook.com/WriterBeware/posts/heres-the-most-hilarious-yes-we-charge-a-fee-but-were-not-a-vanity-publisher-and/10156802880282458/

• Clover

According to Google, they don’t exist as a publishing company.

• You write fast, low quality, “just for fun” poetry all the time.

Which get’s PAGES of affirmative comments, as does my posted fiction. But you, who are PAYING to have someone do what you could do, free, on Amazon, know so much more. AND: you ASK for critique of your work, with:

IF MY STORIES NEEDS A LITTLE ATTENTION IN SOME AREAS, DON’T BE SHY TO LET ME KNOW. I APPRECIATE THE CRITICISM.

And now, since you’re seeking validation, not improvement, your wish is granted, and I’ll no longer reply.

[LH Weiss]

Oh my freaking lanta thank God. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed this argument and reading your entitled comebacks. I hope the best for your loneliness and unwillingness to see anybody else’s point of view. I

[Spamalott]

Fair is fair. You did ask for comment. Right?