Need some advice...

Okay, so for those of you who have been reading my last couple of posts, let me explain what the end product is going to look like. Once you guys get the context, I would really appreciate some advice on picking a character. I'm not done exploring different characters, but I need to come to a decision regarding the overall concept for the character.

November is National Novel Writing Month, and they do a whole thing with a website devoted to tracking people's progress in writing their novels. It is basically a good way to just get some words on paper, which can often be difficult for people who constantly worry about grammar and composition (like me). I've attempted this before without a concept planned out and failed miserably when I ran out of ideas. This year, I'm going to attempt the challenge again, but with the concept completely planned out. So in short (tldr), 'm going to write 50,000 words in the 30 days of November.

As most of you have noticed from my blog, I'm more of a short prosaic writer than anything else. Therefore, I came up with a concept to write a series of short stories called "100 things," based off of the concept of a bucket list. Since I was in high school I've been writing lists like this (places I want to visit, adventures I want to have, etc). Each story will be about 500 words, highlighting one of the 100 things. You get the point.

Simultaneously, I decided I wanted to write a book that highlighted someone with a disability. Since I've been working with the population, I've been struck by the normalcy that is denied to those with all types of disabilities (people go to court over whether their children with disabilities should be able to marry, have kids, get a drivers license, vote, etc). Even more unfortunate is that the kids I've worked with really want those things even if they have to work twenty times harder to get them. So I concluded a few things: (1) I wanted the narrator to have a disability, (2) I wanted to focus on the high school/college age range, and (3) I wanted them to have basic wants of every kid in their age range, but theirs be denied. This last part ranges from "having a group of friends" to "going to the movies by myself."

There are so many things left to decide, and I'd appreciate some input from those of you with good critiquing skills (and those of you with strong opinions too). Which character from the last two weeks, Jack or Brittany, did you like more? What made you decide either way? Was it their genders? Disability type? Dynamism? Voice?

I figure I write female perspective better than male, but I'm not sure.
I need to decide if I want my character to have a cognitive disability or a physical disability or both.
Either way, I want the narrator to be the kid, but should I have a ghost (most likely parent) writer, and how much bias should I show in their direction? (Should they simply correct sentence structure and grammar, or should they be an invested character in the story?)

I would really appreciate any insight you all can provide, as this is a pretty big undertaking for me.
Thanks so much!

Brittany

Hello. My name is Brittany. I have cerebral palsy, or CP for short. Because of my CP, I have trouble using my arms and legs. I can’t write with a pencil, so my mother is helping me out with this. I can type, but it takes me a long time.

The hardest part about my life is that people underestimate my intelligence. I don’t have a comorbid cognitive delay with my CP, it only affects my physical mobility. But I am behind in school.

I go to the doctor at least once a week: physical therapy, speech therapy, occupational therapy, etc. All of these things interfere with my school day. I miss a lot of school. Over the years, I’ve missed about 25% of school days. Because of that, I’m in a separate classroom.

I love to read but because of my writing and speaking difficulties I have trouble “showing what I know.” Other students think that because I have to circle the answers or type out a worksheet page that I’m not smart. They avoid talking to me. The students in my separate class have cognitive delays and social deficits. I try to help them with their school work, but it’s hard to be their friends.

I have a tutor. His name is Martin. He has curly hair and lots of wrinkles. he helps me learn the stuff I would learn if I could keep up in a regular classroom. He tells me that I could keep up fine if I didn’t have to miss so much school. That just makes me angry.

Hi! I'm Jack.

Hi! I’m Jack. Do you know why my Mom and Dad named me Jack? They said Robin Williams played a character one time called Jack, and that he was funny. I don’t believe them though because how do they know a baby is going to be funny? Babies don’t talk.

My Dad thinks I’m funny though. He says hilarious. Because my Dad taught me to whistle and I’m real good at it. My Dad points at people and has me whistle, and then he cracks up laughing. Sometimes he doesn’t stop for ten minutes. That’s how I know I’m funny.

Girls are who my Dad had me whistle at. They get all frowny at first and stick out their hips, but then they see me and they smile. I don’t know why they don’t laugh, but Mom says smiling is good so I know they like me.

Sometimes I whistle at the nurses at my doctor’s office that I like. They scrunch up their faces. They look like they try not to laugh. That’s why I like them.

That’s at my favorite doctor’s office. It’s the one with the doctor who only tells me my height and weight and has me do the eye exam. I learned the eye exam real good when I was five and I learned the letters. So now I always do good on the eye exam.

I do good on the height and weight too because I always grow. Mom says I grow because that’s what little boys do, so I guess I pass the test. Mom makes sure I grow by feeding me dinner. Even if I don’t eat it all I still grow, so I don’t eat it all.

I like chips better anyway. I can eat chips while I watch movies at home. In the movies the funny guys don’t whistle, though. They tell jokes. I tell jokes at school but I get in trouble. One time somebody hit me after I told a joke and told me to go away. They got in trouble but so did I. So I don’t tell jokes at school.

One joke I told that I heard was, “Why did the Mom cross the road?” The answer is supposed to be, “It doesn’t matter, she should make me a sandwich.” I changed it though to say, “To get me some chips.” I thought it was funnier and it made more sense. My Mom doesn’t make me sandwiches, but she does get me chips.

My Dad really likes that joke. He tells it to my Mom and she laughs sometimes. I don’t laugh because I don’t understand the sandwich part. Mom doesn’t make Dad sandwiches either. But after that I go to bed early and I hear Mom and Dad laughing a lot in their room. I wish I could make my Mom laugh. Maybe when I’m big like my Dad.

Mom says when I’m big I still won’t understand everything. I don’t think that’s important, but she says it is. She says be careful of the kids at school like when I got hit. I just don’t tell jokes and no one hits me anymore so I don’t see what the big deal is. Just because you don’t know everything doesn’t mean you can’t not get hit.

I feel like my teacher wants me to know everything. She always says things like to look at people’s faces to see their retraction or something. It means how they feel about you. I know because Mom said that if people smile then they like you. Why else is it important?

It’s hard to look in faces anyway because people don’t look at you. Like if I tell a joke people turn around so I can’t see their face or walk away. I decided that if people are your friend they look at you. All the people in school look at their friends and sometimes the teachers. That means I have three friends. My teacher always looks at me when I talk. So does my talking doctor so she’s my friend. And my Dad.

When my friends aren’t there I talk to myself. I tell myself jokes because I know I’m not going to hit myself, and I always laugh really hard like my Dad so people will want to hear my jokes. Sometimes people look at me when I do that. I think they’re my friends, but I’m not sure because they don’t talk to me.

When I get people to look at me, I always say, “Hi! I’m Jack.” I talk about why my parents named me Jack and my whistling. Sometimes people smile at me, but then they walk away. I don’t know why. But Mom says not everyone will be my friend.

Geography

My apologies for missing this past weekend; I was traveling. And this is what I saw.

You wouldn't think so, but places look so different from the sky.

When landing for a layover in Chicago yesterday, I was fascinated by the trees like tongues of fire sweeping across an otherwise barren landscape. Looking closer, you notice the tendrils of streams and branches of small rivers running through them. The cities are at the big junctures. Look close enough and you'll see their water source.

Above Seattle, there is just water. It looks like a water city, built on tiny outcroppings of land connected by bridges. Walk in any direction and you find it. The water glints like scales on a dragon until you get closer and start to see the ripples of movement. It goes from glossy green to gray-blue with white caps, all the magic lost to reality.

Vegas is a desert. Everyone knows the city is like a massive oasis in the middle of the driest of dry we are aware of. I always recall stepping out of the airport the first time I went there and feeling the pressure of the heat on my shoulders instead of the sticky humidity of home. When flying over, you see real mountains and dirt hills and ripples of where the wind has carved out the landscape. Suddenly, a line of buildings appears like an army over a hill, and the density doesn't stop until you've passed it over completely.

Tennessee is greener than you might think. Passing over you can barely see Nashville for the giant parks surrounding it. Whereas everywhere you see the circles and squares of crop land, here you see the tips of trees and fields, no particular order, left alone to their original shapes. Over the city, everything is identifiable. The stadium pops up first, giving reference to downtown, midtown, and campus areas. Most places, even home, it is difficult to find something familiar from the sky, but Nashville is simply laid out for you.

Baltimore is a port city. When flying into BWI, you have an ocean to your right the whole time. All of the places where ships made history by landing and claiming for their king, from above, are just parts of the great sea. I'm sure it must be the same on the west coast, but I wouldn't know. The Chesapeake Bay is just one of those arms of the sea, anchoring Maryland to it. If you know the geography, which I don't, you can see the Inner Harbor, the smaller bays, Ocean City. To me, they all look the same. I spend my time identifying cruise ships and fishing boats by their triangular wakes, wondering if anyone I know is out there. The land is built close to the water, tall buildings and townhouses, unafraid of storms and flooding (though perhaps they should be). If we came in by land, as we leave the city, you can see the circle of the beltway, connecting Baltimore and Washington like a bridge between two huge posts. If you glance to the west on a clear day, the river weaves between what we call mountains (those in the actual west would disagree). On an overcast day, it looks like a fog and hulking shadows, a mystery what lies beyond. Unless you know, which I do.

Birthing of an Alphabet

Her feeling thus was amorous;
His feeling merely beastial.
Thus their acts were cordial.

There remained a cosmic dissonance,
An interrupting electricity
That continued on, frenetic.

And on they grappled.
There would be no honor
If the victory was instant.

There were no jurors.
They required a kleptomaniac
To steal the moments, languid.

To be so monstrous.
To make the word “never”
Less ominous,
More porous.

To breed the lacking quality;
Reinstitute the racket;
To make them swear,
At their most terrified,
To be upstanding
and have some valor.

They were to keep the universe in whack
Until the day they were exes.
And on that day to warn us with a yowl
So we will know it is our zed.

Connections Never Made

The whole family is parallel parked down the street in front of your house, crammed into the large kitchen, and eating snacks while mingling in the living room. But you are exhausted. You stare at the maps you create on your ceiling and listen to the murmurs as it gets dark and you drift in and out of a nap.

There is a sports car belonging to your uncle. There is arguing. A familiar voice. You drift in and to the window. Parting the shades you see two figures in the twilight. One your uncle standing by the redness of his convertible, and one could just be him. He has hit your uncle's car while attempting to fill a too-small space. Where did he get a car? And when did he get here? And why?

You greet him at the back door to the basement by the drain. The ping pong table sits behind you. Your cousin and your best friend stand behind it. His hair is shorter and he has filled out a bit. You hug him like you always have, remembering the last time you jumped into someone's arms. Three men and you. The little girls might be playing outside the game room, but here it is just you and the three boys. They greet one another.

You introduce them all. They have never met. You sit on the ping pong table. It has always been a gathering space. They all wonder which one of the others is your boyfriend. None has ever been, nor will ever be. They wander in and out of your consciousness.

You awake in a wholly different world. The three men in your dream haven't been in your life for years. The house with the sidewalk and the ping pong table are gone. Wondering where they all are right then. Letting them go. Turning towards the middle of the bed, you drift off holding the hand of the only man in your life. You dream of the past and what could have been.

My Block

I walked the block. Right to the crosswalk. Right to TGI Friday’s. Right to the man who sells The Contributor. Right back towards the fountain. And right to the front door. I only wanted to see so I turned up the volume on my iPod.

There were students everywhere, crossing from the University to their apartment. Wearing back packs. Either blabbing on their cell phones or to their partner. Never walking quiet and alone. Perhaps texting.

Groups of sorority girls or fraternity boys cut through the parking lot with their cases of beer in high high heels and short dresses, laughing and swaying.

Waiting at the corner was a man in a suit. With a briefcase. He carefully waited for the light to change, for the walking man to appear. He took long strides to the parking garage behind Friday’s. Going home. Taking work home.

Those sitting at the bus stop held Arby’s cups and their fare cards. Some stand, some sit. Most are quiet, worn from a long day. They wear jeans and t-shirts, few with blue collared shirts and emblems. One man has a cane and stares at the ground. The bus arrives and they all file on to greet neighbors and people they ride with every day. The bus driver is always the same.

The man with his newspapers leans against the light pole, waiting for the light to fill his street side with cars. He smiles as he walks, limps a bit, says nothing. A few hands gesture him to their windows. He shakes their hands and takes their money. It is a good day. He gathers his satchel and winter coat from the brick wall and gets on the bus with the others.

The street by the church is silent, then raucous by the corner bar. Men and women sit out on the patio. It is mild and they are warmed by their beers and a winning game. I smell the cigarette smoke as I pass the front door.

I type in my code and hold the door for a guy with his groceries. Girls stand waiting for taxis. I enter the cool lobby. No mail. I avoid the elevator and climb the three flights tomy apartment. No one out on my floor tonight. I can hear music playing from the end of the hall and people on the deck. The windows are open.