Feedback Friday
*If you follow the blog, you know that I tried my hand at writing over the summer.
*As I stated then, I'm not sure where this writing project will go or end up, but I'm proud of myself for carving out time to write each day, create a story, and follow through on my summer writing plan.
*By the end of the summer, I had a thirty-five chapter adult novel with almost 90,000 words. Each day during the week, I would write a chapter. I haven't gone back and reread anything. I've made no changes, adaptations, or rewrites.
*Being a complete novice, I'm not sure what the next steps would be in moving forward with the story. I came up with the idea of posting a chapter here on the blog each Friday. By doing so, I'm hoping to gain some insight from readers.
*If you should choose to, please take a gander at the submitted chapter and leave any of the following comments for me in the comment section of the blog. I welcome any and all feedback...
-What did you enjoy about the chapter?
-What didn't you enjoy about the chapter?
-What was a strong point in the chapter?
-What was a weak point in the chapter?
-What was confusing, misleading, or unclear?
-What worked, or didn't work, within the chapter?
-Is there anything you would like to see added, or deleted, within the chapter.
-Any other comments, questions, or concerns would be greatly appreciated.
Chapter One – Friday, July 22, 2011
I’ve heard people say that when you experience a traumatic event in your life,
time seems to stand still. Sitting here in my car in the unknown parking lot, I’m
trying to form some sense of time that has passed over the last week.
I close my eyes and try to focus, but all I see, and feel
is a blur of complex, distressing, and horrible images. Quickly, I open my eyes. Those images
have been with me for the last week and I’m not sure I can handle them anymore. The breaking
point seems closer than ever before and I’m not sure I’m going to make it. How did I get to this
point? I guess that is why I’m sitting in this particular parking lot located a few miles from our
home nestled up on the hill.
This July day is almost as it was one week ago, but the world looks completely different now.
I feel like I’ve aged years in the last seven days. Looking into the review mirror, I hardly recognize
the man looking back at me. I’m unshaven, dark circles border my tired eyes, and I appear
thinner. That has never been a good look on me. So many people say they eat when stressed,
sad, or depressed. I’m the exact opposite. I can go days without eating much. The past days
have shown me how long I can truly go without putting much substance into my system. My dry
throat begs for more water and I grab the water bottle that has become my constant companion.
At least this companion isn't as dangerous as my other constant friend. The car clock catches
my attention. My check-in time is in five minutes. Part of me wants to bolt and escape the
moment, but I’ve come this far; no turning back now.
Walking toward the front door, I can feel how wobbly my legs are. Not only am I emotionally
weak, but more physically weak than I’ve been in a long time. Another patient is walking out just
as I’m about to go in. Is that what we are called? Patients? For lack of a better term, I’ll go with
the term. Once again, I’m stressed and worried about what people in the waiting room will think
of me. Will they be able to look at me and know the horrible person I am. The façade that has
been carefully crafted and built built feels like it has crumbled away to small bricks, stone, and
dust. I make my way to the front desk where an overweight young woman sits and greets me
with a warm and sweet smile.
“May I help you?” she asks. Her smile, voice, and eyes are warm and inviting. She is probably
placed in the welcoming position for a reason.
“I have a two o'clock check-in and a 2:30 appointment with Dr. Glass,” I reply, wondering if she can
hear my soft spoken and beaten down voice. I shouldn’t be standing here. This is not my life.
I don’t belong in the room with all the losers of the world.
“Your name sir,” she interrupts my thoughts.
“What?” I say and stare back at her and know I’m about to cry or lose it.
“Could I have your name please so I can get you checked in and provide you with the forms you
will need to fill out before you see Dr. Glass," she patiently says.
“Oh yes, I’m sorry. JP Evans. I have an appointment with Dr. Glass at 2:30 and I guess I’m
supposed to be here at 2:00 to fill out some, well some papers. That is what the lady said I talked
to on the phone the other day.” I can tell I’m rambling and looking foolish.
“Could I get your full name sir, or is JP your legal name,” she asks.
When did I start going by JP, I think to myself. Thinking back on all the times I’ve wanted a fresh
start. So many fresh starts and yet nothing seems to work. Oh, I remember now. It was transitioning
from high school to college. No one would know me on the college campus. I could be anyone
I wanted to be. My new chapter was in my hands and I could create what was on those new
pages. Starting with my name was the perfect place to start. Jonathan Phillip could be an image
of the past. I didn’t like him much to begin with. Not wanting to completely change my name with
anything legal which would upset my parents, I thought why not just shorten it. At the time, I was
not a fan of the name John, Phil, or any combination of the two names. Studly, athletic, and masculine
guys always seemed to have cool names or initials. JP. There was a nice ring to that. Within
three summer months, I would go from Jonathan Phillip to JP.
“Sir are you alright?”, the receptionist asked and brought me back to the waiting room and out of
my hazy thoughts.
“Yes, what was your question,” I asked.
“I need your full name so I can process your information and get you checked in,” she smiled.
“JP, I mean Jonathan Phillip Evans, is my name and I have an appointment today.”
She smiled once again and so patient. Hopefully I'm not the craziest guy she encounters during
her day. She is probably use to crazy since we are in the midst of a counseling center.
As she gathers some papers, a clipboard, and a pen; I look behind me at the other people sitting
in the old and worn chairs scattered throughout what looks like a 1980’s style waiting room.
“Fill these out while you wait and bring them in with you when you see Dr. Glass,” she states as
she hands me the clipboard. Saying thank you as I turn toward the nearest chair, I try to muster
a smile for her and get myself from the front desk to a chair.
Just as I was finishing up the last form, a large bearded man opened one of the lobbies’ doors
and called my name. The appointment hadn’t started yet, and already I was exhausted.
Every task that required my focus was tiring and stressful. The forms had caused irritation,
frustration, and anger. Half of the information I wasn’t sure of and the other half caused me to
reflect on how I wanted to answer. One questionnaire hit hard. I had to answer ten questions
about my emotional and mental state. Sure, I could lie like I normally have during my life; or I
could get serious and answer honestly. If the position I was currently in didn’t force me to look
at my life honestly, then I don’t know what would have.
I straightened the papers and put them all under the clip. I knew Dr. Glass was a man, but as I
was walking toward him, I wish I would have requested a female counselor. Conversations with
women have always come more natural to me. At the time I made the phone call for the
appointment, he was the first available appointment. Quickly, I told the receptionist I would take
the appointment.
He smiled and held out his hand as he greeted me. Another warm and friendly smile. I wonder
if all the staff had a training on how to greet the crazy patients. Reaching my hand out, I tried to
return the strongest handshake I could manage. Walking behind him toward what I assumed
would be his office, my stomach reminded me I wanted to escape or throw up right here in the hall.
My mind took over and continued the walk down the hall without incident.
“Here we are,” said Dr. Glass as he welcomed me into his small and cramped office space.
A desk, his chair, and couch took up most of the space. One wall had a large bookshelf that
looked like it might collapse under the weight of the books stacked on the shelves. “Have a seat,”
he offered.
My spot must be on the couch since the only other spot was the office chair and I’m pretty sure
that was for him. I sat down realizing I wanted to be anywhere, but here.
“My name is Dr. Glass, but you can call me Trevor if you would like,” he said as he sat down in
the chair and smiled again at me.
“I’m JP, I mean Jonathan Phillip," I struggle to say back with as much energy and enthusiasm
as I can. “Which do you prefer, JP or Jonathan Phillip?” he asked. “I don’t care, either is fine.
Most people call me JP, “ I said.
“JP it is then.” Dr. Glass replied.
“The first visit is always the hardest,” he stated and reached for a tablet of paper on his cluttered
desk next to him. He wrote something down, but I couldn’t see what it was.
“I’m not sure where to start,” I whisper and wonder if he can hear me. I can feel the tears coming
and I fight them with every ounce of power I have left. They can not visit now. I was afraid if they
showed up, they would never leave; while consuming every inch of my being. I knew in my heart
the flood works would be just as upsetting and horrible as that fateful day back in the summer of
1997. No way was I allowing that to happen.
“Start with whatever you would like to talk about, what brought you here today, or what is on
your mind,” he interjects with a calm and soothing voice. We sit in silence for several minutes,
but he doesn't seem in a rush. My mind is racing, but not as fast as my heart. I’m not sure what
a heart attack feels like, but the internal feeling I'm experiencing could definitely be close.
I need to calm myself or I will be sick or pass out. Not sure how much more I can take, I close
my eyes and bow my head.
“Hey, JP. You are in a safe place and whatever you tell me is confidential. You have nothing
to worry about. I’m here to listen, talk, and help you with anything you would like. You might not
be ready to talk about the heavy stuff just yet. How about we start with your childhood?”
Looking up, I meet his eyes for the first time since he called me in from the waiting room.
He smiles and I think I smile back. “What about my childhood?” I asked. “Nothing bad happened
when I was little.”
“Oh, I didn’t say there was. Talking about our early life is a place to start a conversation. Plus,
I find hearing about a person’s upbringing helps me to get to know them as an adult. Would that
be ok with you,” Dr. Glass asks.
“Sure, I guess," I say, not sure I want to go back in time. What did my childhood have to do with
what happened last week? Maybe nothing and probably everything, I think. People have said
therapy isn’t easy, and I’m beginning to see they may be right. “Where should I start,” I ask.
“Wherever you would like. What do you remember most about being a young boy? What stands
out? What are some of your favorite memories? I find once people begin talking, it becomes
quite easy and they find themselves in a normal and helpful conversation.
“Well, I guess I can do that,” I say without much conviction. We sit in more silence and I look
up at him again while he nods his head telling me I’m going to need to start since my early years
are what we are about to discuss. Trevor Glass waits, smiles, and waits some more.
I guess I could tell you about starting school as a kindergartener…
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