Development Of My Project.
It's almost time to submit our projects. For a final draft I looked into minimalism in literature and tried to apply it to my own writing.
'Minimalism, in essence, is describing the most, in the least words possible. The art of literary minimalism seeded around 1960s and 1970s, a result of the then ongoing meta-fiction trend. There are some beliefs that minimalism in prose was actually initiated by the 1940s crime-fiction writers like James M. Cain, the writings of whom were imbued with the least of words and yet put forth a description of many. However, literary minimalism was brought to center-stage (this is the general agreement by most, if not all) through the guiding hands of authors such as Ernest Hemingway (his collection of short-stories and works earlier than the 70s), Raymond Carver, Ann Beattie and many more around the 1970s.' (Literary Minimalism: A Brief Overview of Why Less in More, 2021)
According to Rushdie (2021), there are three main characteristics of minamilsm
1.
Short sentences:
Unlike the maximalist style of writing, minimalist literature
often relies on short sentences that are structured very simply.
2.
Less is more:
Minimalist writers tend to write succinctly, without using adjectives and
adverbs excessively. This brevity in both structure and description leads to
nuanced work that allows the reader to derive their own interpretations from
the text.
3.
Simplistic premise.
Minimalist novels often avoid intricate plotlines, instead centering around
more emotional subject matter and character development. While the
relationships between characters can be layered, the premises themselves are
usually more straightforward.
Although I can't say that my work is completely minalistic, I do lean towards. Redrafting my story I tried to use, where I could, shorten sentences, I try to tell more with less words as often there is a lot of information that could be found in silence. I also chose simplistic premise, which I'm going to develop more in my final draft.
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He would call, at least once a week,
drunk incapable of speaking clearly. He would call my mother and ask to be
saved.
When about a month ago my mother filed for divorce,
he left without saying goodbye. I guess a part of him though it will be okay,
even if he slips again, she will grab him by the nape and pull him out of the
dark sea.
He never called.
When I think of it, It really felt like a
raindrop, when it hits your face and rolls down your cheek and down the neck
and gets underneath your shirt and slowly dissolves. Then, for the very first
time that day you take a look at the sky and its opaque grey. You know its
about to start pouring, now you notice a slight change in atmosphere, and you
can taste the soil around your lips, and you can still feel that raindrop on your
cheek, but it is already gone.
‘I’m going to check on your father’ she
said, as she was unable to reach him by phone. I asked if I could come too but
she told me it’s better if I stay home. It was only next day that she took me
along to clean the apartment.
‘I found him right there’ She said pointing
at the black leather sofa at the back of the room. Then, she glanced at me, lowered
her hand, and started to clean. For a while we moved in silence, only the bin
bags made rustling sound as we filled them with clothes, papers, glasses, and empty
bottles. The sun broke through the window and laid its curls on the sofa, urine
evaporating of it. It become hard to breath, sickening even. My mother looked
at me and tucked her nose underneath the shirt. I done the same. We left the
bin bags by the garbage containers just outside the flat, alongside forty empty
bottles of spirit labelled ‘999’ that we found in the kitchen. As we sat inside
the car, waiting for the engine to warm up, I could not stop staring at the
bags through the rear-view mirror, thinking of the next morning. I wandered, squeezing
the bottle cap that I unscrewed of one of the spirit bottles, what will bin men
think once they find remains of my father covered in the morning dew. But by
the time we got home this thought was already gone, my mother started making
phone calls, I tried to listen, but It was too hard to understand anything.
Next day was the wake.
Wake took place in a red brick building no
bigger than half of the basketball court, opposite white atheist church. Inside,
smell of chemicals was exhausting. The women trio was performing Pie Jesu. I
strolled towards my mother who stood just a food away from the coffin. For the
very first time I seen my father in the suit. For the very first time I was the
one looking down. He seemed indifferent, although his arms were crossed, and I could
notice thick layer of mascara on his face, he did not seem particularly dead.
There were about thirty seats, lined up for friends and family, although maybe
just a third were taken. From time to time, someone would come to the casket,
do a little prayer and stutter ‘what a loss, he was such a great man’ I wonder
if they knew the same man, or perhaps if I did. No one ever told me such things
when he was around. No one told me anything. He haven’t told me anything. Only
when he would grab me and pull me close. Only when like a hissing cat I would desperately
try to escape his grip, stunk of alcohol and his sharp beard piercing my flesh.
He would tell me that he loves me, but I could not breath.
When not so long ago my friend’s father
killed himself. After the funeral, whole town started to gossip behind his
back. They said that he did not cry, that he was a bastard, that he did not
love his father and that his mother is cursed having to be stuck with such a
son. They said these things as if love was obligatory, unconditional, surpassing
beatings and abuse and neglect. As if scars that we carry in our hearths and on
our skin are marks of love. They called him heartless, but I saw him cry, in
relief as demons now exited only in his past.
I tried to make myself cry, I squeezed my eyelids,
pinched my wrist. It was no help. I turn my face away
from the audience whom as far as I was considered was here to judge me on the love,
I had for a stranger lying dead in front of me. I drifted back. Back to all the
beatings. Back to all the times, we found him drunk. To all the winters when a
bottle of hot water was the only source of warmth. To the blood and urine that
soaked throughout the walls. Back to the house which structure may collapsed
under the slightest breeze. I found a tear, and soon it left salt ditch on my
left cheek. No one really clapped but I'm pretty sure few faces nodded with
relief that at least one kid in this forsaken town still has a hearth.
Next
day was the funeral.
I arrived just after noon and sun was
blazing hot. The coffin was already in the trunk of a black Cadillac, head
waves raising of its roof. We made a move towards cemetery. Priest, with the
cross in his hands, in front, then the Cadillac with my father, then my mother and
me and rest of the people behind us. It was a straight road through the village,
there was wooden houses on both sides of the street, very few threes to block
out the sun. It was hard to see and my shirt was sticking to my back. Kids were
playing football on the street but once they notice us they moved to sidewalk
and froze, although soon enough I could hear the ball bounce again, alongside
childish laughter.
Everything seemed to be happening quick
from there. We arrived at the graveyard and priest said few works of wisdom. Flowers
were dropped on the coffin and then the workers started pouring soil to cover
it. ‘Lets remember him as a great man he was’ someone said. ‘we all do mistakes
through out our life but nevertheless we should remember him for all the good
he did’ unfamiliar voice continued. I told my mother that I could not remember
anything good and she told me that it’s okay. I found my self squeezing bottle
cap inside my left pocket, it ripped through the flesh, blood dripping down my
fingers. I felt relieved.
We made it back to the red brick building.
Besides chemical compound soaked into the walls the room looked completely
different, festive even. There were tables joined in the shape of letter L, covered
with food and drinks. Last bit of tradition to say goodbye. ‘You should have a
drink’ another stranger told me, ‘you know, to pay respect’. He grabbed a shot
glass and a spirit ‘999’. Same drink that was a cause of all this. Same drink
that thickened my fathers’ blood. Same drink which top laid covered in blood
inside my pocket. I felt myself gasping for air. All these people I do not know,
one after another tilting their heads back and swallowing liquor. My mother
too. I’m not sure if I was thinking clearly when I took out the bloody cap and
screwed it on the bottle. Everyone looked at me with confusion, anger even. I
knew I wanted all of this to stop, I wished to tell them, but I could not make
a sound.
Referneces:
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