# The Good Life - 2147 words (some language, violence)



## VonBradstein (Oct 23, 2017)

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## sas (Oct 23, 2017)

Well, I spent a great deal of time editing, with what I thought would be helpful. I did it on my own word doc, then tried to paste. The cross outs did not appear when pasted. Disappointed, as you put great effort into commenting on other's work, and I tried to reciprocate. Sorry. 

My extraneous comment was that I would have preferred that the firefighter be an executive. Now that is spousal abuse that is more hidden.


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## PiP (Oct 23, 2017)

sas said:


> Well, I spent a great deal of time editing, with what I thought would be helpful. I did it on my own word doc, then tried to paste. The cross outs did not appear when pasted. Disappointed, as you put great effort into commenting on other's work, and I tried to reciprocate. Sorry.
> 
> My extraneous comment was that I would have preferred that the firefighter be an executive. Now that is spousal abuse that is more hidden.



If you send me the word doc I'll upload it for you. carole.admin@writingforums.com

ETA: HAve you tried to upload as an attachment?

Go to the 'GO ADVANCED' option and you will see a paperclip icon next to the smilie.


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## sas (Oct 23, 2017)

PiP said:


> If you send me the word doc I'll upload it for you. carole.admin@writingforums.com
> 
> ETA: HAve you tried to upload as an attachment?
> 
> Go to the 'GO ADVANCED' option and you will see a paperclip icon next to the smilie.




Thanks! I sent as attachment to you from my private email to yours. Not sure some words I put in red showed color. But, did my best. Thanks, again.  sas


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## Sumguy (Oct 23, 2017)

*The Good Life*
​ 
            The Primroses *why capitalized here but not later? I honestly do not know the rules for plant names, but your use is inconsistent, regardless* were on their way. So, too, were the Daylilies. The colors were looking good this year. She had read once that a sound choice of colors did wonders for the mood. On sunny July days like this one she could almost bring herself to believe it. 

Jane Trimble had not always been, as she put it, a ‘greenie’. She had grown up in the city and, for most of her life, gardens and gardening were just things that other people did. Old folks, an expired observation that still hung like old perfume as gray hair began its climb *descent?* from her crown. She remembered those little old ladies watering pots of petunias, tending tiny strip-beds of earth in hopes of tempting a marigold up. Those old ladies had been the _greenies_ she had known back then. Never in a million years had she thought she would end up like them. 

And yet here she was.

 Jane didn’t grow the petunias or marigolds, but pretty much everything else that could be grown in the upper Midwest had featured at some point in the Trimble garden. Roses, primroses, foxgloves, lilies, shasta daisies, peonies and even a couple of Japanese Painted Ferns. Ones that filled her heart with cautious pride whenever she remembered to take a minute to look. Jane Trimble did not cut corners. Not a square itch *inch?* had ever seen so much as a drop of Round-Up. The secret was nothing more complicated than hard work and time. 

_Like raising a baby, _she would repeat, silently as she ripped out weeds, _just like t*T*he Good Life says. _*Having never heard of this periodical, I was a bit lost here, almost thought you were referring to the Bible lol. I caught on later...*
 “_A waste of time,_” she could hear Roy replying, somewhere in her head, “_a waste of time and money._”

 She heard him often that way, breaking those romanticized thoughts *which romanticized thoughts?* with the same harshness with which he broke so many other things *the "with...with which" structure tripped me up here* . Roy knew good uses of time. It was Roy who once saved a family of five after that summer when an EF1 *I assume you are referring to a tornado here, so it is simply "F", for the Fujita scale* had rolled its way through town. Roy who had led the ladder into a burning church to save a wedding back in 1996. Roy who still looked handsome, so very handsome, in his uniform - despite the gray hair and belly fat that had gradually strengthened *this seems an odd description of fat* over the years. The twenty-two years, to be precise. 

They had met at the Oak Hampton Country Club’s annual July 4[SUP]th [/SUP]of July dance. Part of a summer she still looked back on with a silly, romantic fondness *fragment* . Those had been some good days. Very good. Forget Shakespeare, the real ‘R & J’ had been a quintessential All-American pair; a dashing young firefighter and a one-time homecoming queen in a pearl ball gown. For a while they had looked so wonderful together she had almost forgotten to pay attention to anything else. But it had been *there* the whole time, waiting below the surface like a crocodile*,* while the stupid swam gaily in the still green *did you mean the water that was still green (still-green) or water that was still and green (still, green)? If the latter, how would the water be still if they were swimming gaily?* water.  

_Hadn’t seen the woods *forest* for the trees_, as they say.

The irony was*,* Jane knew there were probably more than a couple of women in town who still envied her terribly; ones who probably looked at her in the grocery store or pews at St. Sebastian’s and wondered, with withering contempt, why it was she didn’t look like the happiest woman on God’s earth to be married to him* reword, clumsy and imprecise*. But those women didn’t know Roy Trimble.

*This is as far as I've gotten for now. BTW, I am no grammar God, so please don't laugh too hard if any of my suggestions are wholly incorrect. I'll try to get back to this later, but, for now, I really enjoy your writing *


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## Sumguy (Oct 23, 2017)

*
The Good Life*
​ 
*Continued*
…..​
“There you are!”

The voice gripped like a pouncing claw. On the flower bed below, the mud-stained copy of June’s edition of _The Good Life _flitted with the thump of his boots* this seems unlikely*. There was rustling, ripping, the sound of a stem or two being carelessly swept aside. _The hydrangeas_, Jane would remember idly thinking *this feels like a mixed tense* . A moment later the dark shadow fell over her, blocking the sun. Jane heard his breath move in thick, nasal pants.

“That any way to welcome your husband home after a long, long *hard* day?” 

Immediately it was there – the tetchy *what?*; the volatile, frightening _tetchy _*again, this is an adjective, what is the noun? I suppose the character might use this sort of language, but it seems uncommon*. A warning for now, passive as a ‘check engine’ light, but it hinted at more. She looked up cautiously, forcing a smile. After twenty-two years, forcing smiles had become about as effortless as closing her eyes to sneeze. 

“Hey Hon,” she whispered. She fluttered her eyelashes at him in the lowering sun. Fluttering eyelashes made her look pretty. Roy liked pretty. “Sorry, didn’t know it was you.”

He was smirking now. That wasn’t good. Roy was one of those guys who  didn’t have much of a repertoire when it came to facial expressions. Jane had often thought of his face as being very much like an illustration. Like one she remembered on the cover of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, one of those abridged novels she had owned at some point in her childhood that was designed to make even the stuffiest of classics somewhat kid-friendly. She had never actually read it, but Jane still believed she knew the novel well: On the one side of the two-faced man was the silver headed, charismatic Steve-Martin-If-You-Blurred-Your-Eyes*,* middle-aged man. A man who was placid and dignified and, most importantly, loving. 

And then there was Hyde.

“Who else would it be?” Roy was saying, his voice a chuckling purr. “One of your boyfriends, Janey?”

There it was. It was slight, sure, but she saw it with an expert’s eye. Mr. Hyde always emerged into being *from* behind a smirk. A*, a* smirk and*,* often, a blue joke - a joke that was always to do with some legion of imaginary lovers. L*, l*overs who haunted the peripheries of their wonderful marriage like insidious incubuses *incubi? Not sure...* . She was certain he didn’t really believe such nonsense, of course, but somehow it still hurt. She wondered sometimes if the idea got him off somehow. It wasn’t exactly fathomable to her that it could - she had been a virgin on their wedding night and her sexual experience still existed in the singular - but she could think of no other reason. None. So she gave him the usual dumb smile. 

“I don’t need no boyfriends,” she said, her voice husky and heavily accented. It was a voice that, like the men, did not exist outside of her imagining. The voice of a truck stop hooker or dive bar matron. She had used it on their wedding night, she vaguely recalled. “I got me a real man, don’t I?”

Roy beamed, looking suddenly delighted. “Well then, how about you come on out of that mud and act like you’re happy he’s home?”

She got up quickly. Roy’s smirk was still middling*,* like a bobbing fish-float on a lake once the sun dips. She watched him smear the sweat away. He sweated easily. Always had sweated easily as she pushed her neck into the hollow of his enormous shoulder, breasts squashed into his thick belly* fragment, and the imagery doesn't seem to work, that is, it seems anatomically impossible *. “I was just trying to get this yard work done, Honey. These darn weeds just won’t quit this year and-”

“I’m starving,” Roy said, suddenly. He was looking back toward the house. “What’s for dinner?”

Jane grimaced, still thinking about her knees. He hadn’t noticed them yet, but he would soon. Roy hated how muddy her clothes got from the garden. _It makes you look like you* a *stink*ing* like a pig, _he would tell her, _and there’s nothing worse than a woman who stinks like a damn pig. _She smiled at him, fluttering her eyebrows again. “I’ll make you whatever you want.”

“So nothing*'*s made?”

She bolted up inside* I've never heard this expression. Not saying it is wrong, there are a lot of expressions I've never heard *. “It’s still early,” she said, cautious not to make it sound argumentative. “I wanted to make sure I made what you wanted.”

“I want you to stop,” Roy said, unexpectedly. Without warning*, he* was glaring down at the ground, a sudden gleam of hatred. Immediately the placid moment was shattered *I don't think the word "placid" goes along with what has occurred thus far, maybe "fragile" or an equivalent* . “That’s what I want.”

“Huh?” Jane frowned, deeply confused and more than a little alarmed. His face had flushed red, like somebody had reached in and pumped twelve ounces of ketchup into his brain* not a fan *.  “Honey? What’d you-” *what is the rest of this question? I am not saying to include it, just that the fragment doesn't sound like it would lead to a relevant response here...*

“This. I want you to stop this.” 

Suddenly Jane realized what he was talking about. On the ground, his eyes were honed in on the pages. _The Good Life, _the bright cover blasted._ Central Ohio’s NUMBER ONE Hort Monthly! _*How is he glaring at the pages and cover simultaneously?*
He picked it up, holding it pinched like a dead rat* nice! *. “Why do you read this, Jane?”

“Why..."

“Is it because you know I don’t like it?”

Jane stared at him speechlessly. Of all the points of contention she had prepared for – and she spent most of her life thinking of little else – this was not one. Roy had *n*ever voiced dislike toward the magazine. She was certain she would never have been so stupid as to buy it if he had. But now, now it was a problem. She had to react.

“I don’t have to buy it anymore, Honey. Not if you don’t want me to I-”

“Closing entries…” Roy’s head was twisted like a snake’s, his eyes locked in a squint as he read the magazine. His expression was disgusted, like that of a man inspecting a stray dog’s turd for parasites. “Last chance to enter for 2015’s Best Kept Secrets. Jane, what’s that?”

“It’s just a contest,” Jane said, blushing. “Just a dumb contest.”

“A _contest_?”

“You send in some pictures and if they like ‘em they come round and-”

“Nobody’s coming here.” His voice had turned very dark, his eyes wide, his skin graying *why would his skin turn gray? I thought that was what happened when one died or became ill...* . “You know how I feel about strangers.” The *His* eyes narrowed. “You were thinking about entering this bullshit?”

The sun was bright behind him and*,* when she tried to blink*,* she found herself unable to. Blinking was hard in moments like these. So, for that matter, was lying. “I was going to ask you first. I thought, well…”

There was a loud _POP. _Jane's words dwindled to a rubbery gurgle in her throat as her head snapped back. Already warm from the late-afternoon radiance, her face now struck a bright bloom of heat, the color she knew*,* without seeing*,* to be redder than the roses. 

(_STRIKE ONE!_)


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## Sumguy (Oct 23, 2017)

*
The Good Life*
​*Continued*

Opening her eyes and blinking back the tears* fragment *. There was pain, but only just, and that pain was nothing compared to the unpleasantness of the blissful *these words do not go together, and maybe that is what you intend, but it just didn't work for me* afternoon silence as Jane looked down from the blue sky *this is kinda weird, like, is she skydiving now?* , rubbing her eye where a bit of his fingernail must have caught. She told herself it hadn’t really hurt *if there was only just barely pain, why does she have to convince herself it didn't hurt?* . 

Through watery eyes, she saw (or thought she saw) a momentary wince of pain in him. Roy often had back problems these days. Jane liked to fantasize it was a punishment but*,* in truth*,* she knew it was most likely common to all firefighters in later years* awkward *. _The Good Life _was in his hand, and*,* to her amazement*,* he didn’t look angry anymore.

“You’ve seen our credit card statement,” he said, sighing. “I’ve showed you it.  I’ve told you how I feel about frivolous expenditure, haven’t I? About waste...” He paused, shaking his head furiously as he glared at the magazine. The waste.

“It’s only a dollar,” Jane began, and then immediately regretted doing so. No. That would be strike two if she wasn’t careful. Without warning she felt the tears come. Big slugs of warm *?* . “I’m sorry, Honey. I just didn’t…didn’t think. And I’m sorry.”

Whether it was the crying or Roy’s boredom with his own fury, something worked. A second later, she felt his arms – the same arms which had led her to tears so many times before – wrapping around her like those of a giant teddy bear. “You know how I feel about strangers coming around here.”

“I know,” she said, softly. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t like it when you cry like that, Jane. I don’t like it one bit. It makes me worry, you know that? And if anybody saw it…” His larynx raised and lowered in a swallow, “…it would make them worry too.”

“I know,” Jane said, again. She felt herself blushing, and welcomed the thought that the blush would hide at least some of whatever *the* hideous mark was busily igniting itself *blooming* on her face. 

“I love you,” he said, the comment as unexpected as it was horribly emptily*.*; as empty as the wind that sometimes rattled the old oak that sat at the boundary of their land. Jane felt his fingers ga*i*ve one final squeeze on her arm. “You know that? I fucking love you, baby.”

She stared up at him. His gray hair shone in the hot sun. She could see the pores of his skin, the bushy little hairs up his nose, his clear and honest eyes. He was less frightening up close. She supposed all monsters must be. “I love you too.”

“How about we go have us a big ol’ dinner,” he said, the rubbing intensifying and the stopping* ? *. His voice was bright now. Loud. “Whaddya think, Plain Janey? Sound good to you?”

She looked at him and nodded mechanically. “Yes."

“So come on then!” 

She began obediently after him, pausing for a moment when she noticed _The Good Life. _It was splayed in the earth, a photo of a smiling old woman holding handfuls of mulch beside a bold article concerning the coveted _Best Kept Secrets 2015 _annual competition_, _staring up from the stained pages. Jane thought about picking it up, and then thought better. 

Strike three, she knew, was always just an arm’s length away.
[/QUOTE]

*Overall, I like this. However, the name "Roy" and the hillbilly dialogue feels a bit cliche. Still, you do a really nice job of building tension. Just be careful that incongruent or overly-wordy language doesn't sabotage your work.*


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## VonBradstein (Oct 23, 2017)

Hi Sumguy/Sas,

Thank you for your feedback! I am truly grateful for such detailed and no doubt terribly time consuming editing. I really did not expect that kind of help so it’s awesome.

This is actually a slightly older piece (six months) and I guess I thought I had done a better job proofing and editing at the time. I am thinking of turning it into a novel length piece which is why I’m digging it out now.


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## VonBradstein (Oct 23, 2017)

Also (just because I can’t resist) the correct name for the commonly used “Fujita” tornado scale (0-5 one) is EF, not F. The F  is old and ran to twelve.


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## SueC (Oct 23, 2017)

This is extremely good. You have a gift.


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## Sumguy (Oct 23, 2017)

VonBradstein said:


> Also (just because I can’t resist) the correct name for the commonly used “Fujita” tornado scale (0-5 one) is EF, not F. The F  is old and ran to twelve.
> 
> 
> Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk


Learn something new every day. This would be my thing for today   thanks for correcting my correction, I was not aware of the different scales.

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## sas (Oct 24, 2017)

Von,

For me, there is a flaw of believability. I do not think other women would be thinking a fire fighter was the greatest husband catch, plus wonder why she wasn't happier, due to it.  Just an FYI: those fighter fighter beefcake calendars are not hanging in many women's homes. So, the entire part about envying her made me step out of the story to think this. Never a good thing. Plus, meeting at a Country Club didn't dovetail with fire fighter. If you want to work her religion into the story, have a reason (not the way you did it) and make it at the church dance. That I'd buy. 

The envy idea is a good one, but only if she was married to an executive. And, that, as I said, is the better story. Both would definitely try to hide it. A blue collar guy might not give a shit. It's a macho thing. Plus, I think your personal voice would fit more educated characters. You would need to be very careful with dialogue, otherwise. So, unless your feet have been planted in all classes, like mine, write what you know. 

I should shut up now...smiles...but....

There is sometimes too much description between dialogue. Breaks up what is being said by character. Take a look at paragraph that begins: "Nobody's coming here..." Inhibits flow.

Best. Sas


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## VonBradstein (Oct 24, 2017)

sas said:


> Von,
> 
> For me, there is a flaw of believability. I do not think other women would be thinking a fire fighter was the greatest husband catch, plus wonder why she wasn't happier, due to it.  Just an FYI: those fighter fighter beefcake calendars are not hanging in many women's homes. So, the entire part about envying her made me step out of the story to think this. Never a good thing. Plus, meeting at a Country Club didn't dovetail with fire fighter. If you want to work her religion into the story, have a reason (not the way you did it) and make it at the church dance. That I'd buy.
> 
> ...



Thanks for the review and the continued support! I will be working on this absolutely.

He is considered to be a heroic man, not just a blue collar guy, hence the characterization. A lot of fire fighters are quite wealthy I believe due to unionization. Thing is this is a small town. I live pretty close to where I set it and there’s not a whole lot of executives around. Fire chiefs, sheriffs, small business owners make up the more affluent class in those areas. So that’s my thinking there. The small town effect comes into play with the concealment too.

I didn’t understand what you meant about my personal voice and more educated characters unfortunately 




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## sas (Oct 24, 2017)

Von

The use of "frivolous expenditure" I believe is your personal voice, and wouldn't be said by that particular firefighter. That is why someone with your language skills needs to be very careful about dialogue. This guy would not speak the way you do.


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## sas (Oct 24, 2017)

Fire fighters wealthy? Hmmmm.


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## sas (Oct 24, 2017)

The story that is rarely told about spousal abuse would be where roles are reversed. Wife abusing husband. Now that could get a publisher's eye more quickly. JMO.  Your story has been told, unless it is totally about something else.


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## VonBradstein (Oct 24, 2017)

sas said:


> The story that is rarely told about spousal abuse would be where roles are reversed. Wife abusing husband. Now that could get a publisher's eye more quickly. JMO.  Your story has been told, unless it is totally about something else.



Yeah, it's part of a longer (supernatural) work so it's not really *about* that. It's honestly not something I feel comfortable writing about as a main plot.

I honestly would not feel comfortable writing about a man suffering from spousal abuse. No doubt it happens, but in today's climate of misogyny I think that would catch eyes for the wrong reasons.

Totally agree with your comment about the dialogue and will revise. Yeah, perhaps not fair to say a firefighter is wealthy but my view of some of these godawful small towns is any government job is like gold dust and that it doesn't take much to be considered well-to-do. That is my thought anyway, though I will of course love detail on other perspectives.


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## bdcharles (Oct 25, 2017)

Yep. I mean, it's very good all round. Roy and Jane are completely believable, and I definitely feel the tension as he arrives home. I think the opening line is great - puts me very much in mind of _Mrs. Dalloway_.


Just a couple of things I wanted to see:

This image:

"Lovers who haunted the peripheries of their wonderful marriage like insidious incubuses."

There was a part of me that wanted this to be flower imagery, in keeping with the gardening motifs:

Lovers who haunted the peripheries of their wonderful marriage like insidious scratchweed.

or something; I don't know if scratchweed even exists but you get the picture. That way you can use the garden to parallel the feelings going on between them.


At first I thought the start was a bit too backstory heavy, but with the pace of the piece, it does work.

I struggled to visualise this:

 Jane looked down from the blue sky,

Wait ... what's she doing up there?! 

This:

 I fucking love you, baby

just screams wife-beater, doesn't it. Not that we don't know that already by then, but great characterisation nonetheless.



Another moment of confusion was:

Strike three, she knew, was always just an arm’s length away.

What happened to strike two? Could you insert that somewhere, do you think, just to keep the sort of countdown motif going?

But yep - really great. I think SueC is right. I barely feel qualified to comment, but I can read, so I approached it in that vein.


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## sas (Oct 25, 2017)

Actually I'm glad that it's not the theme. I thought it would be an oddly pedestrian one from you. 

In a small town, it is often the funeral director that has some wealth and would belong to the Country Club where you say they met. And, envy would fit. They are often on town councils. If they met young, he could have inherited it from his father, as commonly done. This might better fit your super natural story, too. In addition, you would not need to watch that character's manner of speech, as it would match your own more closely. I find this to be a common writer mistake. I've done a small amount of pre-editing for a traditionally published crime fiction writer. He, like you, has many degrees, and slips up with dialogue created for someone not nearly as educated. Easy to do. My parents went to the fifth and eighth grade. I've still an ear for it.


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## VonBradstein (Oct 25, 2017)

Lordy, some excellent suggestions there. I may just need to give y’all some of the author credit at this rate!

BD: Thank you so much for the critiques on language. Will definitely be reviewing based on what you have mentioned. Love the weed motif! And yeah, I guess I better just admit it at this point: I had a major brain fart with the blue sky thing. Consider it bulldozed and rebuilt.

sas: thanks once again for the continued support. I am seeking trad publishing (so far the road to hell is paved with good rejection letters) so appreciate good feedback. I like the idea of a funeral director as a role. My only qualm is I want him to be seen as a catch and a “good guy” and I’m not sure that job lends itself much to that but there’s other possibilities of course...






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## sas (Oct 25, 2017)

VonBradstein said:


> Lordy, some excellent suggestions there. I may just need to give y’all some of the author credit at this rate!
> 
> BD: Thank you so much for the critiques on language. Will definitely be reviewing based on what you have mentioned. Love the weed motif! And yeah, I guess I better just admit it at this point: I had a major brain fart with the blue sky thing. Consider it bulldozed and rebuilt.
> 
> ...




I also know someone who is traditionally published book writer, poet and owns funeral homes. Everyone loves him. Popular guy. Not goulish. Look up Thomas Lynch, Milford, Michigan. Lives in the kind of small town you're describing. Near me. Take a google street view tour. 

Glad you don't mind my nose in your work. I usually stick with poetry in WF groups. But, I do have a little something I can offer elsewhere, from time to time. I've lived many lives. I'd like to add another, but am running out of time. Smiles. Sas


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