Automatic sliding doors always seem to open slower when you have somewhere to be. I had waited nine long months to step into this hospital, and this sliding door was not going to slow me down. As soon as I was inside, I was on a mission to ignore the brunette at the front desk, push my way through a crowd of chatty people, and press button number three inside the very aluminum elevator. Ding times three, and I was out of the elevator like an awkward jockey without his racehorse.
Signs indicating different departments of the hospital were no use to me, and I passed by them without a second glace. I had prepared my steps to Postpartum weeks in advance—walk down the main hall, take your first right, and make a hurried gesture to the ladies in mint blue scrubs behind a glass wall when I reached a set of locked doubled doors.
“Room 304, Room 304” I repeated to myself. There it was. The second room to my left with an oak stained door and a silver handle waiting for me to turn it clockwise.
There was my brother, Matt, hovering protectively over his small family. Jessica was lying ever so quietly on the hospital bed, keeping a small body warm as she rocks him back and forth in her arms. A light from the window hit the blue and white balloons tied to a chair. A half eaten sandwich rested on a tray, and a fuzzy blue dog sat floppily on the windowsill.
Jessica held her first baby boy out to me, and I gladly yet uneasily held 6 pounds and 9 ounces wrapped in a soft, sapphire-colored blanket. It was my first time holding a baby like this. His body was so warm, and his scent was so fresh. His eyes were closed tight, and his little lips made sweet, sincere purring noises. And to his noises, I made the only reply I knew, “Hi, Aidan, I’m your Auntie Lizzy.” Who knew it only took nine months to make perfection?
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This is good, and I think it can be great. I get from your language that you were in a hurry on your way into the hospital, but your writing does not force me into the same hurried state. There are ways to make the readers move with you. Let me give you an example.
ReplyDeleteJimmy Breslin wrote an essay called "Life in a Cage" for the New York Daily News in 1987 about a boy eaten by two polar bears in New York City. In describing the attack, Breslin writes this: "Then, when the two polar bears, aroused and angry, padded toward Juan, the two friends ran, and Juan Perez, in the cold night, stayed and the polar bears caught him in the corner and began to bite him." Here is how I described this line: "we see, two polar bears, plodding hesitantly forward, comma by comma, until they attack in a string of fourteen unpunctuated words." (Please forgive the coinage.)
I think your story would be better divided into two paragraphs. The first would take us racing along with you without a break to catch our breath from the moment you burst into the hospital door and not letting up until you burst through the door to your sister-in-law's room. Along the way, you would treat us to more semi-colons than periods and more commas than semi-colons and as few commas as possible. Conjunctions are your friend here.
A paragraph break can transition us to a completely different mood and pace. In the room (at last!), you can describe for us, in short sentences, the scene before you. You can ease the tale out, phrase by phrase, letting our pulse slow as yours does. And then, we will do more than know what you felt; we will feel it, too.
I like the detailed language, specifically: Automatic sliding doors open faster when you have somewhere to be.
ReplyDeleteThis is a good opener because it immediately generates interest and a sense of urgency.
Just be careful about your verb tenses.
For the part when Jessica keeps her baby warm "as she rocks him in her arms." It should be:
Keeping a small body warm as she rocked him in her arms.