ONE DAY AT A TIME

By Mary V. Kolar

It loomed before me, beckoning me to it, my heart pounded, my knees shook, and every ounce of sanity within me screamed to run, to hide, and to flee.  I knew if I were to live again, to be the person I once was, I would have to confront it alone.  I could sense it knew I was coming; could feel my presence.  We had been deeply connected once, what seemed a very long time ago.

My footsteps were muffled as I took hesitant steps.  The carpet, a deep red, was a luxury that not many had.  My feet, in their laced boots, had little impact upon it.  My hand slid across the top of a carved chair as I moved forward.  I had to will my hand off the chair, because it wanted to grasp it, hold it, and keep me from taking another step forward. 

I stopped then and took deep breaths.  A sweat broke out on my forehead although it was a cool evening.  My stomach trembled within me as I swallowed a scream of anguish that                                                                                                                            

was choking my breath that came in shallow gasps.  I felt a sudden incessant need to urinate.  I hoped I would be able to maintain control.  My body seemed detached from me somehow.  I had never been so frightened in my life.

I must do this.  I must.  My life had been choked, my passion suffocated, by this all-consuming fear that had risen deep within my soul.  I took another step forward, and then another.  My lips began to quiver uncontrollably and I found myself unable to blink.  I froze.  I realized a low keening sound was escaping my lips as one in mortal pain might make when all hope was lost.  I was familiar with that sound, as I had occasion to hold wounded soldiers in their last moments of life as they succumbed to the pain and horror of their massive injuries.  My injuries were not physical, but they still robbed me of life, at least the life I had once known.  The need to recover some semblance of that life rooted me to that place, not moving, rigid with dread.

 

I attempted to regain control of my breathing.  I must have oxygen.  I could not faint, not here, not now.  I counted five slow counts breathing in, five slow counts exhaling.  My palms were sweaty, and my hand slipped off the back of the chair that I was holding. I screamed, startled, when it fell as though it was alien to me, and not a part of myself.  The scream turned into hysterical sobs, yet I stood.  I did not run.  No, I did not flee from the terror.

My sobs began to diminish turning into whimpers, and finally, into small barely audible gasps. I pulled out a kerchief that I kept in my skirt pocket.  I took another step closer.  I managed five steps this time before I met a wall of resistance that loomed before me, menacing my progress, if not my sanity.  I could not overcome the oppression and found myself once gain frozen in place.  I was only a few feet away from the object of my terror. It was so close taunting me, yet I could not move either to go forward or to flee.   I knew the last bit of my journey was before me, and when I started again, I would not stop until I was upon it.  I stared at it with wide eyes.  It beckoned to me and yet I was repelled by it. I stood transfixed torn by conflicting emotions. 

My body convulsed in trembles I could not control.  Bile rose and I swallowed it.   This was it.  I made it all this way and I could not, I would not, fail this time, not like all those other attempts in which I could not withstand the anxiety.  This time I would make it.  I'd never come this far in my other attempts.  The only relief from the nightmares was to go all the way. 

I tried to prepare myself for those final steps, and I had no idea how.  I knew I needed this, needed to get past the terror and anguish.  How could I talk myself into taking that next step which would end in the place I had grown to dread?  How?  I knew if I stopped again, I would run as a mad person out the doors, and may never return, but if I did that, I would live in regret for the rest of my days.  I must go on.  I must.

With an anguished cry, I took the next step, and the next.  I was running now, running toward that thing that obsessed me, on the fourth step I lost control of my bladder and felt the warmth moisten my skirts, yet I could not stop until I stood in the center of what had become my adversary. 

Sobs wracked my body as I stood there, upon the stage. How was I to purge myself of the reticent horror?  My mind continually went back to the last time I stood here in this spot, and I wrenched away from the mental images branded into me through shock and horror.  It was then, as I struggled with the memory that I knew what I must do.  I must not struggle against it nor deny it, but step into it and accept it.  I began to speak the last lines spoken that night of the play,

"Our American Cousin."  I would relive the moment and hope that in. I proceeded to recite the script: 

"I am aware, Mr. Trenchard, that you are not used to the manners of good society."

My voice quavered as I spoke the lines out, growing stronger in my stage voice as the well-rehearsed words spouted from my memory.  I then responded to my own words in a deeper voice mimicking that of the character, Asa Trenchard.

"Don't know the manners of good society, eh?  Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal - you sockdologizing old mantrap!"

Then I looked up, looked up once again, as I had that night when the production had been stopped cold by the sound of a shot fired, by the screams, and the mayhem.  I looked up to the theater booth where Lincoln had sat, and I saw him for a moment, his head a mass of blood.  I held my arms out as in supplication.  Had I not produced this play, he might be alive.  When the play was presented to me, I had not liked it, and did not want to produce it, but there had been great pressure from my colleagues to use it, and I eventually succumbed to the pressure.  Why had I not listened to my inner voice?  Why?  That kind soul, that voice of reason might still be alive had I been true to my instincts.  I had betrayed myself in my need for fame and money.

I hated this play now, and my once passionate love of theater was waning.   The opportunity I created for actors and the joy of the audience seemed so futile, so ridiculously empty, now that he was gone.  He had told me that I provided a great service, for art was needed to complete the soul.  My body crumpled onto the ripped green baize carpet, and I sobbed uncontrollably, giving way fully to the grief for the first time.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I lamented.  He had loved the arts, the poetry, the theater, and yet, had I only not taken up this play, he might still be with us.  The tears choked me as I lay prostrate upon the stage I loved.  I cried until there was no more left, until I could barely breathe.  His blood stained this theater, and it stained my soul.

I remembered something he had once told me about art.  He had said that the highest art is always the most religious, and the greatest artist is always a devout person.  I did something then, as I lay sodden, my face covered in tears, broken and alone, that I had not done in a very long time.  I prayed for him and for his wife, even though I never cared for her.  I prayed for my dear friend, John Wilkes Booth.  I don't understand how his mind had become so twisted and wrong.  He had been a source of comfort to me on numerous occasions, and had been one of the greatest of the actors I had the pleasure to work with. When he jumped off the balcony and onto the stage he looked at me for one moment, and there was not apology in his eye but triumph.  He tossed me out of the way as though I was one of his mindless trollops.  This was a man I did not know.  Finally, I prayed for myself.

I rose to my feet and adjusted my skirts.  I felt wearier than I had ever been in my life.  I knew now that I could go on.  I had not been sure that I could continue in the theater since that horrible night of catastrophic loss.  I had been at a party once, and he had made one of his few appearances.  I had heard him say that to ease another's heartache is to ease one's own. We had more than one conversation about the theater and art.  He felt it was essential to the development of a soul to expose oneself to things of beauty and self-expression.  I had told him about my thoughts of an art magazine and he had encouraged me to follow through with it. 

He never seemed to be daunted by the fact that I was a woman in position of  authority in the man's world of business.  It had not been an easy road starting out as an actress and then moving up to becoming the first woman producer of plays.  Many, but not him, condemned the act of leaving my children in England, while I traveled abroad to pursue my dream.

He told me there are times in a person's life when the mighty touches us, and sets us upon a path. The task of refreshing the spirit through art was a noble desire, and seldom did anything worth doing come easy.   

I felt a calm settle upon me.  I felt as though I were not alone; felt his wise eyes upon me.  I stepped over the torn carpet that John made when he jumped onto the stage, and proceeded down the steps.  With each step I felt more resolute in my vision and my dreams.  There would be people that would blame me for my part, and some would hate me.  It had already started but I would continue knew that would not stop me. 

I would continue to produce plays, to give the audience a chance of respite from reality.  In the laughter, and the make-believer, perhaps they might find a moment of peace.  I could go on.

The name of Laura Keene would continue to be known on stage.  I had worked hard to establish myself and I would continue.   There was no sound but the rustling of my skirts as I walked out of the theater and shut the door behind me.  There were people gathered on the outside of the theater.  Some were curiosity seekers and some were reporters.  I did not want to be in the spotlight at that moment and attempted to avoid them.

Just as Lincoln always said, I also want it said of me, by those who knew me best; that I always plucked a thistle and planted a flower where I thought a flower would grow. I will go on with the faith that neither my works, nor his, will ever be forgotten. 

Mary began writing seriously since she hit the hallmark age of fifty.  Having no background in writing, she worked diligently at perfecting her craft, and has met with good success as many of her stories have been published.  You can learn more about her writing endeavors at www.MaryVKolar.com.   Contact Mary.   

CONGRATULATIONS, MARY!  YOUR STORY IS TERRIFIC!  NOW, WOULD YOUSHARE WITH OUR READERS A LITTLE MORE ABOUT YOURSELF?

I started writing late in life (if 50 can be considered late).  It was something I had always regretted not doing, and it occured to me that I was getting older and that I was beginning to run a bit short on 'some days'.  So, I decided that there would be no more "some day I am going to write," and that instead it would be--TODAY I am going to write.

Q. Do you write in a particular genre?  If so, what genre is it?

I am still discovering myself as a writer and I try to write in every genre.  The piece here is my first attempt at historical fiction.  I particularly enjoy writing suspense/thrillers (I just love creating psycho killers), satirical pieces, inspirational and how-to articles.  Next year I am going to attempt writing a screenplay which should be interesting as I have no idea how to do that at this point.

Q.  What, in your opinion, are the most important elements of good writing?

The basics.  Who, what, when, where and how.  I still struggle with getting the basics down.  My 'Painless Grammar' and 'Painless Writing' books are both tattered from use. 

Q.  How do you develop your plots and characters?  Do you use any set formula?

I have no formula for plot and character development.  I am usually delighted, and sometimes shocked, at the things my characters do and say.  They develop line by line.  I tried using an outline a few times and it totally blocked me.  I just put my fingers on the keyboard and type a word - any word - and wait to see what will happen. 

Q.  What do you do to unwind and relax?

Recently I purchased a water fountain that also plays the sound of loons in the background.  I like to sit in my chair, read, and enjoy the quiet sounds.  I love to decorate, sing, play bongo's, and I'm learning keyboard.  I also have a full box of Crayola Crayons and a huge Christmas coloring book that I've been working on for over two years.

Q.  What inspires you?  Who inspires you?

Who inspires me: 

I have a muse, my best friend, Ophelia.  Years before I ever attempted writing she was saying, "Mary, you should write."  She has faith in me even when I don't. 

What inspires me:

Inspiration comes from unexpected places.  It's usually one single thought, sometimes a single word, a sight or a sound that sparks something on the inside of me. 

Q.  Are you working on any projects right now? 

I am working on the second book of the Macy Daniels series.  My first book, "Pursued" is complete and I am marketing it to agents.  A sample chapter can be found on my website.

Q.  What is most frustrating about writing?  Most rewarding?

Most frustrating: 

Trying to find markets.  I have a collection of stories that I just can't fit anywhere.  Also, having the plot fall into a hole.  It's going along just fine and than it's just not there and I'm left searching frantically for it.  Most of the time it took a wrong turn and I end up doing a lot of rewriting to get it back on course.  That usually happens when I try to force a character into being what I want them to be, instead of what they are.  I know, that sounds weird, but these characters take on a life of their own.

Most rewarding:

Creating.  Having a character come alive and be real is intoxicating.  Being able to pull emotions out of readers via the written word is incredibly satisfying.  It's even better when editors and publishers validate the creative process when they see value in a piece.  I'm hooked on the entire process. 

Q.  If I were sitting down to write my very first story, what would your advice be?

Relax.  A story comes one word at a time.  Don't allow yourself to get stalled out by trying to edit when you write or over analyze each and every word.  Enjoy the process.

Q.  What advice would you give to writers just starting out?

Learn.  This site provides an excellent opportunity to learn and grow.  Read the published works and put on your editor's hat.  Try to figure out why they are good.  Take advantage of the on-line classes.  Subscribe to writing magazines, find on-line writing sites, join a writing critique group, take classes.  Drill the basics and most importantly of all - - write every day!