Day 17: In which certains words do not allow other words to exist

I choose to start my story this way, by talking about choices. By deciding to begin here, I will not begin with the fruit stand (sweet cherries sold to me by a woman with leather skin and hardly any teeth, cherries bought by a motorcycle couple where the woman looked more like a man than the man) nor will I begin with a description of tourism at Seaside nor from the banana slug I almost stepped on during a recent hike (it was only a few minutes later when I realized that the piece of forest I was walking through was the same forest where people had recently spotted a cougar roaming). No, instead I am beginning my story with a discussion of choices in story-telling and how once we have picked one way we have closed the window to begin another way. And how many other options and approaches shut down after that first decision?

In THIS ARTICLE you will learn some things about CC Barber and get some sense of how she presents herself. What you will not know is that she likes Disney movies because after a day of caring for people who are probably facing the worse medical situations in their lives and feeling the lowest they have ever felt, the last thing she wants to do is watch an action film. That she has read all the Harry Potter books. That she was burned-out on school by sophomore year, but decided to stay in California for nursing school because they have the toughest board exams in the nation. You will not learn about her grandpa. You will not find out that she dropped high school track (after going to state in her freshman year) to take care of him when he was terminally ill. You will not have described for you the black Nissan truck he left her in his will. Also left un-told, un-revealed, unknown in this article is that she says her friend Cassandra Tolman has "Furby eyes". Barber's own habit of acting out the stories she's telling will not be described.

This is the single most frustrating science about writing, the worst fact, the cadaver intruding on my lavender-smelling world: By writing one thing, something else will not be written. Yes, Walt Whitman rewrote "Leaves of Grass" lord knows how many times, but eventually even the long-suffering Ralph Waldo Emerson suggested that so many variations of the same piece grows tiresome and a tad excessive. You have to pick your lede and go with it, or change it and go with your changes.

Question that remains: is the picture I settled with the accurate picture? Are the
details I've selected the right ones? The most telling, revealing, beautiful, poignant, interesting, true...etc.? I spent four hours on that story and even woke up a few times during the night having bad dreams about the lede. At one point, I think around 2 a.m., I woke up convinced that the deaf and blind people would come after me the next afternoon. How dare I mention their afflictions and apply them to someone so obviously whole and un-afflicted. At 6 a.m., it wasn't such a pressing concern.

Now let's discuss the photo. I talked to CC for over an hour, enough time to firmly entrench myself in reporting, writerly reporting. I'd forgotten about the camera hanging at my hip. She was giving me great quotes, opening up, smiling. Living up here all by my lonesome has made me (pathetically) susceptible to people who smile at me and talk to me, even if they're doing all the talking...like in an interview. I don't want them to stop talking. And the best thing is, I can keep asking questions. It can get to a point where they want you to keep asking questions. They like you. You can ask anything. But I had told her 40 minutes at the most and I was already pushing on 30 minutes past that promised limit. Then I remembered the camera.

If I had paused for a second, thought about it, looked around, I would have taken a better photo. A less cluttered background, a tighter crop, cleaner focus, interesting, revealing. All of that. I think I could have done it. I'm pretty sure I could have. But instead I just snapped off a few. That won't happen again. I swear it on my as yet not dead parents' graves.