Using Media to Enhance Your Writing

Pictures can say more than a thousand words. In fact, they can tell stories; they can create movements. Pictures are only the surface of emotions and connections. Think about it. A picture of someone smiling can tell the story of her first baby, a proposal, or the moment she freed herself from an unhealthy relationship. Pictures are worth the stories behind them.

But pictures don't just tell stories. Music also propels a story forward. Songs can fling the readers into memories where the song mentioned or another like it was playing. The connection with memories and feelings are what writers draw upon to keep their pieces flowing forward. Songs, artwork, pictures, etc. are powerful tools in keeping the readers active in the piece they are reading.

What can't be said in a picture or song lyric can be said by an author in a story. Don't be afraid to bridge that gap.

This piece is an example of my own writing in which I used artwork by Brassai to influence my own story.

A Little Queen and Her Rocket Man

The Laurent House smelled like mothballed sheets and cardboard boxed food: [list the kinds]. Mom was checked in, her third visit in seven months. The door whooshed open, and I walked toward the growing skyline, past the vacant lot that once housed my childhood. Over the green tarp and construction fence, I saw remnants of rooftops now lying on the torn ground. I paused and tried to remember what it was like sitting in one of those structures. Voices intertwined with the wind. I spotted a couple pausing for a kiss before they crossed the street. She stood on her tiptoes, dwarfed by the man’s husky frame. The woman’s auburn-gray hair was tied in a low bun, hugging the nape of her neck. Bangs blew across her forehead, and the man swept them aside after their kiss. I tugged by jacket tighter around my thin shoulders. The wind wisped the tarp against the fence, and I watched the frayed edges flutter.

Across the street, I smelled fried chicken. I remembered KFC on good days. TV dinners and Wheel of Fortune on bad ones. Snippets of my childhood hung like the annoying start of a migraine, beginning at the base of my neck and traveled upwards until it rested near my eyes. I remembered concerts at the Vive. The couple passed me and the man nodded at me while saying hello. He encircled the woman’s waist with his arm, and I heard their voices fade down the street. Her body swayed while she leaned in closer to the man. She stopped and faced me, blocking the wind from her cupped hands. I watched the flame ignite and vanish. They continued walking, a swirling mist encircling her head every few steps. And then I remembered Helen. Her smile. Her hair. Her laugh. I clung to the fence, straining to see past the broken bricks. Past the uneven ground to the moment I met a girl I had only watched…

* * *

I lived with my mother on Liberty and Prospect. The apartment, white and accented with punched-in holes and chipped paint, was decorated with cardboard boxes that served as coffee tables. My entertainment was watching my neighbor doing transactions in the back alley, as mom passed out on the floor with a bottle glued to her right hand. The cracked window stared at the distorted world I grew to know.

Outside, the smell of damp dirt permeated the air after yesterday’s rain. Mr. Leery weeded his garden, Mrs. P. picked up Tonka trucks and chalk pieces, and Helen hung up laundry. I watched her through the window.

Helen Breckdal stood just below my shoulders, or so it seemed whenever I would get close to her, passing her on the sidewalk after school. Close enough to smell lilac and lavender soap. Her auburn hair sat straight at her shoulders and framed her face. She had immaculate hazel eyes that told a person anything and everything. Her red lips sat in a slight smile, though most times, it looked more mischievous than content. Her athletic build instantly made my body tense, stirring sensations deep inside my seventeen-year old self. Four years, I had lived next door to Helen. Went to school with her. Sometimes when I passed her in the school hallways, I heard her talking about joining the military to pay for college. Once we were lab partners during our senior year. She never mentioned the military or school. I’m sure she knew what went in our apartment. Once, I had caught her looking out her window as I struggled to get my mom inside after work. She had passed out on the front doorstep, and it was only six.

One August evening, after putting the lawn mower away, I quietly snuck behind the garage and lit a Marlboro, inhaling and exhaling, appreciating the buzz after each puff. Helen was locking up her bike at the chain link fence that bordered the garage and the lilac bushes.

“What does your dad sell?”

“What?” she asked, glancing into the darkness.

“I said what does your dad sell in the alley?” I watched her look at my cigarette glow during my inhalation.

“Fishing lures. Pretty gay, huh?”

“I wouldn’t know. Want one?” I asked, holding out my pack of Marlboros.

“Not here.”

“Fine. Let’s go someplace then. Get your bike.”

“I already have mine, dumbass. Get your bike.”

I grabbed my trusty steed, the old Univega I bought off a man’s lawn for forty bucks, and saddled up. Wind rushing past our faces, we were free.

“Here. Right here. Turn left.”

“What?” I asked glancing off to my right where she was riding.

“LEFT! TURN LEFT!”

She disappeared into the darkened gap that existed between Dixie’s Deli and Golden Records. I heard the faint sloshing of tires as she weaved around pot holes and puddles. Turning into the alley, I started up the incline. The broken gravel weaved upwards, heavily guarded by the gray slabs of concrete. When it leveled out, I saw Helen disappearing around the corner, continuing up the labyrinth. I followed, remembering follow the leader and hide-and-go-seek.

“Jesus, stop!”I panted.

“The name’s Helen. And we’re here!”

We halted at the top of the concrete wilderness, and laid our bikes next to the ledge. As we clambered on, dangling our feet above the city, the brilliant flaming reds and oranges of the summer sunset illuminated the windows of Orson’s Apartments across from us. The reflecting windows stared back, turning us red, then orange and finally back to normal as stars waved across the two-toned sky. I dangled my feet over the edge, feeling the juxtaposition between cold concrete and air. A feeling of weightless traveled through my body as I leaned over the edge, staring at the city below. Surrounding us, old brick buildings stood like soldiers at attention, unwavering in their stance. The street lamps flickered on, a domino effect of passing light from one bulb to the next. Light’s radiance traveled toward the river. The rustling wind played with the leaves, a swirling vortex that could only be seen from above. Finally, the wind rested, a child ready for bed, and the leaves nestled in the corners of gutters and broken tiles.

“Beautiful, huh?” she asked, never glancing at me.

The empty parking spaces made me believe we were anywhere other than the top of the parking ramp. The view of the river was unblocked by cars or buildings. “Where are we?” I asked, thinking out loud to myself.

“The ramp.” Helen looked at me puzzled. “You know,” she said confidently. “Or maybe you don’t. In any case, you will after tonight.” Helen paused. Then, extending her hand, she added, “Right here’s good.”

My trance broke and I stared into Helen’s face. “Right here for what?” She noticed my confusion.

“For a cigarette. You owe me one.” She pressed her hand harder into my side.

I took out my smokes and handed her one. Then, I took one out for myself and struck the match, watching the flame flicker into full force then gently recede into nothingness. All evidence of light vanquished, leaving smoke as its only clue to existence.

“So, I know your name’s Helen, but did you know you’re beautiful?”

“You’re not getting into my pants.”

“WOW! Nice way to take a compliment.”

“Is that was that was?”

“It was supposed to be.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Doesn’t have the same effect anymore.”

We sat in silence, listening to the passing car honking at the young couple pausing for a kiss in the middle of the street. We listened to the crackling of tobacco and paper and watched the smoke spiral toward the sky. Helen flicked her filter over the edge and grabbed another on out of my pack. I took one last drag and followed her lead.

“Tell me something, what does your dad do?” I stared at the ivy clinging to the brick on the apartment building across from us.

“What?” A small full light followed the pop of a match.

“You’re dad. What does he do besides selling fishing lure?”

“It’s lures.”

“That’s what I said. Lure.”

“No. Lures. With an S.” Helen paused to inhale. As smoke encircled her head, she added, “Anyways, he’s a contractor, but he’s laid off right now so he’s focusing on his lures business. Getting ready for winter ice fishing. That’s where the money is.”

“Uh-huh.” I let the sound slam against my lips and escape.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Helen’s body tensed as her right hand clutched the concrete edge.

“Nothing.” I paused, waiting for Helen to relax.” I bet he’s contractor. And I bet fishing lures make good money. That’s all.”

“Look, I didn’t come here for this shit.” Helen started to swing her legs over the edge, trying to find her footing on the earthy ground. I grabbed her hand.

“No. Look. I was just wondering because,” I paused. “Because, I live with my mom.”

Helen froze with her left foot on the edge, her right foot on the ground. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I said as I inhaled. I waited for Helen, who resumed her spot on the ledge. “I guess I was just interested in what a man does. You know, I’m just curious.”

“About what a man does?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok,” she said inhaling. The smoke encircled her as she exhaled. The spiraling, transparent ghost danced toward the sky, dissipating as it slowly branched out, and finally ceased to exist. “He’s not around much. He hides in the garage. It’s his sanctuary.”

“Oh. Do you wish he was around more?”

“Sometimes. But I like my privacy. Gives me more time to be me.”

I watched my legs twist and turn over the city sidewalks. I felt the tingling sensation travel through my body, unable to tell if it was caused by heights or Helen. I stilled my legs and looked at her—head bent, playing twisting a strand of hair between her fingertips. “And who is that?” I asked.

“What?” Her fingers finished twisting, but stayed entwined in her hair.

“Who are you?” I asked, stretching out my legs, inching my hand closer to hers until they grazed. Helen moved her hand and started playing with her mood ring.

“You already know that. I’m Helen. We go to school together and all that jazz.”

“Yeah. I know that. But who is Helen? It’s not like we see each other in the hallways.”

“Yeah. True.” She paused. “Umm… I… uh… I’m seventeen.”

“Yep. Know that. Come on. Get real.”

“Fine.” She looked at the gray-blue sky. “I like pictures,” she added.

“Taking or looking?”

“Both.” She grabbed a strand of hair and began knotting it around her fingers. “Okay. So, we actually just learned about this guy in class the other day. He’s this French photographer named Brassai that I really like.” She stopped twisting her hair, squared her shoulders, and looked at me as she continued. “He takes these amazing pictures of France’s lower class. His pictures are filled with prostitutes, transvestites, drug dealers, and outcasts; they are so beautiful, though. The pictures are just filled with life.” Her cigarette crackled and burned. Her hands waved enthusiastically in the air. “Everything was beautiful to him,” she continued. “That’s why I like pictures. They capture something.”

“Yeah, your soul.” I flicked my filter over the edge.

“Cynic.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You are cynic, pessimist,” she said. “You have a negative outlook on life. Want me to continue?”

I grabbed another cig, struck the match, and then I took a drag. “Nope. I got it. You don’t like me.” I watched her struggle for the right answer.

“I don’t know you,” she finally whispered.

“You think you do,” I said, forcibly. Confident even.

“You wish I did. Maybe….” She paused to inhale. “Or maybe you wish you knew yourself. Or maybe you’re trying to impress me.”

“I’m not trying. I already did,” I cocked my head to the side and smiled.

The lamplights sparkled in the settling fog. The day’s humidity hung in the air and shadowed the light’s beam, creating a world distorted by the lamp’s glow and unsettledness. A 1950’s green Ford pick-up parked directly under our feet; its headlights blazed forth into the fog. A lonely bench called to the driver, who exited the left side and quietly closed the door. The quiet click of the hatch reverberated off the ramp’s walls, intensifying the sound by thousands of decibels.

“Tell me something. What’s it like? Without a father, I mean?” Helen flicked the filter over the edge. “Is it hard?”

“Why?”

“Just curious, same as you.”

“Oh,” I said as I took another cigarette from the pack and lit it. “Curiosity killed the cat.”

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” She shrugged.

“Another one bites the dust?”

“Queen? You’re quoting Queen?” she gasped, the very notion knocking her over and taking her breath away.

“It seemed fitting.”

“It seemed gay.” Her voice lowered as she picked rocks off the ledge and dropped them into the world below.

“I like Queen. And besides, Freddie Mercury was totally gay. Come on, ‘Somebody to Love?’ It was his tribute to being gay.”

“Just like Elton John’s ‘Rocket Man.’ But come on, Queen?” She stopped dropping rocks and stared at me.

“I like Queen,” I said.

“I like Elton. Doesn’t necessarily make them good, though.”

Down the road, we could hear the river lapping quietly over the rocks. Helen and I stared at each other, daring the other to break the silence first. Finally, Helen turned away and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I don’t have a mother, either,” I said, picking weeds out of the ledge’s crack. “She’s never around.” I shrugged off the statement as quickly as I said it, trying to forget the image of coming home and seeing my mom passed out in the corner with Jack in her right hand.

Helen puffed, illuminating the end of her short cigarette. “I don’t have a mother either.”

“What happened?” I turned to look at her. She rested her elbows on her pointed knees.

“She died in childbirth. Guess I was something special, huh?”

I moved my hand closer to hers. I felt her jump as my fingers grazed the edge of her palm.

“Look,” she said. “It’s getting kind of late,” She snuffed out her Marlboro on the concrete. “My dad likes his usual late night snack, and I better grab something for him.” She swung her legs over the edge and, as she jumped down, she added, “Race you down.”

“Ok,” I said, flicking my cigarette over the edge, watching it drift toward the world we would soon enter. After mounting my Univega, I said, “Just tell me when.”

“Ok. Ready, set, GO!”

I was flying down the ramp; each pedal seemed to lift my bike off the cracked gravel, making my body soar like a stallion during a full-blown gallop. I glanced behind me. Helen was inches away, moving centimeters closer to the lead. She halted. Just as I glanced back to see her dismount her bike, I heard the wild honking of the Mustang closing in the gap between us at an alarming speed. Dodging left, and then swerving right, I steadied myself, sighed, and flew down.

“You’re late, and you lost,” she said at the foot of the dimly lit stairwell. Her bike rested against the wall, between the stair railing and the elevator. I studied her bike, looking over the structure and trying to determine how she could have won. Three levels. Elevator. Too slow. Stairs. She tilted her head to the side and smiled at me.

“What the hell? How…. Wait! You cheated! Jesus Christ. You fucking cheated!” I said. Butterflies returned to the pit of my stomach.

“No rules and no regulations,” she shrugged. “Anyways, I had a fun time tonight, Rory. I gotta get going now, though.”

“Yeah. Okay. Well, good night.”

She turned left out of the ramp, heading toward Gordy’s Market. I watched her leave, silhouetted by the passing street lamps. I think I heard her whisper “sweet dreams.” But then again, it could have been the wind rushing against my ears. The young couple now occupied the bench that called to the driver. They sat, the female resting her head gently on the man’s shoulder, each intertwined with the other; their bodies forming one.
“Good night, Helen. Sleep tight,” I whispered into the darkness. Then, I turned toward home.