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Thanks for completing the challenge 'Make sense of scents' (theprose.com/challenge/13877). There were some fascinating takes on the world of smell. I don’t feel compelled to announce a ‘winner’. To me, writers read, writers explore, writers examine. To say we enjoy one piece of writing is not to discount another. Apples and oranges. Let’s support one another.

I hope that focusing on this often overlooked aspect of description will not only enhance your writing prowess, but that you will pay closer attention in your daily lives to the scents that enrich our experience. If you are inspired to take it further, try describing one specific scent without comparing that scent to another—it is hard! Most adjectives used for smell embed a comparison already: earthy, mouldy, smoky, and so on. We can clearly distinguish the smell of coffee from the smell of beer (well, perhaps not empty nosed WhiteWolfe!), but what specifically identifies that scent?

Trees flutter, whisper stories of time.

He wandered, lost, grasping broken memories.

Anguish holding his cold wrinkled hand.

Encounter with impression

participants beguiled

imagination dancing

to build a world defiled

by that mistaken moment

you feel for what is not

discrimination cozened

by wanting to be caught

in echoes of your own life

experience betrays

the truth distilled in shadows

relentless tides erase

the knowledge found in writing

we learned when once we read

a conversation cycle

that swirls inside the head

till crafted into drama

great tales to share anew

we build unwrinkled wisdom

with threads obscured from view.

Vanity publishers. Tsk, tsk. We shake our heads knowingly. We would never succumb to their siren’s song just to see our name in print. Yet we face this stigma from the moment we reveal to others that we write. The realm of the written word is tricky. The periphery is safe ground. You’re a publisher? Fine job. Editor? What skill. Reporter? How exciting, what do you cover?

But move to the nucleus of creating the written word and risk the tension. Writer? Really, what do you write? Have you sold much? (Smirk—who does she think she is? Probably has illusions of being JK Millionaire.) We’re put on the defensive. We must justify our passion by shouting, ‘But I’m published!’ (Wide-eyed turn of the head—well, I’ve never heard of her.)

Ah, not me, we might say, I don’t write just to see my name in print. See the proof: I use a pseudonym. Or, perhaps, the pseudonym was created because we felt ourselves so clever that we could craft a name that would sell—in big, bold, take up half the book cover letters sell—better than the name fate had cast upon us with its lack of market-savvy. Isn’t it all about selling our words?

Somewhere in the writer’s transformation into salesman, the written work itself has become nearly inconsequential. It has taken second seat to the numbers. It is not whether we write well, but how well we market what we write. This transformation has shifted the balance of the writer and his writing. His work. His craft. His art. Of course, there is a whirl of literary criticism behind the question of textual autonomy, but at the forefront lies the more primary question of why we write. Why are we seen as vain, even by ourselves at times, merely because we have something to say?

Haven’t we all suffered the self-doubt that comes from the manuscript ignored, the competition not won, the proposal rejected? It’s hard to remain objective and convince ourselves that our pitch was simply not the right one at the right time. No matter how professional we are, there’s always a tinge of frustration. But I thought it was great. What if my judgment isn’t good enough? What if I’m not good enough? Oh no, I am vain after all. Are we just celebrity wannabes? Worse yet, do we have illusions of being a cut above the doe-eyed movie stars? Are we secretly aching to be in the elite club of cerebral celebrities?

One day, my young son was explaining something to his younger sister, whose attention wandered. Suddenly, he broke off and wailed with pure despair, ‘Why won’t you listen to me?’ He had unwittingly captured the frustration of a writer whose words flutter away with no reception.

I was reminded of my standard opening lecture as a teacher of English writing classes. Imagine, I tell my students, you’ve just learned you received that promotion at work you’d been hoping for. What do you do? Say ‘okay, thanks,’ and get back to work? What is that impulse bubbling inside? My students inevitably answered, ‘Tell someone!’

It is at the very base of human nature to communicate that which moves us. Even the proverbial caveman in his quest for food, clothing, and shelter, made time for cave drawings. No doubt some rich stories were shared around campfires, but their ephemeral nature was not enough to satiate his need to communicate in a tangible manner.

The most compelling characteristic of the writer is having something to say. As writers, we no doubt enjoy the labour of the writing process. Like doing a jigsaw puzzle, the very act of doing is a delight in itself. But when the last piece is completed, that fundamental drive to share, to communicate, comes bubbling to the surface. Who can nonchalantly just shove the jigsaw pieces back into their box? We leave the completed project out to gaze upon, to share, even to frame.

When our thoughts and creations are ignored or rejected it is not vanity that sours our soul, but our honest frustration wailing, ‘Why won’t you listen to me?’ When, however, our thoughts and creations are well-received, we rightfully feel not so much pride, but satisfaction. We’re fulfilled in our image of someone sitting on a train with our words in hand, that someone nodding his head saying, ‘Yes, isn’t that so true?’

“I just forgot, Adam,” Walter said. Adam scowled at his father, who stood in the middle of the living room shifting uneasily and wringing his hands as though he were rubbing them with soap.

“But, Dad—” Adam took a loud, deep breath and clamped his lips together. He shook his head slightly, slowly. He noticed a spider web on the ceiling corner beyond his father. It fluttered gently as the oscillating fan turned its attention toward it.

Walter turned to leave the room.

“But you went for bread, didn’t you? Huh, Dad? Bread, you went to get bread for dinner. You asked which we wanted, plain or sesame, remember that, Dad? Plain, I said, sesame seeds make a mess, remember? And you come back with half a dozen bags of godknowswhat, but no bread. C’mon, Dad, what’s wrong with you?” Adam waved his arms in the air and glared in Walter’s direction.

“I’m sorry, I just forgot,” murmured Walter. He turned and walked down the hallway, darkened by the evening hour. Behind him, he heard Adam cursing under his breath and slamming something down. He walked down the hall, his legs suddenly aching with fatigue.

In his room, he sat, exhausted, on the edge of his bed. He could feel his quickened heartbeat in his throat. His scalp crawled with dizziness. He waved the air to clear the little flashing stars before him. He thought he should lie down but didn’t seem to find the energy to move his legs, which hung heavy and numb all at once. He licked his lips.

“I just forgot,” he whispered. He half shuddered as he heard the kitchen cabinets slamming. He collapsed back onto the bed, shoes and all. He concentrated on his pulsating chest. The rhythm seemed to be slowing. He listened to the hum of the ceiling fan, whirring about, fluttering, whirring, fluttering.

Walter woke with a start. He sat up confused. Through the darkness he could hear Adam and Carol yelling, little Jeremy crying. A surge of panic came over Walter as he remembered the bread. Now you remember, he thought to himself. If only he could rewind, do it over. Why on earth had he forgotten? He felt he needed to get out of his room. The darkened walls seem to close in on him. It was hot and muggy, even with the fan. He got up and stretched, feeling faint for a moment, but pushing himself in search of fresh air. He squinted at the lights in the living room. Adam was pacing about the kitchen. Carol was rocking Jeremy on her hip. Jeremy, face red and puffy, was quiet for a moment, and then, as if he had suddenly remembered to, began crying again.

Walter cleared his throat. “I think I’ll just walk around to the 7-11 and get that bread now,” he announced.

“Dad! I didn’t realize you were up. That’s okay, don’t bother, dinner’s nearly ready anyway, we can get on without it. I found some breadsticks up in the pantry, that’ll do.”

Walter wasn’t sure how Adam meant “don’t bother.” Walter felt very awkward standing there. “Really, I’d like to get some fresh air. Isn’t it hot in here? We may need the AC tonight. I’ll be back shortly.”

Carol was soothing Jeremy. Adam took a step toward Walter, “But, Dad, dinner—”

“That’s okay, y’all go ahead, I’ll warm some later,” he called out as he opened the front door.

Walter took a deep breath of the evening air. It was still warm, but there was a swirl of salty coolness drifting in. Walter turned east. A stroll on the beach was just the thing. He’d stop by the 7-11 on the way home and pick up that bread.