Writing Novel ( whith explanations) - Personal Statement Example

Slowly the world returned to focus. His first thoughts were of the blistering sunlight bearing down upon him, weighing against his upturned face and glowing red through closed eyelids. In turn, each of his other senses returned to consciousness. Sent; the acrid smoke of burning tires and gasoline. Touch; fine grit from the dusty plains blowing over his prone body, borne by a gusting wind. Sound; muted pops as small arms rounds cooked off in the fires. Former Staff Sergeant Timothy Wallace blinked open his eyes through the caking of dirt, sweat, and grime that coated them. Overhead, the sky was distant and pale blue with only a few high wisps of clouds to mar its otherwise perfect expanse. "At least I'm not dead... I think." The thought flared into his mind of its own volition and then disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, flashing into and out of existence as quickly as heat lighting on a humid summer's afternoon. However, that thought brought others, each cascading through his consciousness in a litany of disjointed images, "What the hell happened" "Where am I" "Where are my mates" "What do I do now" This last fragment finally shocked his thoughts into a rough semblance of order. "Okay, probably not dead, but how bad am I" His fingers reported in first, curling convulsively through the fabric of his gloves, right hand clutching at a hard piece of plastic. Wallace's fragmented consciousness now sharpening, he recognized the familiar and somewhat comforting handgrip of an assault rifle in that right hand, "At least I didn't drop my bloody weapon." Hesitantly, he lifted his head from the ground and was rewarded with a blinding wave of crimson pain that threatened to destroy what coherence his thoughts had gained. In the brief instant before he dropped his head back into the dust, he was granted a brief snapshot of his supine body laid out, cargo-pant clad legs ending with socked feet, one girded in a tan desert combat boot. "What the hell happened to my other boot" Sometime later, perhaps seconds, perhaps minutes, the pain receded from his brain, ebbing away as slowly as it had struck quickly. Blinking the tears from his eyes, Wallace took a deep, steadying breath and risked another look. This time the pain brought blackness. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but there's just no additional information at this time. Why're the Paras interested in this anyway, shouldn't you be off somewhere blowing something up" Lieutenant Jeffrey Addington took a steadying breath and bit back the sharp retort that had first come to mind; unfortunately this major outranked him and regardless, hasty words would not get him the information he wanted, "Major, I'm interested because one of the men on that mission used to belong to us before he started building schools and digging wells. We heard there was an ambush and I'm simply wanting to check up on my man." The Major looked Addington carefully over and then sighed, running one hand over a face in desperate need of sleep, "Look, Lieutenant, you apparently know just about as much as we do. Yes, there was an ambush. No, we don't know the details but it reportedly involved at least a roadside bomb. No, we don't know the disposition of the mission. Yes, we are doing everything we can." "Has there been a rescue dispatched" "You know I simply cannot tell you that, the information is not for general dispersal." "What would you have me do, Major What would you do if it was one of your men out there" Sighing again, the Major answered, "He's not your man, Lieutenant, at least not any more. He's a civilian contractor working for a non-governmental organization and that is absolutely all I can tell you. How the hell did a para end up guarding civilian engineers anyway" Carefully navigating the wooden steps on his crutches, Tim Wallace cursed softly to himself as he clumsily ascended the short distance. Having been only given the damn crutches a day ago, he was still mastering the mysterious and arcane abilities necessary to function on them. The fact that his left leg was wrapped in a cast stretching from ankle to hip did not help either. Once inside the building, Wallace was struck, as he always was, that these offices looked more like a set for some WWII movie than the modern headquarters of 1 PARA. But then again the place had been around since the late 30s if he remembered correctly. With the distinctive, tap, tap, thunk of someone walking on new crutches, he moved through the hushed corridors and stopped outside the appropriate door. Strangely, Wallace stopped before knocking on the door, a sudden dark trepidation filling him. Until now, he had been focused solely on getting out of the hospital, beginning his physiotherapy, and completing the necessary paperwork to document how he had become injured in the first place. He had not, however, given any thought as to what that injury might mean in the longer-term. Berating himself for the sudden bout of cowardice, Wallace took a deep breath and then rapped on the doorframe. A single word responded almost immediately, muffled by the heavy wooden door, "Enter." Lieutenant Addington looked up as the door to his office opened and Sergeant Wallace barely managed to juggle crutches, door, casted leg, and himself before righting everything and standing at attention before the wooden desk and saluting. Crisply returning the salute, the Lieutenant hastily motioned Wallace to a chair and even rose to help him situate his crutches and prop his injured leg. Addington could see the tightness around his man's eyes and heard the tightly controlled fear in his voice. Both men fully understood that this discussion would determine the Sergeant's future in the paratroops. Addington briefly considered inquiring into Wallace's wife and exchanging the usual pleasantries, but he could tell that this would not serve to put the other man at ease; the Sergeant was solely, and rightly, concerned with what he would discover in this conversation. Finding it difficult to meet his Sergeant's eye, Addington began, "Tim, I've spoken with the doctors and your physiotherapist and received basically the same information that I know they have given you. The good news is that you should have a full recovery and regain all the flexibility and use of that leg." Pausing, the Lieutenant looked down at his clasped hands and then turned his gaze to the wall behind Wallace, unwilling to meet the other man's eyes, "However, I'm sure that you've heard the bad news as well. You leg is never going to be able to bear much more than your own body weight." Breaking in, the Sergeant hurriedly said, "Excuse me for speaking out of turn sir, but you know how doctors are. With them, everything is worst case this, and doom and gloom that. Plus have they ever worked with a para before, for the love of God, we're the toughest bastards out there. It may hurt some to get back up to speed, but a little pain has never scared me off before, you know that, sir." "I know it hasn't and I know it never will, Tim. I want you to know that I called in some favours and had one of the best surgeons in the military look over your information; this doctor usually works with the SAS regiment up in Credenhill so you know he doesn't play around." Wallace swallowed hard and rapidly blinked his eyes before saying, "I appreciate that, sir." "I know, Tim, but the fact of the matter has nothing to do with how much you can gut through the pain or how well the injury rehabilitates. You knee is wrecked and it is simply, physically, unable to hold the weight of a 45 or more kilo kit during a jump and never will be. You'd be in danger of banging yourself up even further and, more importantly, you could become a liability to the lads." It was cooler now. Instead of feeling the sun hammering down on his face with relentless fury, Wallace instead could feel it radiating from the stones beneath him as the air rapidly cooled. While the gusting wind now felt cool and gentle against his upturned, face, other concerns than the heat began to filter into his mind. His tongue felt awkward and swollen in his mouth and a dull ache still stubbornly persisted behind his closed eyes. "It would be just my bloody luck to survive an ambush and then die of dehydration because I can't lift my head." Forcing his mind to remember back to the attack, Wallace could see himself standing the bed of a Toyota Hilux pickup truck, legs spread wide to roll with the jolts every time the driver hit a rock or drove over a pothole on this sorry excuse for a roadway. They were the lead truck in a three truck convoy and Wallace could remember grasping the roll cage with one hand to keep his balance while the other held his AK-47 assault rifle at the ready. They had been en route to a village near the border town of Khorog to provide security for an engineering company contracted to build up the local infrastructure. Part of NATO's plan to win the hearts and minds of the local inhabitants in the hope that they would not be so eager to shelter Taliban or al-Qaeda fighters. It amused Wallace to no end that a few months earlier he had been largely concerned with destroying things and now he was tasked with helping to build them. The explosion had happened when they were nearly still an hour away from the village, by road. Was it one explosion or multiple explosions Wallace tried to think back, but his memories of the ambush itself were fragmented and disjointed. He remembered firing his rifle, a second explosion; yes there had been more than one. But more importantly, had the driver gotten off the radio call For the first time, Wallace truly began to take stock of his situation and knew that he had to get up and moving. After spending nearly a decade in the 1 PARA, having served in over a dozen foreign countries, several war zones, and several areas that may as well have been war zones, he would be damned if he was going to die here on a bloody reconstruction mission. What would his wife think Jennifer Wallace took one look at her husband's face and rushed to him, helping him through the door to their small flat before he killed himself trying to do it on his own with the crutches and that ridiculous cast. From his expression, she could tell that his meeting with the troop commander had not gone well. She knew that pressing him for details now would be counter-productive, her Timmy was wounded and would open up to her on his own, if given the time. So instead, Jenny prattled on with meaningless gossip from her office and a report that her sister's pregnancy was progressing nicely and wouldn't it be nice when they named Tim the child's godfather like had been discussed. While Tim responded politely to her inquiries and made appreciative noises at the appropriate points in her stories, he largely kept to himself. It was later that night, after a takeout meal had been delivered and consumed and while the evening news soon become white noise regarding the threat of terrorism and the developing financial crisis that Tim finally broached the subject, "So I met with the Lieutenant today and things did not go well." Hearing the raw pain in his voice she Jenny nearly broke then and there, but instead she brutally pushed down her own pain for him and kept her voice level, "I take it they're not going to let you back" "Not bloody likely. The LT was right, with my leg in the shape it's in, I'd be a danger to the kids and that's just not right." Tim always spoke of the younger paratroopers in his section as his kids and Jenny knew that he was fiercely protective of them, despite the fact that he would never actually let them know this. "What do you think our options are" Tim sighed and pulled a folded piece of paper from a pocket of his utility trousers and carefully opened it before continuing, "The paras are definitely out and probably so is the infantry, which is good because I don't think I could face being a regular straight-leg soldier. The Lieutenant said that he would help me get into whatever job sounded appealing, but I just can't see myself riding a damn desk back in the rear." "What then about something civilian" He barked a short laugh and then explained, "When we were in Basra last year, I had the chance to work with some of those Yank green berets. Their running joke with them was once you retired, all of your impressive military skills left you fully qualified to be a Wal-Mart greeter once you retired." Before she could speak again, he held up a hand and interjected, "I'm sorry, Jenny, I don't mean to take this out on you, but all I've ever wanted to be was a para. I guess when I was little, I just listened to too many of grandad's stories about him jumping into the Low Countries in his war. Even with all of our training, they never train you on what to do once you become an old and broken down soldier." Unwilling to let the wallowing proceed any further, Jennifer stood and slowly began to undo the buttons of her blouse. Smiling mischievously she purred, "I know you're not old. I'm a year older than you are and I'm sure as hell not old. As far as the broken down... well, I suppose we'll just have to see how broken you really are." Tim's eyes widened and he stammered, "I suppose it has been a while..." "Uh Lieutenant, are you certain this is the best idea" Shooting the other man a murderous gaze, Addington slapped the bolt-release on his L85A2 assault rifle. The bolt hammered forward with a satisfyingly solid, metallic clack, stripping the first 5.56mm round off of the inserted magazine and seating it smoothly into the firing chamber. Only then looking up, the Lieutenant answered, carefully enunciating each word, "I think it is a bloody brilliant idea, Warrant Officer." Throwing up his hands in defeat, the older paratrooper stepped in-between Addington and the tent door, "In that case, sir, you're going to need me with you." The Lieutenant grinned and slapped his second-in-command on the shoulder and grinned again, evilly, "Oh no, Mr. Dobson, I have a much more dangerous assignment for you. You are going to keep this fire team's absence away from the attention of the company. I'm certain that an old campaigner such as yourself is more than capable of diverting the Major's omniscient gaze to something more pertinent, such as the bottle of single malt in my footlocker that you will be taking to him so that he can reminisce about battles won and lost with his cronies." Not liking any of this, the Warrant Officer bit back what we wanted to say and merely growled, "Bring him back, sir." "Utrinque Paratus, Mr. Dobson." With that, Addington steeped out of the tent and into the growing darkness. PROGRESSION OF THE NOVEL While the beginning section of this novel will focus largely on the military adventure of locating and rescuing Timothy Wallace, it will then progress to an examination of his recovery and will explore the question of whether he should have turned to such a dangerous profession after his first injury. Interwoven with these themes will be a focus on the opportunities and roles afforded to soldiers following their retirement, particularly those soldiers who have devoted a significant portion of their lives to the military, yet lack marketable civilian skills, particularly relevant to a unit such as the paratroopers. ANALYSIS This project presented a number of unforeseen, yet interesting challenges that arose during the writing process. The first of these was the firm limit on the total length of the piece. My first thought had been to write a self-contained short story that would clearly contain a beginning, development, and conclusion. However, it quickly became apparent that my choice in subject matter made such a self-contained piece largely impossible given the 2500 word limit imposed by the project. Faced with this reality, I then reworked the piece, adding in significant amounts of descriptive text that space limitations had not previously allowed, widening its timeframe and scope, and adding the possibility for several additional themes. In doing so, I believe that I have created a strong first chapter that will pique the reader's interest, contain a clear direction as to where the novel is progressing, and works within the size limitation. The second challenge that quickly became apparent was writing a fictional word set in the real world, particularly during the modern times and exploring popular issues that most readers will be highly aware of due to media coverage. While writing in a completely fictional environment bears its own challenges, such as the necessity of created that environment from the ground up and ensuring that it maintains internal consistency and logic, I feel that writing in the real world, as we know it, is the more difficult task. The reader is obviously aware of the real world and brings their own knowledge of current events, which makes accuracy extremely important. Even if a fictional work is extremely compelling in plot and character development, if the piece takes too much poetic license with real events, locations, and people it may impact the reader's enjoyment and what they bring away from the work. For this reason, I found that research was an important part of the writing process to ensure that the reader would not become distracted by a real world setting that was clearly not the real world as the reader knows it. In addition to ensuring that the setting remained true to the real world, I found that writing a fictional piece heavily immersed in the military to be a challenge as I am someone who has never served in the British armed forces. Again, this required research as to the organisation, customs, and ranks of the military as well as how they operate. While it is expected that not every reader will have a military background, I felt it was the better course to maintain as high a level of accuracy in this regard as possible. This allows those readers with military experience to appreciate the level of detail involved in the fiction and does not mislead civilian readers. While the setting bears obvious importance in this work, I also found it challenging to allow for realistic characters and their development given the allotted length of the opening chapter. Given that this piece is merely the first chapter to a much longer work, it was critical to first introduce each character to the reader and then allow sufficient room for their future development. I wanted the reader to be able to form an immediate bond with the characters, particularly those that will bear significant roles in the larger work, but also wanted to present them as actual human beings rather than static caricatures. The space requirements did not allow me to delve too deeply into the psyche of each character, but I felt that it was important to at least offer an introduction as to the motivations, histories, and personalities of the persons involved, particularly with an eye towards their later development. Offering too much of this psychological exploration would have limited my ability to develop the plot and establish the setting, while too brief of an exploration would have left the reader with little connection or sympathy towards the protagonists. In encountering and then effectively dealing with each of these challenges, I was able to draw upon the skills that I developed in earlier portions of the course. In effect, this piece served to crystallise and solidify the skills that I had grown earlier and to then apply these skills in a more comprehensive and ambitious manner. Read More