(Did that title also make you think of Aretha Franklin?)
*From Room to Write by Bonni Goldberg*
PROMPT: Today, try a trick. Write one of the following words at the top of a page: fence, road, boil, or fall. Now without thinking or stopping, write whatever other words come to mind in a list down the middle of the page until you reach the bottom. Write a piece in which each line uses one of these words in the order in which they appear.
**********
"I fool myself, in a good way, into dodging the pressure. I tell myself that I'm not trying to write a scene, I'm just making some notes for the day." ~~Marsha Norman
**********
Fence
Grass
Privacy
Neighbors
Garden
Out
Picket
Home
Children
Dog
Happy
Family
Secure
Ivy
Tethered
Outside
Fortress
Hills
Trees
Dirt
Roses
Weeds
Jagged
Disrepair
Sad
Memories
She liked to feel the grass underfoot, squishing her toes down against the vibrant green blades. It'd been a long time since she'd had this kind of privacy. In the suburbs, neighbors made it a priority to know your business and then make it gossip-worthy. Standing amid the garden, she couldn't see any other windows or houses. She was out of the city, out of the suburbs.
Whoever would have thought she'd crave living on a ranch where white picket fences weren't just some cliche accessory to make your neighbors think life was perfect? This was her new home and the thought made her heart race. Her children would like this place, she had no doubt. For the first time in her life, she wanted a dog, a companion to share the front seat of an old rusted truck.She would be happy here. This was the kind of place where a family could strive, could get back to what was really important without distractions like iPods and texting and television shows. This was the kind of place where families were secure.
The thought gave her pause as she ran her fingertips over the leaves of ivy that snaked up around the long post of a bird feeder. A halo of colorful flowers was tethered to the feeder, almost like a memorial for something lost and loved. Chewing on what was left of her fingernail, she forced herself to think about being outside, about becoming a lover of the outdoors. There was a stable on the other side of the garden, a building that looked more like a fortress than a home for horses. She took off down the path out of the garden and toward the stable, amazed at the sight of rolling hills in the distance. Great, looming pine trees dotted the perimeter to the west, separating her new property from her nearest neighbor; three miles down the road. At the door of the stable she kicked her toe into the dirt, just to watch the dusty aftermath settle on the cowboy boots she never thought she'd ever want.
The smell of roses was strong and distinct in the air, like a hundred blue ribbon stallions had graced the stalls. She swung the doors open and stepped inside, unsure if she'd find an empty space overrun by weeds or a hoarder's paradise. Jagged rays of sunlight hit the ground she walked on. As she looked around, amazed at the cleanliness before her, she took note of the one stall that seemed to be in total disrepair.
In the wood of stall beams was a sad little heart and initials carved into the deterioration. It was broken, like her heart, and suddenly all the memories of her losses came sweeping back in an uncontrollable deluge of tears and guilt.
Showing posts with label Room to Write. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Room to Write. Show all posts
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Monday, December 20, 2010
Color Treatment
(From Room to Write by Bonni Goldberg)
Prompt: Make two lists: One of colors that attract you, and one of colors the repel you. Choose a color from each list. Approach each of them from your other senses. How do these colors sound, smell, taste, and what is their texture? Which images that emerge can you use in a current piece? Or, begin with the word color and use it as a diving-off place. Or, write a poem or short piece in which every line or sentence mentions the same or a different color.
**********************
"Painting is silent poetry, poetry is eloquent painting." ~~ Simonides
**********************
Colortry (Like Poetry)
From pink cheeks to crimson lips
Ivory skin hidden beneath white slips
A black heart behind slate shadowed eyes
Chestnut hair pulled away from all her russet lies
Gleaming navy irises shooting cobalt daggers
Sunshine painted fingertips and red hot kisses all that matters
Purple love and lust divine against a golden sunset sky
Midnight mascara lashes do hide all the silver coated tears she cried
Fiery orange betrayal revealed drenched in jealous emerald words
Sepia toned dreams long forgotten on the wings of ebony birds
A little of gray mixed with less of blue
She is Hazel, lost before she knew
Prompt: Make two lists: One of colors that attract you, and one of colors the repel you. Choose a color from each list. Approach each of them from your other senses. How do these colors sound, smell, taste, and what is their texture? Which images that emerge can you use in a current piece? Or, begin with the word color and use it as a diving-off place. Or, write a poem or short piece in which every line or sentence mentions the same or a different color.
**********************
"Painting is silent poetry, poetry is eloquent painting." ~~ Simonides
**********************
Colortry (Like Poetry)
From pink cheeks to crimson lips
Ivory skin hidden beneath white slips
A black heart behind slate shadowed eyes
Chestnut hair pulled away from all her russet lies
Gleaming navy irises shooting cobalt daggers
Sunshine painted fingertips and red hot kisses all that matters
Purple love and lust divine against a golden sunset sky
Midnight mascara lashes do hide all the silver coated tears she cried
Fiery orange betrayal revealed drenched in jealous emerald words
Sepia toned dreams long forgotten on the wings of ebony birds
A little of gray mixed with less of blue
She is Hazel, lost before she knew
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Critical Mass
(Taken from Room to Write by Bonni Goldberg)
Prompt: Turn your internal critical voice into a character. What is its gender? How does it look? How does it smell? Who are its favorite writers and why?
********************************
"Most of the methods of training the conscious side of the writer--the craftsman and the critic in him--are actually hostile to the good of the artist's side; and the converse of this proposition is likewise true. But it is possible to train both sides of the character to work in harmony; and the first step in that education is to consider that you must teach yourself not as though you were one person, but two." ~~ Dorothea Brande
********************************
My inner voice is female. I imagine she is reminiscent of old Hollywood and picture her in a sparkling gown atop a piano with a glass of whiskey at her side. When I hear her voice, it is a bit smoky, raspy, but poised, always pointing out what I first assume is irrelevant but actually ends up meaning the most to me. She has a cigarette wand, much like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's, although I often think it is more for show than actual use.
She has sleepy eyes, the kind that were so seductive in 1930's Hollywood. She's a golden blonde with short hair in the traditional deep set fingerwaves set close to the head. Now that I think about it, I think she has become Tallulah Bankhead's image in my subconscious. She is mostly quiet, choosing to nip casual remarks at my writing, but the kind of remarks that make you question every word before and every word after. She is always serious, her facial expressions rarely changing, unless a scandalous quip or reference brings a smirk to her face. She makes no excuses for what she says or how she feels. Often there is the scent of delicate perfume wafting around her, mingling with the smell of cigarette smoke and stale liquor. She often looks sad or lonely but she is neither. And the only time she is quiet is when writer's block has a stranglehold on my internal pen. Then she chooses to luxuriate in expensive gowns and mink coats, effortlessly sipping at the glass of scotch at her side, an all knowing expression behind her eyes. It's almost as if she is happy by my silence, but there is some anxiety in her gaze, as if she is silently cheering me on, waiting for the next line to dissect and scrutinize.
Her favorite author would be VC Andrews, a woman who lived a quiet life but wrote about such dark and twisted events with a poise and flow that totally enveloped you in that character's world.
Prompt: Turn your internal critical voice into a character. What is its gender? How does it look? How does it smell? Who are its favorite writers and why?
********************************
"Most of the methods of training the conscious side of the writer--the craftsman and the critic in him--are actually hostile to the good of the artist's side; and the converse of this proposition is likewise true. But it is possible to train both sides of the character to work in harmony; and the first step in that education is to consider that you must teach yourself not as though you were one person, but two." ~~ Dorothea Brande
********************************
My inner voice is female. I imagine she is reminiscent of old Hollywood and picture her in a sparkling gown atop a piano with a glass of whiskey at her side. When I hear her voice, it is a bit smoky, raspy, but poised, always pointing out what I first assume is irrelevant but actually ends up meaning the most to me. She has a cigarette wand, much like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's, although I often think it is more for show than actual use.
She has sleepy eyes, the kind that were so seductive in 1930's Hollywood. She's a golden blonde with short hair in the traditional deep set fingerwaves set close to the head. Now that I think about it, I think she has become Tallulah Bankhead's image in my subconscious. She is mostly quiet, choosing to nip casual remarks at my writing, but the kind of remarks that make you question every word before and every word after. She is always serious, her facial expressions rarely changing, unless a scandalous quip or reference brings a smirk to her face. She makes no excuses for what she says or how she feels. Often there is the scent of delicate perfume wafting around her, mingling with the smell of cigarette smoke and stale liquor. She often looks sad or lonely but she is neither. And the only time she is quiet is when writer's block has a stranglehold on my internal pen. Then she chooses to luxuriate in expensive gowns and mink coats, effortlessly sipping at the glass of scotch at her side, an all knowing expression behind her eyes. It's almost as if she is happy by my silence, but there is some anxiety in her gaze, as if she is silently cheering me on, waiting for the next line to dissect and scrutinize.
Her favorite author would be VC Andrews, a woman who lived a quiet life but wrote about such dark and twisted events with a poise and flow that totally enveloped you in that character's world.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
What a Character
(Prompt from Room to Write by Bonni Goldberg)
Pick someone you know either intimately or superficially and see on a fairly regular basis. Describe this person. When you are finished, notice what you concentrated on first, what aspects you have included and what you have left out. Did you include a physical description but leave out the way this person talks? Spend another half page on an element of the character that didn't appear in the original description, or rework the portrait by beginning with the last category of characteristics to show up in the original description.
***************************
"I think what we do is take what we understand of both ourselves and what we see around us. Our own nature makes a selection; it selects which things please you more." ~~ Louise Nevelson
***************************
Favorite Cousin
She is tall, imposing. She has a baby face with straight dark hair and brown eyes. She wears her jeans way too tight but she doesn't care what anyone thinks. She is funny and loud, naive at times. She scrunches up her face when she laughs. Her style is definitely more urban than anything else. Sometimes she seems more naive and unaware than she should be, but that is a defense mechanism. Sometimes she is very much a bully and puts on a tough act, but she has a heart of gold and takes things personally but you would probably never see her react to it.
Reworked from the last characteristic.
Heather portrays a tough exterior, but she has a heart of gold. She can rough house with the boys and put makeup on with the girls so she makes friends easily. She has a very urban street flow to her words but she is sweet and thoughtful. She might seem unapproachable because she has a lot of abrasive traits, but she is a kind person who has little encouragement at home. She is tall and imposing, but has this extra youthful smile when she is laughing that makes her seem so naive. She has long, straight dark hair almost always in a ponytail and brown eyes --- beautiful eyes! She always bites the tip of her tongue when she laughs.
******************
I had a difficult time with this exercise because I felt like I was cheating myself of it's benefits. I felt like I was focusing my character scope too widely because that was the point of the redirect. When I am writing, I fill out character interviews for each of my main characters and summarize my secondary characters so I don't think description is an area I truly need to focus on, but it was neat to "observe" my favorite cousin for a prompt.
Pick someone you know either intimately or superficially and see on a fairly regular basis. Describe this person. When you are finished, notice what you concentrated on first, what aspects you have included and what you have left out. Did you include a physical description but leave out the way this person talks? Spend another half page on an element of the character that didn't appear in the original description, or rework the portrait by beginning with the last category of characteristics to show up in the original description.
***************************
"I think what we do is take what we understand of both ourselves and what we see around us. Our own nature makes a selection; it selects which things please you more." ~~ Louise Nevelson
***************************
Favorite Cousin
She is tall, imposing. She has a baby face with straight dark hair and brown eyes. She wears her jeans way too tight but she doesn't care what anyone thinks. She is funny and loud, naive at times. She scrunches up her face when she laughs. Her style is definitely more urban than anything else. Sometimes she seems more naive and unaware than she should be, but that is a defense mechanism. Sometimes she is very much a bully and puts on a tough act, but she has a heart of gold and takes things personally but you would probably never see her react to it.
Reworked from the last characteristic.
Heather portrays a tough exterior, but she has a heart of gold. She can rough house with the boys and put makeup on with the girls so she makes friends easily. She has a very urban street flow to her words but she is sweet and thoughtful. She might seem unapproachable because she has a lot of abrasive traits, but she is a kind person who has little encouragement at home. She is tall and imposing, but has this extra youthful smile when she is laughing that makes her seem so naive. She has long, straight dark hair almost always in a ponytail and brown eyes --- beautiful eyes! She always bites the tip of her tongue when she laughs.
******************
I had a difficult time with this exercise because I felt like I was cheating myself of it's benefits. I felt like I was focusing my character scope too widely because that was the point of the redirect. When I am writing, I fill out character interviews for each of my main characters and summarize my secondary characters so I don't think description is an area I truly need to focus on, but it was neat to "observe" my favorite cousin for a prompt.
Destiny
(Prompt taken from Room to Write by Bonni Goldberg)
Today, begin by copying the word destiny in your own handwriting and see where it takes you for two pages. Or, record a dialogue between the characters in one or two of your pieces on their beliefs about destiny.
*******************************
"Our wills and fates do so contrary run that our devices still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own." ~~ William Shakespeare
*******************************
I think I believe that destiny is a mix of free will and fate. Throughout our lives we have so many choices to make and I believe those choices lead us to our fates. I can choose to take my son to school every morning and fate may get us there on time or it may not. I also think fate is relative. We don't attribute fate to the mundane things that happen in our lives, like getting the kids to school on time, but we casually toss the word around when something catastrophically bad happens or when something exceptionally good happens. But think for a minute how many times destiny may intervene and we don't realize it. I could have left the house just forty seconds early one summer day going to visit my mother and it could have been me and my son who were in the roll over accident at the four way stop. Was it my destiny to avoid the accident? I guess we'll never know.
As a kid I guess I leaned more toward destiny as fate. It is what every little girl fantasizes about; you're a princess in a big castle and one day Prince Charming comes to rescue you. In one sense I understand how believing in fate can be taken to the extreme to the pint you do little outside of survive because you're waiting on fate and destiny to find you, but while you're waiting on life to find you, the world is passing you by. If you want to realize your potential, you need to give destiny a push in the right direction and make it happen.
Right now I am waiting on fate to find me. Hoping through some holy, unexplained miracle to be a published author some day, but without submissions, I am doing little more than waiting for nothing. I can't expect success or failure to find me if I don't go looking for it.
Fate is not tangible. Destiny cannot be held in your hands and studied. It is a lot like faith; you cannot see it or hear it but you can feel it and perhaps you feel it most when you perceive a lack of it in your life.
I have noticed I keep referring to destiny as fate. I'm not sure if that is the writer in me or the person in me. Most of my stories have a mixed belief of fate/free will. I think very rarely do I mention it, but is is always lurking in the plot just below the surface.
Believing in fate makes you a hopeless romantic; the kind of person who believes if you ride the subway at the same time to the same destination every night for twenty years, you'll meet that guy who gave you his number but you washed the jeans and never got to call him. He'll find you on the crowded subway car and tell you he hasn't stopped thinking about you for twenty years.
Believing in free will makes you a realist, but what fun is it to believe that life isn't some cosmically predestined event that we all happen to be attending?
Sounds to me like believing in fate makes a much better story and much more flavorful life.
Today, begin by copying the word destiny in your own handwriting and see where it takes you for two pages. Or, record a dialogue between the characters in one or two of your pieces on their beliefs about destiny.
*******************************
"Our wills and fates do so contrary run that our devices still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own." ~~ William Shakespeare
*******************************
I think I believe that destiny is a mix of free will and fate. Throughout our lives we have so many choices to make and I believe those choices lead us to our fates. I can choose to take my son to school every morning and fate may get us there on time or it may not. I also think fate is relative. We don't attribute fate to the mundane things that happen in our lives, like getting the kids to school on time, but we casually toss the word around when something catastrophically bad happens or when something exceptionally good happens. But think for a minute how many times destiny may intervene and we don't realize it. I could have left the house just forty seconds early one summer day going to visit my mother and it could have been me and my son who were in the roll over accident at the four way stop. Was it my destiny to avoid the accident? I guess we'll never know.
As a kid I guess I leaned more toward destiny as fate. It is what every little girl fantasizes about; you're a princess in a big castle and one day Prince Charming comes to rescue you. In one sense I understand how believing in fate can be taken to the extreme to the pint you do little outside of survive because you're waiting on fate and destiny to find you, but while you're waiting on life to find you, the world is passing you by. If you want to realize your potential, you need to give destiny a push in the right direction and make it happen.
Right now I am waiting on fate to find me. Hoping through some holy, unexplained miracle to be a published author some day, but without submissions, I am doing little more than waiting for nothing. I can't expect success or failure to find me if I don't go looking for it.
Fate is not tangible. Destiny cannot be held in your hands and studied. It is a lot like faith; you cannot see it or hear it but you can feel it and perhaps you feel it most when you perceive a lack of it in your life.
I have noticed I keep referring to destiny as fate. I'm not sure if that is the writer in me or the person in me. Most of my stories have a mixed belief of fate/free will. I think very rarely do I mention it, but is is always lurking in the plot just below the surface.
Believing in fate makes you a hopeless romantic; the kind of person who believes if you ride the subway at the same time to the same destination every night for twenty years, you'll meet that guy who gave you his number but you washed the jeans and never got to call him. He'll find you on the crowded subway car and tell you he hasn't stopped thinking about you for twenty years.
Believing in free will makes you a realist, but what fun is it to believe that life isn't some cosmically predestined event that we all happen to be attending?
Sounds to me like believing in fate makes a much better story and much more flavorful life.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Making Clay
(Prompt taken from Room to Write by Bonni Goldberg)
PROMPT: To practice making clay, today start with the word game and dive in for three pages. You don't have to write in complete sentences. When you are done, read over what you have written. Highlight any phrases or passages you like and save them for a poem or a scene in a story. You may not like anything you wrote. Don't let that stop you from trying this study and several times over using different words. You will find gems in many of the pages you write this way, but never in every one. Trust me; if you continue to use this technique, you will find it invaluable.
********************************
"I might write four lines or I might write twenty. I subtract and I add until I really hit something. You don't always whittle down, sometimes you whittle up." ~~ Grace Paley
********************************
Life
Life is an evolution toward death. It is all the happiness, all the sadness, all the pain, all the good you will ever feel. Every hope and broken dream makes you who you are. Don't forget to grow up but remember who you were. Never lose the child in your heart. Life can throw a curveball you never saw coming. But it is a beautiful, crazy, forever worth it kinda frustration.
Life is about making mistakes, learning from every experience. All those school girl crushes and broken hearts define who we are as human beings. Each choice defines who we will become.
Life is always too short, even if you live a hundred years. There will always be something to see, something to do, a place you always wanted to go. Live it to the fullest, cherish every memory because it is over far sooner than we imagine.
Part of life is death. The death of others, loved ones, friends, neighbors, people you barely know. Losing someone is difficult, it so suddenly and completely reminds us of our own mortality and how quickly it can all be gone. Should we be sad in death? When we lose someone we love should it be so difficult to let them go?
And then what would be the meaning of life? Is it more than just living to die? More than procreation and working day in and day out? Is there some cosmic soul searching question we have to answer after death? There must be something more meaningful than just life. What is it all for?
Watching my son grow up and mature feels like what life should be about. Watching him learn something new or discovering a new favorite band, loving, caring, providing for and cultivating the life of another person feels worth it to continue through the daily grind, the upper lower class sludge, the monotony of day to day life.
I have often wondered what life is like in other parts of the world. Where would I be if I had been born in another country? Would I be a wannabe writer in Spain? Italy? France? Greece? Russia? What is life like there? I have always wanted to visit Italy and Ireland. I think writing there would be an ethereal experience.
Sometimes I wonder if life is some cosmic dream. Do we wake up to some otherworldly virtual reality game and then go take a test to see if we were paying attention? I don't know how some would fare, but I am a pretty decent test taker, and I feel I had to mature far earlier than most of my age appropriate counterparts.
Guess what I have never done in my life ... taken a road trip, had a girls weekend away, gotten drunk, went to a bar to go dancing, learned another language, gotten a passport, been on a plane, been to a NHL game, wore a wedding ring, been on a honeymoon, taken a family vacation, bought a new wardrobe, gone for a test drive in a brand new car, seen a Broadway show, bought myself something expensive just because I wanted it, danced in the rain, taken a long drive to nowhere just because.
There is so much I want to do in this life. I wish I could say that someday they will all be realized, but I am not that naive. As I've said before, when one dream is realized, another will be imagined.
My number one dream in life would be to officially relocate to Pittsburgh
PROMPT: To practice making clay, today start with the word game and dive in for three pages. You don't have to write in complete sentences. When you are done, read over what you have written. Highlight any phrases or passages you like and save them for a poem or a scene in a story. You may not like anything you wrote. Don't let that stop you from trying this study and several times over using different words. You will find gems in many of the pages you write this way, but never in every one. Trust me; if you continue to use this technique, you will find it invaluable.
********************************
"I might write four lines or I might write twenty. I subtract and I add until I really hit something. You don't always whittle down, sometimes you whittle up." ~~ Grace Paley
********************************
Life
Life is an evolution toward death. It is all the happiness, all the sadness, all the pain, all the good you will ever feel. Every hope and broken dream makes you who you are. Don't forget to grow up but remember who you were. Never lose the child in your heart. Life can throw a curveball you never saw coming. But it is a beautiful, crazy, forever worth it kinda frustration.
Life is about making mistakes, learning from every experience. All those school girl crushes and broken hearts define who we are as human beings. Each choice defines who we will become.
Life is always too short, even if you live a hundred years. There will always be something to see, something to do, a place you always wanted to go. Live it to the fullest, cherish every memory because it is over far sooner than we imagine.
Part of life is death. The death of others, loved ones, friends, neighbors, people you barely know. Losing someone is difficult, it so suddenly and completely reminds us of our own mortality and how quickly it can all be gone. Should we be sad in death? When we lose someone we love should it be so difficult to let them go?
And then what would be the meaning of life? Is it more than just living to die? More than procreation and working day in and day out? Is there some cosmic soul searching question we have to answer after death? There must be something more meaningful than just life. What is it all for?
Watching my son grow up and mature feels like what life should be about. Watching him learn something new or discovering a new favorite band, loving, caring, providing for and cultivating the life of another person feels worth it to continue through the daily grind, the upper lower class sludge, the monotony of day to day life.
I have often wondered what life is like in other parts of the world. Where would I be if I had been born in another country? Would I be a wannabe writer in Spain? Italy? France? Greece? Russia? What is life like there? I have always wanted to visit Italy and Ireland. I think writing there would be an ethereal experience.
Sometimes I wonder if life is some cosmic dream. Do we wake up to some otherworldly virtual reality game and then go take a test to see if we were paying attention? I don't know how some would fare, but I am a pretty decent test taker, and I feel I had to mature far earlier than most of my age appropriate counterparts.
Guess what I have never done in my life ... taken a road trip, had a girls weekend away, gotten drunk, went to a bar to go dancing, learned another language, gotten a passport, been on a plane, been to a NHL game, wore a wedding ring, been on a honeymoon, taken a family vacation, bought a new wardrobe, gone for a test drive in a brand new car, seen a Broadway show, bought myself something expensive just because I wanted it, danced in the rain, taken a long drive to nowhere just because.
There is so much I want to do in this life. I wish I could say that someday they will all be realized, but I am not that naive. As I've said before, when one dream is realized, another will be imagined.
My number one dream in life would be to officially relocate to Pittsburgh
Friday, November 12, 2010
Piece by Piece
(Prompt taken from Room to Write by Bonni Goldberg)
PROMPT: Today start writing with no thought about what form the material will take. Or, select material you already have and try it out in another form. Pick from short story, poem, essay, performance monologue, creative nonfiction, children's story.
***********************
"You know, you don't always have a choice of what you're going to write. You're not a cow that can give cream with one udder and milk with another." ~~ Bruce Duffy
***********************
I saw an open window and wondered what it would be like to jump.
Jump down and fall above where I've been. Maybe even touch my toes to my chin. Like a child in a crib, playing alone, again. But people like me aren't lucky enough to win.
I walked along a broken bridge until the ground crumbled under foot.
If I'd stayed behind I never would have found this place of forgotten times and melodic sound. Through long forgotten paths that twisted and wound. My heart and soul to a place to be forever bound.
I stopped swimming in the middle of the coldest spot in a lake.
Let the water gurgle up around me as I sank. Tasted the water on my lips like a misbegotten prank. Watched the billowing air rise above like a fish in a tank. Forgot for a moment that the world had a shore and a bank.
Looked in the mirror for the first time and wasn't sad to see me.
A woman staring back who had lived a life. Happiness was there and the lessons were rife. Too old to be a woman, still too young to be a wife. The truth was glaring back like tears on the blade of a knife.
PROMPT: Today start writing with no thought about what form the material will take. Or, select material you already have and try it out in another form. Pick from short story, poem, essay, performance monologue, creative nonfiction, children's story.
***********************
"You know, you don't always have a choice of what you're going to write. You're not a cow that can give cream with one udder and milk with another." ~~ Bruce Duffy
***********************
I saw an open window and wondered what it would be like to jump.
Jump down and fall above where I've been. Maybe even touch my toes to my chin. Like a child in a crib, playing alone, again. But people like me aren't lucky enough to win.
I walked along a broken bridge until the ground crumbled under foot.
If I'd stayed behind I never would have found this place of forgotten times and melodic sound. Through long forgotten paths that twisted and wound. My heart and soul to a place to be forever bound.
I stopped swimming in the middle of the coldest spot in a lake.
Let the water gurgle up around me as I sank. Tasted the water on my lips like a misbegotten prank. Watched the billowing air rise above like a fish in a tank. Forgot for a moment that the world had a shore and a bank.
Looked in the mirror for the first time and wasn't sad to see me.
A woman staring back who had lived a life. Happiness was there and the lessons were rife. Too old to be a woman, still too young to be a wife. The truth was glaring back like tears on the blade of a knife.
SNOT
(A prompt taken from Room to Write by Bonni Goldberg)
PROMPT: For a minimum of one full page, write about snot. Afterward, consider how you felt before you began, as you wrote, and once you were finished. Record your responses. Check if any material emerged that you could incorporate into a piece you are working on. Or, list other unmentionable topics your could explore as you write.
***********************************
"You will do foolish things, but do them with enthusiasm." ~~ Colette
***********************************
How many times must I blow my nose? I'm sure this cold will last forever and just in time for my global presentation to the board and our subsidiaries. I grabbed a tissue from my purse and felt the thickly sticky substance on my fingers. Gross!
I was pretty sure I'd expelled more than my fair share of snot for one lifetime. I couldn't toss the snotted tissue in a receptacle. I was on the subway, but that didn't stop my urgent need to blow my nose. I shoved the tissue into my pocket and dug through my purse for a snot-less tissue. It was a futile effort. Was it sanitary to reuse a tissue? I mean it wasn't like it was someone else's snotty tissue. There was little else I could do. I already felt the lingering, slowly running drip of snot. From the way the woman across from me was glaring, I probably had a booger rolling down too, like a boulder in an avalanche.
I reused my tissue and couldn't help a quick glance down at it. Okay, that was even more gross. The once clear snot was now a sickly green. Great! That meant time off from work if I picked up anymore symptoms.
The train stopped at my station and I hurried out of the car, up the stairs, and onto the street. Every few seconds I sucked the snot back into my nostrils and thanked my lucky stars when my building was in sight. Hands in my pocket, I made a mental note to throw away all my gross tissues when I felt someone tap my shoulder. I spun around and Larry, my boss, was juggling a few drink carriers with hot coffee.
"Help me out, Jen," he said, and I reached for two of the carriers. I followed him into the building and onto the elevator, up to the seventeenth floor, and to the conference room that was already full of my colleagues. I passed out the drinks in my carriers and shrugged my coat off into my chair.
"Uh, Jen, I think this belongs to you," Larry said, handing me a Styrofoam cup. A sticky green covered tissued was attached to the lid and I felt my face flush red hot as another drip of snot betrayed my nasal passages.
PROMPT: For a minimum of one full page, write about snot. Afterward, consider how you felt before you began, as you wrote, and once you were finished. Record your responses. Check if any material emerged that you could incorporate into a piece you are working on. Or, list other unmentionable topics your could explore as you write.
***********************************
"You will do foolish things, but do them with enthusiasm." ~~ Colette
***********************************
How many times must I blow my nose? I'm sure this cold will last forever and just in time for my global presentation to the board and our subsidiaries. I grabbed a tissue from my purse and felt the thickly sticky substance on my fingers. Gross!
I was pretty sure I'd expelled more than my fair share of snot for one lifetime. I couldn't toss the snotted tissue in a receptacle. I was on the subway, but that didn't stop my urgent need to blow my nose. I shoved the tissue into my pocket and dug through my purse for a snot-less tissue. It was a futile effort. Was it sanitary to reuse a tissue? I mean it wasn't like it was someone else's snotty tissue. There was little else I could do. I already felt the lingering, slowly running drip of snot. From the way the woman across from me was glaring, I probably had a booger rolling down too, like a boulder in an avalanche.
I reused my tissue and couldn't help a quick glance down at it. Okay, that was even more gross. The once clear snot was now a sickly green. Great! That meant time off from work if I picked up anymore symptoms.
The train stopped at my station and I hurried out of the car, up the stairs, and onto the street. Every few seconds I sucked the snot back into my nostrils and thanked my lucky stars when my building was in sight. Hands in my pocket, I made a mental note to throw away all my gross tissues when I felt someone tap my shoulder. I spun around and Larry, my boss, was juggling a few drink carriers with hot coffee.
"Help me out, Jen," he said, and I reached for two of the carriers. I followed him into the building and onto the elevator, up to the seventeenth floor, and to the conference room that was already full of my colleagues. I passed out the drinks in my carriers and shrugged my coat off into my chair.
"Uh, Jen, I think this belongs to you," Larry said, handing me a Styrofoam cup. A sticky green covered tissued was attached to the lid and I felt my face flush red hot as another drip of snot betrayed my nasal passages.
FAILING
(A prompt taken from Bonni Goldberg and her book, Room To Write)
PROMPT: Today, write a full page of junk. It can be trite, repetitive, vague, clunky, melodramatic, gibberish, the worst stuff you can muster. Read it over and notice all the elements you understand about writing through the intentional ways you wrote against them. Now crumple, tear, or delete the page and toss it in the trash. Since this is a blog and the purpose of posting is for everyone to see, I'll just never look at this post again ... HAHA
*******************
"Try again. Fail again. Fail better." ~~ Samuel Beckett
*******************
Life was boring in this small town so I hitched a ride with the first car that stopped and climbed inside over the torn leather seats and a busted dash even though the inside smelled like a year old stash of fast food. Well, would you look at that? A pile of McDonald's bags and cups that looked at least as old as dirt. You should have seen the guy behind the wheel. He was tall with giant hands that looked swollen. He had a big belly, but he was thin and the black t-shirt with holes through the midsection didn't help him out. And seriously was that an eight track tape player? How did I even know what an eight track tape player was? I'm only seventeen. He smiled a toothy grin and almost like bit his bottom lip off. This guy had to have fallen out of some incest tree. He asked me where I was going and I told him I didn't care as long as it was far from here so he pushed down on the gas pedal and sped down the road, at somewhere around forty miles an hour. The sun glared off the wet pavement and I put my and over my eyes to shield from that glaring light. I tried to ignore the paper bag in the back floor board with the dark congealed stains and the pile of fabric that laid inside. A baby doll was back there too and I couldn't stop myself from turning back to look at him, but it was already too late and I saw him swing the tire iron over his head as it hit mine and the darkness swallowed my thoughts before the questions could leave my lips.
PROMPT: Today, write a full page of junk. It can be trite, repetitive, vague, clunky, melodramatic, gibberish, the worst stuff you can muster. Read it over and notice all the elements you understand about writing through the intentional ways you wrote against them. Now crumple, tear, or delete the page and toss it in the trash. Since this is a blog and the purpose of posting is for everyone to see, I'll just never look at this post again ... HAHA
*******************
"Try again. Fail again. Fail better." ~~ Samuel Beckett
*******************
Life was boring in this small town so I hitched a ride with the first car that stopped and climbed inside over the torn leather seats and a busted dash even though the inside smelled like a year old stash of fast food. Well, would you look at that? A pile of McDonald's bags and cups that looked at least as old as dirt. You should have seen the guy behind the wheel. He was tall with giant hands that looked swollen. He had a big belly, but he was thin and the black t-shirt with holes through the midsection didn't help him out. And seriously was that an eight track tape player? How did I even know what an eight track tape player was? I'm only seventeen. He smiled a toothy grin and almost like bit his bottom lip off. This guy had to have fallen out of some incest tree. He asked me where I was going and I told him I didn't care as long as it was far from here so he pushed down on the gas pedal and sped down the road, at somewhere around forty miles an hour. The sun glared off the wet pavement and I put my and over my eyes to shield from that glaring light. I tried to ignore the paper bag in the back floor board with the dark congealed stains and the pile of fabric that laid inside. A baby doll was back there too and I couldn't stop myself from turning back to look at him, but it was already too late and I saw him swing the tire iron over his head as it hit mine and the darkness swallowed my thoughts before the questions could leave my lips.
I Don't Remember
(A prompt taken from Room To Write by Bonni Goldberg)
PROMPT: This time, begin with the phrase, "I don't remember," and fill up a page. If you draw a blank at any point, repeat the phrase "I don't remember," in writing, until something else forms in your consciousness. Notice if one of these non memories suggests a section of a piece, an experience for one of your characters, or perhaps a topic to write about. Notice what subjects of non-memories emerge; are they the same themes you often write about? If not, further explore one of the new ones.
**********
"Not knowing when the dawn will come I open the door." ~~ Emily Dickinson
**********
I don't remember what it's like to be alone. I am only twenty five, but I've been married for eight years and with Joe for ten years. I am a wife and mother. Sometimes I don't remember who Tracy is. All these plans and dreams I had for myself were completely within my grasp but I gave them up to be a mother and a wife. I don't regret my choices. I love my son and my husband, but sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if I'd gone to college, spent a summer in Italy, went on a blind date, made a career for myself. Would I be married now? Would I be a mom? Would I still be in Indiana? Would I still long for Pittsburgh? I promise myself that once Christian is grown and in college that Joe and I will make a new life in Pittsburgh. I don't remember a time when I didn't want to be in Pittsburgh. Ever since my writing became a prominent fixture in my life, Pittsburgh has been a forefront in my thoughts. I don't remember a time in my childhood when I felt like I was my mother's daughter. I don't remember a time when I felt like she cared about me the way she does my brother. I don't remember a time when I felt like I belonged with my family. I don't remember a time I ever felt like I felt like myself; my true self.
PROMPT: This time, begin with the phrase, "I don't remember," and fill up a page. If you draw a blank at any point, repeat the phrase "I don't remember," in writing, until something else forms in your consciousness. Notice if one of these non memories suggests a section of a piece, an experience for one of your characters, or perhaps a topic to write about. Notice what subjects of non-memories emerge; are they the same themes you often write about? If not, further explore one of the new ones.
**********
"Not knowing when the dawn will come I open the door." ~~ Emily Dickinson
**********
I don't remember what it's like to be alone. I am only twenty five, but I've been married for eight years and with Joe for ten years. I am a wife and mother. Sometimes I don't remember who Tracy is. All these plans and dreams I had for myself were completely within my grasp but I gave them up to be a mother and a wife. I don't regret my choices. I love my son and my husband, but sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if I'd gone to college, spent a summer in Italy, went on a blind date, made a career for myself. Would I be married now? Would I be a mom? Would I still be in Indiana? Would I still long for Pittsburgh? I promise myself that once Christian is grown and in college that Joe and I will make a new life in Pittsburgh. I don't remember a time when I didn't want to be in Pittsburgh. Ever since my writing became a prominent fixture in my life, Pittsburgh has been a forefront in my thoughts. I don't remember a time in my childhood when I felt like I was my mother's daughter. I don't remember a time when I felt like she cared about me the way she does my brother. I don't remember a time when I felt like I belonged with my family. I don't remember a time I ever felt like I felt like myself; my true self.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Perspective
Exercise from: Room to Write by Bonnie Goldberg
Today, choose a favorite biblical or literary story or a fable or fairytale. Pick another character who appears in the story and tell it through his or her eyes.
****************
"Creativity oscillates between what is given and what can be discovered." ~~ Deena Metzger
****************
She wanted me to kill the child, to rip her heart from her chest and bring it back as a trophy in that little golden box hidden at the bottom of my napsack. Why did she even want the child dead? Snow White was such a kind little girl. Never once had I heard her complain about the tattered clothes or unruly chores the Queen forced upon her. If only the King were alive he never would have let his daughter be turned into a meer slave. She probably poisoned him. The Queen was capable of loving no one, her own stepdaughter included.
The child was so excited when I told her that I would be taking her into the forest to pick berries. She quickly ran to her room in the tower and changed into her royal robes. Off the kingdom grounds were the only time she was allowed to wear them. Everyone who worked inside the palace knew why; the Queen had to keep up appearances to the peasants.
She sang along behind me as I led her deeper into the woods, thickets of branches and roots making the trek difficult. Not once did she complain about the venture or ask when we would head back. She just plucked berries from the bushes we passed and delicately set them in her basket. She kept humming. More than once I wanted to turn around and scream at her to shut up, but I was afraid if I opened my mouth I'd tell her exactly why we were going so far into the woods.
Unable to stand my thoughts any longer, I stopped. The log at my feet was half eaten away by time, the splintery end jagged and dangerous. I turned around and smiled at the princess.
"Look at that fruit," I exclaimed, forcing my trepidation to become excitement. The poor girl fell for it and clapped her hands as she rushed around me. There was no fruit, and when she realized it, I already had my knife grasped tightly in my hand, the seam of the handle imprinting on my palm as I raised it above my head.
"Woodsman, I don't see anything," she said. Still smiling, she turned back to me. It took her several moments to realize that the knife I held high overhead was meant to kill her. Blood pulsed through my chest, slamming my heart against my ribs as I brought the knife down.
But I couldn't. That helplessly frightened look in her eyes broke my resolve. I crumpled at her feet, bursting into tears. I grabbed her capelet and started to wipe it across my eyes. This was horrible! The Queen would kill me if I came back refusing to do her bidding, but I just could not kill her. She sobbed too, but even as frightened and scared as she was she patted my shoulder, quietly asking why I'd want to hurt her.
"Princess, I'm so sorry!" I sobbed harder. It was the gentle touch of her palm against my cheek that calmed my tears enough to go on, "It was the queen. She wanted me to bring your heart back as a token to her. She's vile, evil, and she'll stop at nothing until you're dead. You must run, you must get away and never come back!"
The fear of the Queen's wrath began to creep into my thoughts. This would not please her. And if she ever found out I betrayed her, she'd kill me and search for the girl to kill her as well. A plan started to formulate, churning through my mind like the gears of a clock tower. I gazed up at the princess who still seemed to be in shock. I wasn't exactly sure how I was going to do what needed to be done, or if the princess could survive on her own out there in the wilderness, but it was the only shot either one of us had at living to see another day.
"I don't, I don't, I don't understand," she mumbled, the confusion drawing lines in her brow.
"Go, run, get out of here! Never come back!" I jumped up to my feet, eyes wide and wild, voice rumbling and echoing off the trees. The girl popped up from the disintegrating log and stumbled over the gnarled roots that had worked up from under the ground. She started crying, her face streaked with tears, turning back to make sure I wasn't playing some evil joke on her.
But I was dead serious. This was the way it had to be. At least out there Snow White would have a fighting chance.
When I was sure she was lost out there, deeper in the woods than she could ever hope to find her way home. I stood there, steadying my heart, listening and hoping I didn't hear her cries out there. I put my knife back in the case and threw my satchel over my shoulder. I trekked back through the trail of broken twigs and branches toward town. By the time I made it out of the density of the woods it was near dusk.
Luck just so had it that I stumbled out of the clearing not far from a pig farm. I waited until dark, watched the candles go out in the windowsill, and left twenty gold pieces in a leather pouch in place of the pig I stole. This would have to do. I would take the heart of the pig to the queen. When she dismissed me, if she bought the rouse, I'd leave through the night and start life over somewhere else.
For just a moment I wished I'd stayed in the woods with the girl. At least out there I could fight the elements to survive, but the queen was a much more formidable opponent than nature. I steadied myself as I gave word to the drawbridge guards that I'd returned on mission for the queen. This was the moment of truth. I'd either have a day's headstart or I'd die for crossing the queen. Either way, I knew it my heart that I'd done the right thing.
Today, choose a favorite biblical or literary story or a fable or fairytale. Pick another character who appears in the story and tell it through his or her eyes.
****************
"Creativity oscillates between what is given and what can be discovered." ~~ Deena Metzger
****************
She wanted me to kill the child, to rip her heart from her chest and bring it back as a trophy in that little golden box hidden at the bottom of my napsack. Why did she even want the child dead? Snow White was such a kind little girl. Never once had I heard her complain about the tattered clothes or unruly chores the Queen forced upon her. If only the King were alive he never would have let his daughter be turned into a meer slave. She probably poisoned him. The Queen was capable of loving no one, her own stepdaughter included.
The child was so excited when I told her that I would be taking her into the forest to pick berries. She quickly ran to her room in the tower and changed into her royal robes. Off the kingdom grounds were the only time she was allowed to wear them. Everyone who worked inside the palace knew why; the Queen had to keep up appearances to the peasants.
She sang along behind me as I led her deeper into the woods, thickets of branches and roots making the trek difficult. Not once did she complain about the venture or ask when we would head back. She just plucked berries from the bushes we passed and delicately set them in her basket. She kept humming. More than once I wanted to turn around and scream at her to shut up, but I was afraid if I opened my mouth I'd tell her exactly why we were going so far into the woods.
Unable to stand my thoughts any longer, I stopped. The log at my feet was half eaten away by time, the splintery end jagged and dangerous. I turned around and smiled at the princess.
"Look at that fruit," I exclaimed, forcing my trepidation to become excitement. The poor girl fell for it and clapped her hands as she rushed around me. There was no fruit, and when she realized it, I already had my knife grasped tightly in my hand, the seam of the handle imprinting on my palm as I raised it above my head.
"Woodsman, I don't see anything," she said. Still smiling, she turned back to me. It took her several moments to realize that the knife I held high overhead was meant to kill her. Blood pulsed through my chest, slamming my heart against my ribs as I brought the knife down.
But I couldn't. That helplessly frightened look in her eyes broke my resolve. I crumpled at her feet, bursting into tears. I grabbed her capelet and started to wipe it across my eyes. This was horrible! The Queen would kill me if I came back refusing to do her bidding, but I just could not kill her. She sobbed too, but even as frightened and scared as she was she patted my shoulder, quietly asking why I'd want to hurt her.
"Princess, I'm so sorry!" I sobbed harder. It was the gentle touch of her palm against my cheek that calmed my tears enough to go on, "It was the queen. She wanted me to bring your heart back as a token to her. She's vile, evil, and she'll stop at nothing until you're dead. You must run, you must get away and never come back!"
The fear of the Queen's wrath began to creep into my thoughts. This would not please her. And if she ever found out I betrayed her, she'd kill me and search for the girl to kill her as well. A plan started to formulate, churning through my mind like the gears of a clock tower. I gazed up at the princess who still seemed to be in shock. I wasn't exactly sure how I was going to do what needed to be done, or if the princess could survive on her own out there in the wilderness, but it was the only shot either one of us had at living to see another day.
"I don't, I don't, I don't understand," she mumbled, the confusion drawing lines in her brow.
"Go, run, get out of here! Never come back!" I jumped up to my feet, eyes wide and wild, voice rumbling and echoing off the trees. The girl popped up from the disintegrating log and stumbled over the gnarled roots that had worked up from under the ground. She started crying, her face streaked with tears, turning back to make sure I wasn't playing some evil joke on her.
But I was dead serious. This was the way it had to be. At least out there Snow White would have a fighting chance.
When I was sure she was lost out there, deeper in the woods than she could ever hope to find her way home. I stood there, steadying my heart, listening and hoping I didn't hear her cries out there. I put my knife back in the case and threw my satchel over my shoulder. I trekked back through the trail of broken twigs and branches toward town. By the time I made it out of the density of the woods it was near dusk.
Luck just so had it that I stumbled out of the clearing not far from a pig farm. I waited until dark, watched the candles go out in the windowsill, and left twenty gold pieces in a leather pouch in place of the pig I stole. This would have to do. I would take the heart of the pig to the queen. When she dismissed me, if she bought the rouse, I'd leave through the night and start life over somewhere else.
For just a moment I wished I'd stayed in the woods with the girl. At least out there I could fight the elements to survive, but the queen was a much more formidable opponent than nature. I steadied myself as I gave word to the drawbridge guards that I'd returned on mission for the queen. This was the moment of truth. I'd either have a day's headstart or I'd die for crossing the queen. Either way, I knew it my heart that I'd done the right thing.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
In the Beginning There Was the Word
Exercise From: Room to Write by Bonnie Goldberg
Today write about the first time words profoundly affected you. Describe the situation, what led up to it, the moment of the encounter, your physical reaction, and something else that was taking place in the same setting but had nothing to do with the experience. Feel free to allow your imagination to supply whichever of these elements you can't recall. You might try this as a poem.
*********************
"The words! I collected them in all shapes and sizes and hung them like bangles in my mind."
Hortense Calisher
*********************
I don't remember exactly what it was about reading and words that made me love the art of books. When I was in third grade I found this book at an old rummage sale and I picked it up because the title of the book just captured me. It was simple and short and even though I knew it was beyond my level, I couldn't help but fall in love with it.
Child of the Dark. It was a book about a girl whose mother was single in one of the poorest countries in the world. It's about a mother's struggle to provide and a daughter's struggle in a world where every odd is stacked against her.
And I read that book, although the details escape me now, and I knew that it was what I wanted to do. I wanted to write and evoke so many different emotions in the reader. I wanted to write about things that people shied away from.
That book inspired me to write poetry. I was eight years old and kept a notebook of poems. I wrote one I titled Child of the Dark, after my greatest inspiration. I just let the feeling take over and I wrote this poem about child abuse, from the point of the abused child. It was dark and probably far beyond the realm of an eight year old, but it was beautiful. And I took it to school to show my favorite teacher. She was really touched by the piece but thought I was the abused child in the poem. It made me actually feel good because my writing made them think it was possible.
And when I showed the poem to my father he was so encouraging. He asked me how I came up with it, what the inspiration was, if I was going to submit it to a contest. It made me feel incredible that he took such an interest in something I was doing. Which made me want to do it even more.
And when I was in seventh grade, I don't know what age that makes me, I read Flowers in the Attic. It was this incredible story about love and betrayal. It made me want to write something like that. So I started this novel I named Obsession about Alexis. There was so much that should have kept me from writing. I wrote thirty pages and the computer crashed, lost everything. Rewrote twenty-five pages and there was a powersurge during a thunderstorm and I lost everything. A year later I picked the idea back up and finished the final draft when I was in my second semester freshman year. I printed it out, took it to a book place and had it bound in faux leather. I was so proud of it even though it had a million misspellings, countless grammatical errors, and an incredibely cheesy plot.
I don't even know where I'm going with this. What I'm trying to say is that my love affair with writing has been a part of my life for as far back as I can remember
The epiphany I've just realized is that I'm writing these stories with characters who have deep, meaningful relationships with their fathers and I'm certain a shrink would tell you that it's my way of having a father in my life. Maybe it is. You know that song by U2, Sometimes You Can't Make it On Your Own? It's a song he wrote about his father and I know that his father abandoned him and his mother as well. There is a verse that gets to me everytime; "can you hear me when I sing, you're the reason why I sing, you're the reason why the opera is in me". And I don't know if his emotions are the same as mine, but I totally get the line in my own way. I write these really great dads who are understanding, always there, and wise and loving because I am missing that in my life. So in a way, the pain of not having a father aorund, is what inspires a part of my writing.
Alexis: Very close to her father, loves him beyond measure and he loves her the same in return.
Riley: Her father has looked for her for twenty years without giving up hope. He is kind to a fault, and loves Riley more than anything. She loves him in turn although she feels she takes care of him rather than him taking care of her.
Bianca: She has an incredible relationship with her father, one that is beyond words, a bond that is so deep they have a mental and emotional connection without speaking a word to each other.
Billie: Her dad's pride and joy. She has a sister and a brother, but she has always been her father's favorite.
The only character I didn't give a "cookie cutter" father was Tallulah. And that's because I saw myself in her more than any other character I've written.
Wow. Epiphany.
Today write about the first time words profoundly affected you. Describe the situation, what led up to it, the moment of the encounter, your physical reaction, and something else that was taking place in the same setting but had nothing to do with the experience. Feel free to allow your imagination to supply whichever of these elements you can't recall. You might try this as a poem.
*********************
"The words! I collected them in all shapes and sizes and hung them like bangles in my mind."
Hortense Calisher
*********************
I don't remember exactly what it was about reading and words that made me love the art of books. When I was in third grade I found this book at an old rummage sale and I picked it up because the title of the book just captured me. It was simple and short and even though I knew it was beyond my level, I couldn't help but fall in love with it.
Child of the Dark. It was a book about a girl whose mother was single in one of the poorest countries in the world. It's about a mother's struggle to provide and a daughter's struggle in a world where every odd is stacked against her.
And I read that book, although the details escape me now, and I knew that it was what I wanted to do. I wanted to write and evoke so many different emotions in the reader. I wanted to write about things that people shied away from.
That book inspired me to write poetry. I was eight years old and kept a notebook of poems. I wrote one I titled Child of the Dark, after my greatest inspiration. I just let the feeling take over and I wrote this poem about child abuse, from the point of the abused child. It was dark and probably far beyond the realm of an eight year old, but it was beautiful. And I took it to school to show my favorite teacher. She was really touched by the piece but thought I was the abused child in the poem. It made me actually feel good because my writing made them think it was possible.
And when I showed the poem to my father he was so encouraging. He asked me how I came up with it, what the inspiration was, if I was going to submit it to a contest. It made me feel incredible that he took such an interest in something I was doing. Which made me want to do it even more.
And when I was in seventh grade, I don't know what age that makes me, I read Flowers in the Attic. It was this incredible story about love and betrayal. It made me want to write something like that. So I started this novel I named Obsession about Alexis. There was so much that should have kept me from writing. I wrote thirty pages and the computer crashed, lost everything. Rewrote twenty-five pages and there was a powersurge during a thunderstorm and I lost everything. A year later I picked the idea back up and finished the final draft when I was in my second semester freshman year. I printed it out, took it to a book place and had it bound in faux leather. I was so proud of it even though it had a million misspellings, countless grammatical errors, and an incredibely cheesy plot.
I don't even know where I'm going with this. What I'm trying to say is that my love affair with writing has been a part of my life for as far back as I can remember
The epiphany I've just realized is that I'm writing these stories with characters who have deep, meaningful relationships with their fathers and I'm certain a shrink would tell you that it's my way of having a father in my life. Maybe it is. You know that song by U2, Sometimes You Can't Make it On Your Own? It's a song he wrote about his father and I know that his father abandoned him and his mother as well. There is a verse that gets to me everytime; "can you hear me when I sing, you're the reason why I sing, you're the reason why the opera is in me". And I don't know if his emotions are the same as mine, but I totally get the line in my own way. I write these really great dads who are understanding, always there, and wise and loving because I am missing that in my life. So in a way, the pain of not having a father aorund, is what inspires a part of my writing.
Alexis: Very close to her father, loves him beyond measure and he loves her the same in return.
Riley: Her father has looked for her for twenty years without giving up hope. He is kind to a fault, and loves Riley more than anything. She loves him in turn although she feels she takes care of him rather than him taking care of her.
Bianca: She has an incredible relationship with her father, one that is beyond words, a bond that is so deep they have a mental and emotional connection without speaking a word to each other.
Billie: Her dad's pride and joy. She has a sister and a brother, but she has always been her father's favorite.
The only character I didn't give a "cookie cutter" father was Tallulah. And that's because I saw myself in her more than any other character I've written.
Wow. Epiphany.
Diving In
Exercise From: Room to Write by Bonnie Goldberg
TODAY'S PROMPT: Dive into writing by choosing any one of the following words that have more than one meaning: bear, cleave, lie, sewer, tear, or desert. Start by copying the word and quickly, without stopping for any reason, continue writing until you reach the end of the page. Making sense is unimportant. Your goals are speed and endurance. If you get stuck, repeat whatever word you've just written until something new spills out. After you finish read the result. Don't forget to breathe, and try not to tense up your hand. Ready, set, go ....
******************
"I love all men who dive. Any fish can swim near the surface, but it takes a great whale to go downstairs five miles or more."
Herman Melville
******************
Lie. It is always hard to understand the motivation behind lying. It isn't black and white. When someone asks if their new haircut looks good, it is easier to say yes than to say no. If you're guilty of doing something wrong you may lie to escape a severe punishment, or to forget your own guilt. Sometimes I wonder if lying really is just an extension of who we are. You can tell a lot about people when you know what it is they lie about. Like my grandmother who lies about everything. Sometimes I wonder if she is even capable of telling the truth at all. She lies about stupid things like who cooks Sunday breakfast. It's just stupid. It's annoying too, because it makes me feel like she's embarrassed by the family so she has to lie to everyone to make herself look more important.
I used to think that lying was no big deal, but it is. It's a very big deal, you just never realize it until you've been lied to. It's so naïve to think that lying doesn't hurt anyone, but before you've been hurt by lies you can't really know that. I wonder what I would do if I were lied to be Jose, because I feel like it would be more of a betrayal if he lied to me. I just overlook my grandmother's lies and dismiss them as just part of who she is, but if Jose lied to me I would be far too hurt and betrayed. I don't think I could forgive him.
I told my friend in elementary school that I'd jump in front of a car to cheer her up. It was stupid to say, and I meant nothing by it, but she went to the counselor and told them I wanted to commit suicide. The school called my parents and they wanted to know why I would want to commit suicide. I told them it was taken out of context but my grandmother, the self-proclaimed psycho-therapist of the family, was convinced that there was a reason. So I lied and said I was just sad because my step-father didn't want to be in my life since my own father came back.
It just felt like a way to get them off my back and the whole thing was taken out of context, but they wouldn't listen to me. Apparently there always has to be something wrong with you. You know how on every show there is that one character who convinces himself that there's something wrong with him even though it's obvious it's all in his head? Well I know way too many people like that and it makes me realize how easy it is to fall into the trap of lying, even when it seems like there is no real reason to lie. If it's so easy to fall into the habit of lying then how do we know if we ever really tell the truth? Wouldn't it be easy to say that we live in a constant state of small, unwitting lies in some cosmic race to the finish line?
TODAY'S PROMPT: Dive into writing by choosing any one of the following words that have more than one meaning: bear, cleave, lie, sewer, tear, or desert. Start by copying the word and quickly, without stopping for any reason, continue writing until you reach the end of the page. Making sense is unimportant. Your goals are speed and endurance. If you get stuck, repeat whatever word you've just written until something new spills out. After you finish read the result. Don't forget to breathe, and try not to tense up your hand. Ready, set, go ....
******************
"I love all men who dive. Any fish can swim near the surface, but it takes a great whale to go downstairs five miles or more."
Herman Melville
******************
Lie. It is always hard to understand the motivation behind lying. It isn't black and white. When someone asks if their new haircut looks good, it is easier to say yes than to say no. If you're guilty of doing something wrong you may lie to escape a severe punishment, or to forget your own guilt. Sometimes I wonder if lying really is just an extension of who we are. You can tell a lot about people when you know what it is they lie about. Like my grandmother who lies about everything. Sometimes I wonder if she is even capable of telling the truth at all. She lies about stupid things like who cooks Sunday breakfast. It's just stupid. It's annoying too, because it makes me feel like she's embarrassed by the family so she has to lie to everyone to make herself look more important.
I used to think that lying was no big deal, but it is. It's a very big deal, you just never realize it until you've been lied to. It's so naïve to think that lying doesn't hurt anyone, but before you've been hurt by lies you can't really know that. I wonder what I would do if I were lied to be Jose, because I feel like it would be more of a betrayal if he lied to me. I just overlook my grandmother's lies and dismiss them as just part of who she is, but if Jose lied to me I would be far too hurt and betrayed. I don't think I could forgive him.
I told my friend in elementary school that I'd jump in front of a car to cheer her up. It was stupid to say, and I meant nothing by it, but she went to the counselor and told them I wanted to commit suicide. The school called my parents and they wanted to know why I would want to commit suicide. I told them it was taken out of context but my grandmother, the self-proclaimed psycho-therapist of the family, was convinced that there was a reason. So I lied and said I was just sad because my step-father didn't want to be in my life since my own father came back.
It just felt like a way to get them off my back and the whole thing was taken out of context, but they wouldn't listen to me. Apparently there always has to be something wrong with you. You know how on every show there is that one character who convinces himself that there's something wrong with him even though it's obvious it's all in his head? Well I know way too many people like that and it makes me realize how easy it is to fall into the trap of lying, even when it seems like there is no real reason to lie. If it's so easy to fall into the habit of lying then how do we know if we ever really tell the truth? Wouldn't it be easy to say that we live in a constant state of small, unwitting lies in some cosmic race to the finish line?
Memory is Imagination
(Exercise taken from Room to Write by Bonnie Goldberg)
TODAY'S PROMPT: Begin with the phrase "I remember" and start writing. It doesn't matter whether you stick with one memory or list several. You can retrieve memories from as far back as childhood (or past lives) to as recently as yesterday. If you get stuck just keep repeating the phrase "I remember," in writing, until something else forms in your consciousness. Don't even be concerned with the authenticity of the memory. Just record whatever comes to you. Don't stop until you have filled two pages.
*******************
"Memory is a net."
Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.
*******************
I remember the first time I met my father. It was Valentine's Day and I think I was eight years old. I remember being so excited to see him that it was all I could think about. I'd never really had questions about my father and my mother never volunteered any answers. But when I realized that I would get to see him, I wanted to more than anything. Suddenly having a father was a big deal, and not just a stepdad, but a father.
I don't remember what I was wearing which seems funny to me because the rest of the memory is so vivid. It was raining that night and my mother and I pulled up outside of a house not far from the school I attended. She told me we could go home if I wanted to but there was no way I could go home knowing my father was just on the other side of that door. I had one of those silly little cutout valentines for him, it had Michael Jordan on it.
We walked into the house and I met this whole other family I never knew existed. It was my father's brother, his wife and their two kids. Michael was only about five or six. He had big blue eyes and hair so blonde it was almost white. Ashley was seven. She had darker blonde hair and big brown eyes. Rhonda was my aunt. She was short and petite with long blonde hair. Michael was tall with dark hair and brown eyes. I remember looking at him and thinking he looked just like my father, except thinner and a few years younger.
And then there was my dad. He was tall and handsome. He had dark, thick hair and green eyes the same shade as mine. He had jeans on and a grayish-green t-shirt. I was so happy to see him that I could barely speak a word and I'm shy anyways. I didn't know what to say to him. Seeing him, being there with him, discovering this new part of family I never knew. I didn't want to know why he wasn't around for the last eight years. I didn't want to know why I'd never known him before.
For that moment it was enough that he was just there.
He gave me this cute little stuffed animal that was called Sad Sam Honey. It was a grey and white puppy dog with big teardrop shaped eyes and pink bows on the ears. I think it's funny that after all these years I still remember that. It was sixteen years ago. But I remember it because I cherished that stuffed animal like it really meant something. Like it made up for all the years he wasn't there and all the years he wouldn't be there in the future.
I kept that stuffed animal for years, until Christian was born. When Christian was born I realized something. I realized that my love for him was unconditional; that it was so deep I couldn't imagine myself ever leaving him. When I held him in my arms for the first time I knew that there was nothing in this world that would ever keep me from him. And I realized that I was a mother and I had to start making decisions in my life based on how it would effect him. My father was easy to let go of when I thought about it like that.
So all those years ago even as wonderful as the memory was, sitting on my father's lap, listening to him tell me stories about growing up in Phoenix and how we had this special bond because he always just knew things about me even when it was impossible for him to know, I'm finally over it. It didn't end with Christian's birth but it was the wakeup call I needed to get there
TODAY'S PROMPT: Begin with the phrase "I remember" and start writing. It doesn't matter whether you stick with one memory or list several. You can retrieve memories from as far back as childhood (or past lives) to as recently as yesterday. If you get stuck just keep repeating the phrase "I remember," in writing, until something else forms in your consciousness. Don't even be concerned with the authenticity of the memory. Just record whatever comes to you. Don't stop until you have filled two pages.
*******************
"Memory is a net."
Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.
*******************
I remember the first time I met my father. It was Valentine's Day and I think I was eight years old. I remember being so excited to see him that it was all I could think about. I'd never really had questions about my father and my mother never volunteered any answers. But when I realized that I would get to see him, I wanted to more than anything. Suddenly having a father was a big deal, and not just a stepdad, but a father.
I don't remember what I was wearing which seems funny to me because the rest of the memory is so vivid. It was raining that night and my mother and I pulled up outside of a house not far from the school I attended. She told me we could go home if I wanted to but there was no way I could go home knowing my father was just on the other side of that door. I had one of those silly little cutout valentines for him, it had Michael Jordan on it.
We walked into the house and I met this whole other family I never knew existed. It was my father's brother, his wife and their two kids. Michael was only about five or six. He had big blue eyes and hair so blonde it was almost white. Ashley was seven. She had darker blonde hair and big brown eyes. Rhonda was my aunt. She was short and petite with long blonde hair. Michael was tall with dark hair and brown eyes. I remember looking at him and thinking he looked just like my father, except thinner and a few years younger.
And then there was my dad. He was tall and handsome. He had dark, thick hair and green eyes the same shade as mine. He had jeans on and a grayish-green t-shirt. I was so happy to see him that I could barely speak a word and I'm shy anyways. I didn't know what to say to him. Seeing him, being there with him, discovering this new part of family I never knew. I didn't want to know why he wasn't around for the last eight years. I didn't want to know why I'd never known him before.
For that moment it was enough that he was just there.
He gave me this cute little stuffed animal that was called Sad Sam Honey. It was a grey and white puppy dog with big teardrop shaped eyes and pink bows on the ears. I think it's funny that after all these years I still remember that. It was sixteen years ago. But I remember it because I cherished that stuffed animal like it really meant something. Like it made up for all the years he wasn't there and all the years he wouldn't be there in the future.
I kept that stuffed animal for years, until Christian was born. When Christian was born I realized something. I realized that my love for him was unconditional; that it was so deep I couldn't imagine myself ever leaving him. When I held him in my arms for the first time I knew that there was nothing in this world that would ever keep me from him. And I realized that I was a mother and I had to start making decisions in my life based on how it would effect him. My father was easy to let go of when I thought about it like that.
So all those years ago even as wonderful as the memory was, sitting on my father's lap, listening to him tell me stories about growing up in Phoenix and how we had this special bond because he always just knew things about me even when it was impossible for him to know, I'm finally over it. It didn't end with Christian's birth but it was the wakeup call I needed to get there
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
