Writers' Workshop

Some of you may know that I am attending a writers' workshop here on the coast, so here I humbly offer a smattering of my handiwork this weekend to you, my loyal readers who have stuck with me through this rather extensive hiatus. The prompts have been edited to make it look as though I stuck to them more closely than may actually be the case, or else that I was more creative than I actually deserve credit for.



Assignment 1: What do you hope to accomplish this weekend?

In all honesty, I don't know why I'm here. I'm not sure that I want to be here. They told us we wouldn't have to share these responses with the group, so I'm not holdng back. I suppose the best reason I can give is that people who know me and love me anyway think I have a way of molding words into vessles, giving an attractive, sometimes alliterative shape to contain my meaning. To extend the metaphor, as is my tendancy, in catching a thought in a jar, the thought conforms to the shape of its container, sometimes flattening into a muddy puddle at the bottom, or, more rarely, taking on a new and more eloquent form.

I am good at words. I feel myself as a Creature with a directive to sub-create. I do this with my body in dance. I do this in a studio full of squirrelly eight-year-olds and putting them in rows and teaching them, in turn, to create lines and paint strokes in the canvas of the stage. I do this by taking a tangled ball of yarn and knitting it into a sweater (if I ever finish that beknighted thing). But I have an untapped medium beneath my fingertips. I feel its breath on my fingers, a living thing beneath the keyboard begging to be given a shape and a name. Language is a curious beast with its own peculiar diet. It eats ideas and spits out words, having ruminated them into something more conducive to its picky palate. I love the softly steaming pile of syntax it produces, but I lack sustenance on which to feed my beloved wordbeast.




Assignment 2: Smells

The air in the church in which I grew up was flavored with stale animal crackers and coffee-stained carafes with just a hint of the brittle glue holding down the horrid mauve carpet.

A hospital waiting room smells of anespetic and apprehension. The air hangs heavy with baited breath, soulless and bleached clean.

There are two kinds of public restroom; those that smell exactly like what goes on in their graffitied stalls and those that have tried to hide their scent by choking out the oxygen with pink deoderizer, discouraging visitors from breathing at all.

One reads of salt-smelling sea air, but what the literature often fails to mention is the seaweed and dead fish semi-preserved in the brine.



Assignment 3: Scene with at least 2 people, complex series of specific actions
Specific, concrete, but not just about action.

Back, side, together. Forward, side, together. For once, the dreadful choice between looking my partner in the eye or staring blankly over his shoulder was peacefully resolved as Kevin grinned at me from point-blank range. The hand on my shoulderblade twitched, gently signaling me to the right. One, two, three, and under the arch of our clasped hands I paraded, stately and elegant. One, two, three steps and my hand alighted on his shoulder and sighed contentedly to be back home as we finished the box step. "Very nice." he observed.
"Well, I just follow your lead, mister." It was true, but I said it to flatter and hopefully press him to laughter. And laugh he did. We lapsed once more into silence, watching the other pairings on the dance floor and repeating the simple one, two, three, one, two, three. The waltz began to croon itself out and he twirled me against the retardando. I curtseyed in mock-seriousness and he inclined his head like a prince obliged to dance with every girl at the ball. Some smokey-voiced singer took over and we listened intently for a moment, probing for a rhythm. "Ooh, a foxtrot."
"Well good. I know way more moves for the foxtrot." He extended his hand to take mine. "Shall we?" We folded back into closed position, his left hand engulfing my right in an embrace. Two steps back, side together. I could tell he was holding his longer stride in check to match mine. The firm twitching of his hand pulled me back toward him and we rocked in place, turning around the corner of the room. My shoes were too big and I had to curl my toes upward to hold them on, but I managed not to leave them behind as I moved with as much grace as I could muster. One, two, three and four. He winked at me as he signaled a promenade. "You're right," I said, " you do know more foxtrot. That's like two moves we've pulled off already." The plural 'we' buzzed on my tongue with both the spice and warm comfort of a homemade curry and I smiled what I hoped was cutely in a self-conscious attempt to inflect the mild jibe with some flirtation. We slipped back into the basic step, encircling the dance floor as we talked in the semi-darkness. The actual topics discussed flatten when retold, but I felt myself shine wittily in his arms, always armed with a clever response or something to make him laugh, when I wasn't laughing myself. Finally the song slowed and he twirled me in close. Too late I realized he was going for a dip and I was not ready for it. As the floor approached and Kevin's grasp on my waist slipped, I hung suspended for a moment, sinking into my own bubbling laughter.



Not an assignment: Undressing Words

I hereby define myself a poetess. No more contrived plotlines to write into the world. No more stilted attempts at composing dialogue between imaginary friends. Everything is like something else, and my job is only to tell you what a I see through my word-shaped lenses. Legions of glorious words already slink shining beneath my skin, just waiting to be prodded and poked into cooperation. The words themselves are characters in the stories they tell. I merely document their exploits. Love, for instance, is feminine in a baroque sort of way. She is squishy, or voluptuous if you prefer, always popular but rarely says anything of any substance. Beneath her powdered wig, however, lies a deep truth and a mirror-bright heart which absorbs nothing for itself, but turns all glory back outward. Lies, however, wears black. He is slender and pale, handsome but hollow, an ashen crust shaped out of shadows' skin. Then there are more exotic cousins; Fortuitous, Lollygaggery, Castigate, and Eczima. Magnanimous is a fat man with white spats and open palms, Inane has an trendy haircut and a constantly open mouth. Even nouns get in on the fun. Beartrap wears a coonskin cap, Tarot has a scarf in her hair and a neck weighed down with jewelry, Phrenology is grey-haired and large-headed. I'd better stop myself before I get carried away any further talking about my dear and varied friends who dwell in dictionaries occasionally venturing out into the wide world to play supporting roles in my great lexical drama.




More to come, in all likelihood. Signing off for now.