Blog 8 – Barbara
Practicing what Others Preach
I’ve learned so much from the course’s readings! From my three top favorite books, Hedgehog, Prince, and Olive, I now want to experiment with different points of view, to present thought-provoking material, to use richer language, to use stronger poetic prose, and to mix more genres in one narration. Furthermore, all three of my top-rankers delve heavily into psychology, each in a different way. I want to incorporate that into my novel as well as into my creative nonfiction. Finally, I see that attracting the interest with a curious title like Hedgehog must bring in more readers, especially when accompanied by good book cover graphics. I’ll use more imagination with my titles.
In connection with my book, Artists Connect, I’ve read several brilliant prologues by Miguel de Cervantes, which not only set the tone of his work but also portray him as a person and establish a rapport between him and his reader. Although I have been using epigraphs—sometimes original and sometimes quoted—I have not been taking advantage of effective prologues.
In my fiction I plan to incorporate more observation of human behavior, as in Hedgehog, more witty dialogue, as in Olive, more drama with archetypes, as in Prince, more ambience, as in Feast, and use mixed genres more freely, as in Storm. In addition, I want to use more effective descriptions with sketching words, just enough to help move the story along, as in Lime. And, finally, sooner or later I’ll need to give an accurate account of ugly truths, as in Tiger
Today I re-read one of my favorite pieces of poetic prose, by Pablo Neruda, from his autobiography, I Confess that I have Lived. He titled it “The Word.” I own the original Spanish version, and I admire Neruda’s superb wording and rhythm. The lyrical writing in Prince impressed me deeply as well. Like Conroy, I want to paint images of nature, and I also want to paint images of interior worlds, like states of mind. The persistent and consistent setting in Feast impressed me. Hemingway manages to present the city of Paris as a character in his memoir, sometimes in a stark way, and sometimes in a subtle way. When he relates the period of time where he postponed the pleasure of going to the horse track in order to get more writing done, he becomes a universal actor with universal needs and tendencies.
When I do incorporate even one of the many features I’ve admired this summer, I’ll write more powerful material.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Blog # 7: Jess Yaun
This is an excerpt from my novel, still untitled.
When she woke again she was in a hospital room, drugged, the pain barely there. Her dazed eyes wandered and then landed on the chair in the corner. I sat in that chair not too long ago. But the room was not the same and there were no flowers on the table beside the chair. When she had sat in a chair just like that one, she had it pulled to the side of her father’s bed. She had held his hand and spoke to him in hushed, lullaby tones that he had once used to soothe his only baby girl. She remembered how she watched her tears land on his hand, willing each tear to be the drop that woke him. When he did finally wake from his coma he only lived one day. They didn’t have to tell him his wife had died in the accident; he said he could see her in the corner, beckoning.
That was three months ago. Three months and Rebecca could not recall what she had done during those long days. The funeral was a blur. When she thought of it she saw still images: the caskets, side by side, being lowered into the ground, the blown-up picture of her parents, smiling and holding each other, set up in the church. Her parent’s friends and colleagues had milled about the house for a few hours after the service, and one by one they departed, leaving her in the empty house.
“She’s awake.” Rebecca’s eyes drifted toward the door. A doctor came following after the nurse and came to the bed, chart in hand. His eyes were dark and kind. He flipped open the chart, then looked back at Rebecca. He began to speak and Rebecca tried to follow what he was saying but the words seemed to float away from each other, one word dropping on the bed, another floating up to rest on the black TV screen.
The nurse checked the IV in her arm, and adjusted something on the monitor. Rebecca closed her eyes and fell back to sleep, only to find herself back in her dream. She was lying on a low cot against a mud wall. The air was filled with smoke so thick she could barely make out the figures standing around her, but she could see the bright painting on their faces, red and black designs along their cheeks and foreheads. A man started chanting and placed an assortment of pebbles, pouches, and crystals along her body. A woman put something on the hole in her side, an ointment that was both cool and warm at the same time. She felt no pain.
The man with the crystals whispered in her ear, “Chant with me child, if you can.”
She heard herself make strange sounds, felt her voice rising and falling in unfamiliar rhythms that dipped and swelled in her throat. She closed her eyes and let the chant run over her body, imagining it as a cool liquid slipping through her veins. The figures in the hut began chanting and swaying and stomping their feet until the very air seemed to reverberate with their rhythm.
She opened her eyes to find the hole in her side had begun to spark, little red and orange lights darting right out of her body and into the air - swirling once, twice, before fading into the smoke. The skin on her side felt like it was being gently pulled though no one was touching her. She was amazed to find that she was not afraid. She closed her eyes again and surrendered to the movement, and breathed deeply, the smoke filling her lungs but not making her cough. When she opened her eyes again she was back in the hospital room. She tugged the hospital gown up and looked at her side. The wound was gone. All that remained was a small brown circle, like a spot of paint.
When she woke again she was in a hospital room, drugged, the pain barely there. Her dazed eyes wandered and then landed on the chair in the corner. I sat in that chair not too long ago. But the room was not the same and there were no flowers on the table beside the chair. When she had sat in a chair just like that one, she had it pulled to the side of her father’s bed. She had held his hand and spoke to him in hushed, lullaby tones that he had once used to soothe his only baby girl. She remembered how she watched her tears land on his hand, willing each tear to be the drop that woke him. When he did finally wake from his coma he only lived one day. They didn’t have to tell him his wife had died in the accident; he said he could see her in the corner, beckoning.
That was three months ago. Three months and Rebecca could not recall what she had done during those long days. The funeral was a blur. When she thought of it she saw still images: the caskets, side by side, being lowered into the ground, the blown-up picture of her parents, smiling and holding each other, set up in the church. Her parent’s friends and colleagues had milled about the house for a few hours after the service, and one by one they departed, leaving her in the empty house.
“She’s awake.” Rebecca’s eyes drifted toward the door. A doctor came following after the nurse and came to the bed, chart in hand. His eyes were dark and kind. He flipped open the chart, then looked back at Rebecca. He began to speak and Rebecca tried to follow what he was saying but the words seemed to float away from each other, one word dropping on the bed, another floating up to rest on the black TV screen.
The nurse checked the IV in her arm, and adjusted something on the monitor. Rebecca closed her eyes and fell back to sleep, only to find herself back in her dream. She was lying on a low cot against a mud wall. The air was filled with smoke so thick she could barely make out the figures standing around her, but she could see the bright painting on their faces, red and black designs along their cheeks and foreheads. A man started chanting and placed an assortment of pebbles, pouches, and crystals along her body. A woman put something on the hole in her side, an ointment that was both cool and warm at the same time. She felt no pain.
The man with the crystals whispered in her ear, “Chant with me child, if you can.”
She heard herself make strange sounds, felt her voice rising and falling in unfamiliar rhythms that dipped and swelled in her throat. She closed her eyes and let the chant run over her body, imagining it as a cool liquid slipping through her veins. The figures in the hut began chanting and swaying and stomping their feet until the very air seemed to reverberate with their rhythm.
She opened her eyes to find the hole in her side had begun to spark, little red and orange lights darting right out of her body and into the air - swirling once, twice, before fading into the smoke. The skin on her side felt like it was being gently pulled though no one was touching her. She was amazed to find that she was not afraid. She closed her eyes again and surrendered to the movement, and breathed deeply, the smoke filling her lungs but not making her cough. When she opened her eyes again she was back in the hospital room. She tugged the hospital gown up and looked at her side. The wound was gone. All that remained was a small brown circle, like a spot of paint.
Blog 7 - Danielle Swanson - Chp. 3
Here's the beginning of chapter three of my current work. I think I got all of the senses but taste. Any tips on getting that in?
Thanks!
Thanks!
I flipped to page seven of the twenty-page questionnaire I was filling out. Each page had the words Love Connection written in calligraphy across the top and the numbers at the bottom were in tiny hearts. It reminded me of a high school algebra exam, only the subject was my love life.
“Finding love should not be this hard,” I said.
"Finding love should not require a place this badly decorated,” was Mia’s response. “Think they could have found a shade closer to Pepto to paint the walls?”
The walls were a bright pink that did kind of remind me of the liquid medicine. We sat in white leather chairs, the plush kind with no arms, about twenty feet away from the receptionist’s desk, which was a semi-circle pushed against a wall. A white door flanked either side of the desk, making a swishing noise every time it swung back and forth, and a silver Love Connection sign, written in the same script as on the questionnaire, hung on the wall between the doors.
Mia elbowed me and pointed to the wall where a spray machine – the same kind they have in funeral homes and bathrooms – emitted sent every few minutes. The spray made the whole place smell like the inside of a carnation.
“I thought it was these things,” she said, grabbing the petal on one of the bouquets on a table next to us. “Turns out they’re frauds. Probably not the only ones in here."
“Finding love should not be this hard,” I said.
"Finding love should not require a place this badly decorated,” was Mia’s response. “Think they could have found a shade closer to Pepto to paint the walls?”
The walls were a bright pink that did kind of remind me of the liquid medicine. We sat in white leather chairs, the plush kind with no arms, about twenty feet away from the receptionist’s desk, which was a semi-circle pushed against a wall. A white door flanked either side of the desk, making a swishing noise every time it swung back and forth, and a silver Love Connection sign, written in the same script as on the questionnaire, hung on the wall between the doors.
Mia elbowed me and pointed to the wall where a spray machine – the same kind they have in funeral homes and bathrooms – emitted sent every few minutes. The spray made the whole place smell like the inside of a carnation.
“I thought it was these things,” she said, grabbing the petal on one of the bouquets on a table next to us. “Turns out they’re frauds. Probably not the only ones in here."
Monday, July 12, 2010
Blog 7 - Barbara - Placing the Reader
From one of my chapters, on Miguel Cervantes and William Shakespeare:
I rubbed by eyes and ran my hand over my doublet and over my heart. Still there, both of them. Same bouffant pants—my favorite—of the best Spanish suede. I looked at my feet. Yes. My favorite soft-leather boots, a la Madrilena. But my feet were cold. Wonder why I hadn’t made it under this soft coverlet—what? The wrong color! And my panoply, where—Oh, no! A different bed. My stomach gurgled—always did with a hangover. But what better way to celebrate my completed eight comedias than to lift a few cups with some friends? I remembered straggling home with Alfonso, and tripping over a cobblestone or two, a block away from home, in Valladolid, the court’s new home (for now, and don’t hold your breath, it’ll move again soon enough). But anyway, I had just stepped over the heavy wood-and-metal door to our building when something hit my head, or my head hit something. Those blasted flower pots were on the ground again. If I’d told Philomena once I’d told her—anyway she forgot to hang it back up with the others and I tripped against the door and hit my head on the knocker, a very interesting brass lion’s head holding a ring—I’d been wanting to write a poem about that knocker. If I don’t I just know someone else will, and become famous. Anyway, the last thing I remembered was the blackout after that impact, and the stars! Oh, my stars. I can still feel that bump over my right eye. How had I made it in here? I didn’t know this room. It must have been above our floor in the apartment building in Valladolid. I got up and staggered to the window. Where had my courtyard gone, with all the begonias and carnations in pots hung on the walls? And the ceramic-tiled fountain in the middle? And the slated roof and the little gargoyles? I could have been hallucinating from a—what does Antonio call them?—concussion, yes, one of those blows to the noggin that make you sick and you see things that aren’t there, like Don Quijote. And, speaking of Antonio, where had he gone? He always spent the night with me after a binge, a designated guide, you might call him. Well, I certainly had what Mother called an ostrich egg over my eye, but it only hut if I poked it. I was ready for breakfast. But neither my housekeeper Philomena, nor my wife, nor my daughter, nor my house was around. Why was I seeing thatched roofs? And those strange crossed timbers on the wall, black on tan. I’d never seen that anywhere in Spain—neither in Cordoba, Granada, Madrid, Alcazar de Henares, Valladolid—nor in Italy when I was young—Florence, Milan, Rome… Someone knocked. A young girl with two long blond tresses and a light-blue apron held a tray of steaming hot food I'd never seen before.
I rubbed by eyes and ran my hand over my doublet and over my heart. Still there, both of them. Same bouffant pants—my favorite—of the best Spanish suede. I looked at my feet. Yes. My favorite soft-leather boots, a la Madrilena. But my feet were cold. Wonder why I hadn’t made it under this soft coverlet—what? The wrong color! And my panoply, where—Oh, no! A different bed. My stomach gurgled—always did with a hangover. But what better way to celebrate my completed eight comedias than to lift a few cups with some friends? I remembered straggling home with Alfonso, and tripping over a cobblestone or two, a block away from home, in Valladolid, the court’s new home (for now, and don’t hold your breath, it’ll move again soon enough). But anyway, I had just stepped over the heavy wood-and-metal door to our building when something hit my head, or my head hit something. Those blasted flower pots were on the ground again. If I’d told Philomena once I’d told her—anyway she forgot to hang it back up with the others and I tripped against the door and hit my head on the knocker, a very interesting brass lion’s head holding a ring—I’d been wanting to write a poem about that knocker. If I don’t I just know someone else will, and become famous. Anyway, the last thing I remembered was the blackout after that impact, and the stars! Oh, my stars. I can still feel that bump over my right eye. How had I made it in here? I didn’t know this room. It must have been above our floor in the apartment building in Valladolid. I got up and staggered to the window. Where had my courtyard gone, with all the begonias and carnations in pots hung on the walls? And the ceramic-tiled fountain in the middle? And the slated roof and the little gargoyles? I could have been hallucinating from a—what does Antonio call them?—concussion, yes, one of those blows to the noggin that make you sick and you see things that aren’t there, like Don Quijote. And, speaking of Antonio, where had he gone? He always spent the night with me after a binge, a designated guide, you might call him. Well, I certainly had what Mother called an ostrich egg over my eye, but it only hut if I poked it. I was ready for breakfast. But neither my housekeeper Philomena, nor my wife, nor my daughter, nor my house was around. Why was I seeing thatched roofs? And those strange crossed timbers on the wall, black on tan. I’d never seen that anywhere in Spain—neither in Cordoba, Granada, Madrid, Alcazar de Henares, Valladolid—nor in Italy when I was young—Florence, Milan, Rome… Someone knocked. A young girl with two long blond tresses and a light-blue apron held a tray of steaming hot food I'd never seen before.
Blog # 7- Kristi DeMeester
This is an excerpt from a short story I'm working on called "Walker."
Lakeshore Drive is quietly coming awake as I lace my old sneakers, the laces browned and crumbling at the ends, and clip Clara’s green leash to her collar. She waits patiently beside me, her blonde head dipping towards the ground as she sniffs before looking up at me with knowing brown eyes. I tousle her ears before asking, "So what do you think about today, old girl? You think we can do it today?" But Clara just blinks at me before turning back to the smells coming from under her paws.
It is still cool on this early Tuesday morning, and a hint of winter lingers in the air despite the yellow of the daffodils obscenely pushing their way through the brown earth. Cherry trees line the street and have exploded into a fairy land of cotton candy pink blossoms. Greenery buzzes beneath the dirt. Birds fresh from their tropical vacations call to one another with swooping voices, then fall momentarily silent before calling out again. There is a distinct blending of the scents of coffee and laundry detergent coming from the first house on my right, and I envision that the owner has opened the back door and welcomed the spring morning inside as the coffee brews in the kitchen. For a moment, I want to turn my brain off and just enjoy the quiet beauty of the morning; I want to just be a man out walking his dog, but the old itch burns underneath my skin, and I know that I must scratch it.
It is best to hit the streets early in the morning and during the week because then you will know who walks their dogs every day, who leaves their doors unlocked as they walk Rover or Spiff or Bella around the neighborhood, stopping to pick up the dog’s waste in a special pink, powder-scented bag so as to not offend the nose. The owners I meet on the street nod at me as I pass with Clara, some even stopping to pat her and exchanging a few words with me about the weather. I am unassuming in my community college t-shirt, my gray gym shorts, my ball cap pulled low to hide the hollow darkness of my eyes, my non-descript brown hair clipped short to make me more difficult to identify, my face clean shaven. I become any other guy walking his dog. Shit, I even toy with the other walkers a bit, telling them my name is Walker. Just good old Walker out walking his dog.
I never spend too much time on one street. Just enough to make me a safe part of the neighborhood, just enough to make me innocent and far from their thoughts when they wonder who could possibly break into their homes, rob them blind, think about raping their wives and daughters. But I never do that last thing. I’m not that far gone yet.
And they never see me when I take Clara back to my old Toyota pickup, the red faded to the rusty color of blood, which I parked down the street and out of sight. And they never see me when I return the next morning to park the truck and unload Clara for our daily walk. I slip into the fabric of their lives as easily as water moves through a stream, and I learn their habits before making my move.
Clara doesn’t mind. She walks beside me as I watch the neighborhood, learning the ways of the dog walkers, whom I learned long ago are the easiest targets. The dog walkers, always leaving their doors unlocked, always leaving their homes anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour after they walk the dog as I watch them come and go, come and go. They really are stupid if you think about it. They give me all of the information I need, and all I have to do is watch. Of course, Clara is the necessary ingredient in all of this. Without her, mother’s eyes would peer at me from behind lacy curtains, and lipsticked mouths would work furiously at the receiver of a telephone as word passes from house to house about a strange man out walking alone. But Clara is my godsend.
Lakeshore Drive is quietly coming awake as I lace my old sneakers, the laces browned and crumbling at the ends, and clip Clara’s green leash to her collar. She waits patiently beside me, her blonde head dipping towards the ground as she sniffs before looking up at me with knowing brown eyes. I tousle her ears before asking, "So what do you think about today, old girl? You think we can do it today?" But Clara just blinks at me before turning back to the smells coming from under her paws.
It is still cool on this early Tuesday morning, and a hint of winter lingers in the air despite the yellow of the daffodils obscenely pushing their way through the brown earth. Cherry trees line the street and have exploded into a fairy land of cotton candy pink blossoms. Greenery buzzes beneath the dirt. Birds fresh from their tropical vacations call to one another with swooping voices, then fall momentarily silent before calling out again. There is a distinct blending of the scents of coffee and laundry detergent coming from the first house on my right, and I envision that the owner has opened the back door and welcomed the spring morning inside as the coffee brews in the kitchen. For a moment, I want to turn my brain off and just enjoy the quiet beauty of the morning; I want to just be a man out walking his dog, but the old itch burns underneath my skin, and I know that I must scratch it.
It is best to hit the streets early in the morning and during the week because then you will know who walks their dogs every day, who leaves their doors unlocked as they walk Rover or Spiff or Bella around the neighborhood, stopping to pick up the dog’s waste in a special pink, powder-scented bag so as to not offend the nose. The owners I meet on the street nod at me as I pass with Clara, some even stopping to pat her and exchanging a few words with me about the weather. I am unassuming in my community college t-shirt, my gray gym shorts, my ball cap pulled low to hide the hollow darkness of my eyes, my non-descript brown hair clipped short to make me more difficult to identify, my face clean shaven. I become any other guy walking his dog. Shit, I even toy with the other walkers a bit, telling them my name is Walker. Just good old Walker out walking his dog.
I never spend too much time on one street. Just enough to make me a safe part of the neighborhood, just enough to make me innocent and far from their thoughts when they wonder who could possibly break into their homes, rob them blind, think about raping their wives and daughters. But I never do that last thing. I’m not that far gone yet.
And they never see me when I take Clara back to my old Toyota pickup, the red faded to the rusty color of blood, which I parked down the street and out of sight. And they never see me when I return the next morning to park the truck and unload Clara for our daily walk. I slip into the fabric of their lives as easily as water moves through a stream, and I learn their habits before making my move.
Clara doesn’t mind. She walks beside me as I watch the neighborhood, learning the ways of the dog walkers, whom I learned long ago are the easiest targets. The dog walkers, always leaving their doors unlocked, always leaving their homes anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour after they walk the dog as I watch them come and go, come and go. They really are stupid if you think about it. They give me all of the information I need, and all I have to do is watch. Of course, Clara is the necessary ingredient in all of this. Without her, mother’s eyes would peer at me from behind lacy curtains, and lipsticked mouths would work furiously at the receiver of a telephone as word passes from house to house about a strange man out walking alone. But Clara is my godsend.
Blog 7 - Jessica Quinn - Good-bye sweet friend
Finally, things were settling down. I sat at my desk in my home office with a fresh glass of wine, ready to write…and then the phone rang. Normally, I would dread a call like this, but after the week we’d all had caring for our sweet friend, she was finally at peace and there was no more pain or fear. She was gone. However, I could tell by the tone of my sister’s voice that she needed us there as soon as possible.
My husband, Dan, and I walked into the Hospice twenty minutes later and already we could feel the peace of this place, as opposed to what we’d been experiencing all week in the frantic hospital corridors. Getting off of the elevator on the 6th floor, we were immediately hit with the smell of homemade chocolate chip cookies. It felt as if we’d entered an odd, peace-filled dimension we weren’t quite ready to experience. It was instantly comforting, but we weren’t ready to embrace it just yet. She’d only arrived here less than an hour before. It wasn’t supposed to be this fast.
Entering the room, again, the difference between this hallowed place and the hospital was shocking to the senses. The far wall of the room was almost all windows showcasing green trees in multiple shades all swaying together in the breeze. Again, the comfort came. Most shocking, though, was the absence of things. No loud machines assuring breath, no monitors occasionally beeping, no tubes, no…anything. She just lay there in the bed perfectly still. And I mean perfectly. She was so at peace that I kept waiting to see her chest rise and fall, or hear her labored breathing we’d come to pity over the past week, or even see her foot twitch. Nothing. Only the overwhelming smell now of Chick-fil-A, causing a disturbing sense of nausea to rise in my throat. It didn’t belong. Food belonged to life. This was death.
Her mother sat motionless at her bedside holding her hand. My sister quietly welcomed us in and we all marveled at how fast it had come. Was it only a week ago we all raced to manage her care and set up the 24/7 bedside vigil? No one wants to die alone.
I walked to her mom and hugged her gently. Her father was on his way back, he’d just left to run errands. We just didn’t expect it this fast and we all felt so bad for him. Her mother looked up with tears in her eyes, but there was a peace there as well. It was better like this, and in this place—much better than the hospital. We all agreed on that miracle. The hospice nurses checked in on us. They even seemed surprised at how fast this occurred.
Before her dad arrived, I knew it was time to say my good-bye. I’d never been in the room with a loved one who wasn’t alive—without them being in a casket. This was unchartered territory. I asked her mother if I could touch her and she said of course. I cupped her sweet face and brushed her hair back from her forehead as I’d done on several occasions as she was in the hospital and feverish and begging for cold clothes to be rubbed on her face and forehead—anything to ward off the pain of the fever. It was so bittersweet. I was so glad her suffering was over, but so sad she was gone now. I have a comfort that I’ll see her again someday, but an overwhelming sadness of missing her on this earth.
Her fever was gone and even in the short time since she’d passed, her skin had already started to cool. It was all happening so fast. I kept wanting to put balm on her chapped lips, again, as I had done all week, but that didn’t matter anymore. They had gone from a natural, envied deep burgundy to a stale, crusty purple. We all remarked about the semi-smile on her lips. It was sweet to see. We knew she was seeing people dressed in white and blue standing at the foot of her bed as she’d worsened. We all decided she must have been smiling at the angels who came to meet her. My sister said the night before she’d begged them to go ahead and take her with them. There is an unspeakable comfort in that. Thankfully, for her sake, they came back the next day. Good-bye sweet, Tricia. We’ll see you on the other side.
My husband, Dan, and I walked into the Hospice twenty minutes later and already we could feel the peace of this place, as opposed to what we’d been experiencing all week in the frantic hospital corridors. Getting off of the elevator on the 6th floor, we were immediately hit with the smell of homemade chocolate chip cookies. It felt as if we’d entered an odd, peace-filled dimension we weren’t quite ready to experience. It was instantly comforting, but we weren’t ready to embrace it just yet. She’d only arrived here less than an hour before. It wasn’t supposed to be this fast.
Entering the room, again, the difference between this hallowed place and the hospital was shocking to the senses. The far wall of the room was almost all windows showcasing green trees in multiple shades all swaying together in the breeze. Again, the comfort came. Most shocking, though, was the absence of things. No loud machines assuring breath, no monitors occasionally beeping, no tubes, no…anything. She just lay there in the bed perfectly still. And I mean perfectly. She was so at peace that I kept waiting to see her chest rise and fall, or hear her labored breathing we’d come to pity over the past week, or even see her foot twitch. Nothing. Only the overwhelming smell now of Chick-fil-A, causing a disturbing sense of nausea to rise in my throat. It didn’t belong. Food belonged to life. This was death.
Her mother sat motionless at her bedside holding her hand. My sister quietly welcomed us in and we all marveled at how fast it had come. Was it only a week ago we all raced to manage her care and set up the 24/7 bedside vigil? No one wants to die alone.
I walked to her mom and hugged her gently. Her father was on his way back, he’d just left to run errands. We just didn’t expect it this fast and we all felt so bad for him. Her mother looked up with tears in her eyes, but there was a peace there as well. It was better like this, and in this place—much better than the hospital. We all agreed on that miracle. The hospice nurses checked in on us. They even seemed surprised at how fast this occurred.
Before her dad arrived, I knew it was time to say my good-bye. I’d never been in the room with a loved one who wasn’t alive—without them being in a casket. This was unchartered territory. I asked her mother if I could touch her and she said of course. I cupped her sweet face and brushed her hair back from her forehead as I’d done on several occasions as she was in the hospital and feverish and begging for cold clothes to be rubbed on her face and forehead—anything to ward off the pain of the fever. It was so bittersweet. I was so glad her suffering was over, but so sad she was gone now. I have a comfort that I’ll see her again someday, but an overwhelming sadness of missing her on this earth.
Her fever was gone and even in the short time since she’d passed, her skin had already started to cool. It was all happening so fast. I kept wanting to put balm on her chapped lips, again, as I had done all week, but that didn’t matter anymore. They had gone from a natural, envied deep burgundy to a stale, crusty purple. We all remarked about the semi-smile on her lips. It was sweet to see. We knew she was seeing people dressed in white and blue standing at the foot of her bed as she’d worsened. We all decided she must have been smiling at the angels who came to meet her. My sister said the night before she’d begged them to go ahead and take her with them. There is an unspeakable comfort in that. Thankfully, for her sake, they came back the next day. Good-bye sweet, Tricia. We’ll see you on the other side.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Blog #7 Dina's Description
For me, the hardest part about description is knowing what to put in and what to leave out. I've learned that usually when I think I've put in too much, it's actually just right. Below is something I recently wrote that may turn into a novel or may just be something I wrote to entertain myself.
The brick house with black shutters that sat at the end of Franklin Drive was unusually full this evening, cars parked in the driveway and around the cul-de-sac. The neighbors didn't mind because many of them were in the house as well, showing their respect for the death of the woman who had lived there with her husband and teenage daughter. The teenager sat ignored but not forgotten in a large, overstuffed chair that dwarfed her slender frame and seemed to emphasize the vulnerability and grief in large, green eyes that made her look like a small child.
Had the teenager realized the image she projected, she would have been mortified, but the chair's pillowy cushions whose fabric retained the scent of her mother's perfume comforted her. She wore a long, black dress and had a black headband holding her straight, black hair out of her face. Katie Morgan had attended her mother's funeral earlier that day and all the people invading the living room, dining room, and kitchen had covertly watched her silently scream at the graveside when they'd lowered the lid on her mother's coffin, sealing her forever from Katie and the world Katie now had to navigate alone.
Katie had no one left - her father was in prison and, as far as she knew, there were no grandparents, uncles, aunts, or cousins. There had only been her mother, then Bruce. But Bruce didn't want her. He'd come into her bedroom that very morning as she was putting on her black boots. He'd told her she needed to pack because she would be leaving with a social worker after the funeral ceremony. He'd told her what she already knew but what had never been put into words for her, "Katie, if I hadn't loved your mother so much and if you hadn't been a condition of her marrying me, you wouldn't be here now. With her gone, I don't want you here. God knows, your mother loved you and, for some reason, she always excused your strange ways, but I don't like you. And you can't stay."
Katie hadn't cried. She hadn't moved or said a word. She'd simply nodded. With her mother gone, she didn't care where she went. She felt like she'd been knocked down by a strong wave in the ocean and was spinning around and around, the pain slicing her skin like the shells and the sand, the sadness drowning her lungs with salty tears. She was disoriented and didn't know if she'd ever surface again.
The brick house with black shutters that sat at the end of Franklin Drive was unusually full this evening, cars parked in the driveway and around the cul-de-sac. The neighbors didn't mind because many of them were in the house as well, showing their respect for the death of the woman who had lived there with her husband and teenage daughter. The teenager sat ignored but not forgotten in a large, overstuffed chair that dwarfed her slender frame and seemed to emphasize the vulnerability and grief in large, green eyes that made her look like a small child.
Had the teenager realized the image she projected, she would have been mortified, but the chair's pillowy cushions whose fabric retained the scent of her mother's perfume comforted her. She wore a long, black dress and had a black headband holding her straight, black hair out of her face. Katie Morgan had attended her mother's funeral earlier that day and all the people invading the living room, dining room, and kitchen had covertly watched her silently scream at the graveside when they'd lowered the lid on her mother's coffin, sealing her forever from Katie and the world Katie now had to navigate alone.
Katie had no one left - her father was in prison and, as far as she knew, there were no grandparents, uncles, aunts, or cousins. There had only been her mother, then Bruce. But Bruce didn't want her. He'd come into her bedroom that very morning as she was putting on her black boots. He'd told her she needed to pack because she would be leaving with a social worker after the funeral ceremony. He'd told her what she already knew but what had never been put into words for her, "Katie, if I hadn't loved your mother so much and if you hadn't been a condition of her marrying me, you wouldn't be here now. With her gone, I don't want you here. God knows, your mother loved you and, for some reason, she always excused your strange ways, but I don't like you. And you can't stay."
Katie hadn't cried. She hadn't moved or said a word. She'd simply nodded. With her mother gone, she didn't care where she went. She felt like she'd been knocked down by a strong wave in the ocean and was spinning around and around, the pain slicing her skin like the shells and the sand, the sadness drowning her lungs with salty tears. She was disoriented and didn't know if she'd ever surface again.
Blog 7 By Brittany Leazer: Description with the Five Senses!
Here is a selection from my short story, PANES.
Chapter 2
Home Sweet Home
July 1963
Kate stepped off of the pale green and mustard yellow bus that stopped at the top of the driveway. She paused for a moment and started toward the bottom of the hill, studying the massive, white, plantation-style house that belonged to her grandmother. As she started to make her way down the driveway to the front door, gravel crunching under her feet, she felt a rush of emotions and memories flood through her body, emotions that she had neglected for a few years now. For a brief moment, she thought about making an escape, but then quickly replaced the thought with images of her beloved grandmother lying in bed, waiting on her arrival. Familiar scents filtered through the air and assaulted her nose. She has always been allergic to fresh cut grass. The magnolias filled the air with a sweet molasses smell. She reached down to the bushes that lined the driveway and picked a honey- suckle flower, pulled out the stem and touched it to her tongue, the sweet nectar refreshed her. The train whistle blew a soft melody through the air.
“Ten o’clock. Right on time.”
Blog # 6: Jess Yaun
I have a social agenda for my novel that I planned to hide within the layers of the plot. In fact, the idea for my story came from a desire to comment on modern western society. The idea emerged over several years of contemplation; my anthropology professor planted the seed. He told our class that the industrial revolution changed the way families lived and operated and that humans were still adapting to these changes. The most obvious change is going from extended families to nuclear families. But as I learned more about different tribes, from African tribes to Native American tribes, I was struck by how many of them shared cultural tendencies for unity and cooperation. As societies progress hierarchy develops and as it does, the emphasis on harmony and teamwork diminishes. This intrigued me.
Looking around at my own society, I see so many people that seem alienated and disconnected. Competition and independence are valued over cooperation and unity. Roles and identity are no longer determined for us by the family we live in and we have unlimited choice in who we become. I wanted to figure out a way to contrast how humans live today with how we once lived – for thousands of years. I decided on time travel.
As I began brainstorming and writing I chose to paint the present and the past worlds in stark, exaggerated portraits to highlight the differences between the societies. My protagonist, Rebecca, is deeply lonely and overwhelmed in the present, but finds comfort and peace in the past where family is central to day-to-day life and her role in society is defined for her. In her present world, she suffers the loss of her parents and struggles through it alone because she’s never met another member of her extended family. She doesn’t know who or where they are. Yet when she travels through time to the past and lives among Cherokee Native Americans, she learns about family and clans. She learns cooperation and harmony. She realizes the importance of a support system, and flourishes in her predetermined role within the society. When she finally returns to the present, she again feels overwhelmed by the differences – the abundance of choices to make and roles to assume. Instead of her identity being defined by her family, her clan, and her role among them, she must make one for herself. And she decides to create her own clan, since her society does not automatically offer her one.
This is the first story where I’ve consciously chosen an agenda. I’m sure in other writing my worldview and all that influences it has also influenced my words. It has been challenging to keep my agenda in mind as I write, and I worry that I’ll either make it too loud or too soft for the reader. But I keep trudging on. I’ve wanted to understand and explore the differences in how humans live my entire life, and I’ve been enjoying the exploration of those ideas through this story.
Looking around at my own society, I see so many people that seem alienated and disconnected. Competition and independence are valued over cooperation and unity. Roles and identity are no longer determined for us by the family we live in and we have unlimited choice in who we become. I wanted to figure out a way to contrast how humans live today with how we once lived – for thousands of years. I decided on time travel.
As I began brainstorming and writing I chose to paint the present and the past worlds in stark, exaggerated portraits to highlight the differences between the societies. My protagonist, Rebecca, is deeply lonely and overwhelmed in the present, but finds comfort and peace in the past where family is central to day-to-day life and her role in society is defined for her. In her present world, she suffers the loss of her parents and struggles through it alone because she’s never met another member of her extended family. She doesn’t know who or where they are. Yet when she travels through time to the past and lives among Cherokee Native Americans, she learns about family and clans. She learns cooperation and harmony. She realizes the importance of a support system, and flourishes in her predetermined role within the society. When she finally returns to the present, she again feels overwhelmed by the differences – the abundance of choices to make and roles to assume. Instead of her identity being defined by her family, her clan, and her role among them, she must make one for herself. And she decides to create her own clan, since her society does not automatically offer her one.
This is the first story where I’ve consciously chosen an agenda. I’m sure in other writing my worldview and all that influences it has also influenced my words. It has been challenging to keep my agenda in mind as I write, and I worry that I’ll either make it too loud or too soft for the reader. But I keep trudging on. I’ve wanted to understand and explore the differences in how humans live my entire life, and I’ve been enjoying the exploration of those ideas through this story.
Blog #7 Lisa "Esther's Song"
This is from a story I started 10 years ago:
Esther walked the practice room halls in deep thought. The building had a new-building smell of carpet and paint; yawning hallways lined with sound-proof rooms all closed but one. The cracked door allowed the melody to escape and she experienced the music being played with pent-up fervor. Esther was drawn to the room but stood outside – back pressed against the cool wall frozen and compelled to listen to the beautiful song.
The musician was playing from a passionate place. It was a melody Esther had never heard, but her heart knew it well. Though the song was unfamiliar and unwritten, it resonated with her. She was seduced to stay as her heart sang the wordless lyrics. Esther closed her eyes as a salty tear slipped to her lips; her heart exposed and melting as the song played on swelling with every note.
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