How awkward it feels to be wearing a dress for the first time in spring. Our springs here are changeable things, one minute cold and overcast, the next warm and sunny. To put trust in the weather for a whole day is a brave act. To feel the hairs on my leg move in the breeze is a reminder to begin shaving them, another seasonal adjustment. This dress is one I sewed myself, its style a throwback to the sixties. My French teacher wore this kind of dress, a collar and two arm holes, each day the same shape in a different fabric, her hair done in a bouffant we made fun of since it was the seventies. We looked awful in our flare jeans and polyester shirts and she, the epitome of good-taste, dressed as if she was starring in a film by Godard. We told stories about her love life. We sometimes closed our mouths when she began every class ordering us to “ferme la bouche.” Did she hate us? Did she wish she was back in France during her days at the Sorbonne? My French has faded over the years. Not so the memory of our rudeness. I wear the dress, the collar with two arm holes, and I shiver. I might need a sweater, “pull” en francais.
Most mornings, I make myself a cup of chocolate milk. It keeps me from feeling dreadful. It must be chocolate milk, not coffee. Coffee makes me anxious, though when anyone asks, I always say I like to "drink coffee in the morning," because it's easier than explaining.
My current chocolate milk recipe is a mix of cocoa powder, oat milk, a dash of tumeric, and a pinch of pepper. The powder is sugar-free, the milk is lactose-free, and the pepper brings out the health benefits of the tumeric. I used to use Swiss Miss hot chocolate mix before my doctor told me I was on my way to diabetes.
I mix everything with a frother. I wish I didn't have to, but the powders won't mix otherwise. I would use a spoon if I could. Same with the glass straw I plunk into the cup--I hate having an extra utensil to wash, but the thick milk is difficult to drink without it. So, I try to enjoy the luxury.
If I'm feeling particularly deserving, I add ice. But it's optional, so I often choose the extra seconds I gain passing the fridge instead. I love the clink of the cubes in the cup, the cold creaminess on my tongue. But it's extra effort, and I can appreciate cool, clink-less milk. It's fine.
I think about this character both taking care of themselves and at the same time, denying themselves. It's a great way to give us some depth about the person without describing how they look (although that's important too).
This year, again, on one of the balconies of my Tokyo apartment, I find a dead cicada lying on its back. Then I do what I did last year--I leave it lying there, hoping, like last year, the elements will chip away at the parched body over several month, turning it into dust. This means that, each time I hang out my laundry, I will have to see the insect's gray-brown belly with six short legs, the legs that hugged a tree while the creature sang until it decided to fly away to die on my balcony.
I could scoop it up with a dustpan and throw it into the trash can, but tossing a dead body--even that of a cicada--onto a pile of garbage feels irreverent. I could sweep it into a plastic bag and lay it on a soil in a neighborhood park, then I dismiss the idea because the dried-up body on the dirt would be devoured by ants before returning to dust.
I continue to wonder if it would be better to place the body onto soil each time I walk onto the balcony, even with the prospect of unrelenting ants dissecting it. Then this idea occurrs to me: the natural world might have led this guy to this particular balcony, where this human would likely leave it lying so the wind will eventually spirit it away, the ideal way for a body, my body, to disappear from the earth when I'm dead.
***
Ughh I already see this could be written differently. But this is still an exercis, isn't it? :)
Great story! It's interesting to see how a dead cicada anchors the narration. Also love the sentence structure! Can't wait to see how it evolves as the workshop unfolds.
New to the community this week, and excited to have found this workshop. Excellent first lesson!
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Communication
She sees me grab my shoes, and watches as I put them on, head cocked ever so slightly to the side. She doesn’t follow me as I stride into the kitchen. Just sits there, with the same look she’s had from the day she went from foster fail to family pet. Every picture from the last seven years, and her face is always the same, sad expression. The kids try to convince me she smiles, but I don’t see it. I don’t think she’s capable of smiling, and imagine what that would be like, only able to communicate through the wag of a tail, a twitch of an ear, the register of a bark or growl. Sometimes she sits in front of me, still as a stone, and stares into my eyes. I swear she can read my thoughts, but I don’t know how to respond. Words fail, and when I try to lead her away to see if she wants water or a treat, she stays, and her gaze draws me back in. I want to know what she’s trying to tell me.
I pull her collar and leash from the drawer, and shake it once, just enough for the tags to clang together. Blue comes bounding down the hallway, slides across the hardwood floor of the kitchen, and crashes into my leg. She bounces around my feet as I struggle to corral her in and latch the collar and leash around her neck. She’s excited for a walk.
Thanks for sharing this everyday moment and reflection Jason. Love the way the identity of "she" is a slow reveal. And the way you get inside both the body and mind of your pal Blue. And here's a key line, getting to the crux of what this is essay may ultimately be about: I want to know what she’s trying to tell me. Establishes the conflict--what a narrator/character wants drives story. You both show and tell the reader what's wanted, what's at stake. The title, Communication, foreshadows and summarizes nicely. Also like how this start is bracketed by scene. Nice, nice, nice. Thx for sharing.
My humble attempt is below. I really loved the task!
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When I woke up, I thought it was well past midnight. But the ice-blue digits on my bedside clock showed only 10:30.
Then, in an instant, I realized why I’d awakened and why I’d dreamed about seagulls screeching and fighting over my head. From beyond the wall, piercing the cold darkness of my room, came the trickle of a child’s crying.
It was my neighbors’ child — the disheveled young couple who had just moved in and always looked so nervous, so irritated, so messy every time I ran into them in the hallway. I even started to feel sorry for running into them. Almost said sorry once.
Just love this opening. And look how much these three short paragraphs accomplish, evoking telling images of the room and the neighbors, and showing the narrator's personality -- I'd love to read where the story is going!
Ditto to Cynthia's comments :-) Good use of sensory details and imagery with the gulls screeching and fighting. And your "feeling sorry"--I think that's the connection to be explored--why?
Thank you so much for this workshop! Today I have already thought of several scenarios I could explore, but it will all depend on what is coming in the next lessons :-)
My list began with several daily activities: sleeping on the sofa because my outdoor cat now sleeps indoors; a neighbor giving me a ride in a loud muffler-less truck; and how I haven't cleaned house for months, then do a full spring cleaning, as if dust/dirt were the negative thoughts of the past months. None of these clicked, and then I remembered finding the rats in my shed.
What surprised me when writing the scene was the comparison to my brother and the emerging emotions. This is very rough, but there's conflict. :=)
Mice in My Shed
Mack, the plumber, is young, pudgy and pink, reminding me of my younger brother, a toddler when our mother was institutionalized. So in need of a mother’s love. I ask Mack if he needs help with the broken water tank in my shed, but he demurs. “No, ma’am, it’s a messy job.” He works a long while in the dark shed, dank from the ever-present humidity of Florida, then shyly informs me that I have rats in my shed.
Rats? You mean mice. No, ma’am, mice are much smaller. I go to look and sure enough there they are, squirrel-size rats skittering across the rafters while eyeing me, as if I’m the invader of their attic home. They’ve gotten in through holes they’ve chewed through the walls.
The following months are lessons in eliminating pests: traps or poison? What type of pest? Field rats, large but less greasy than the rats of New York’s subway. And how will I close up the holes to make the shed free from pests?
Two decades later the news drifts through siblings of my brother’ drinking, car accidents, a ski bum constantly on the move. I call, we talk, my brother always pretending he's fine, everything’s fine. He refuses my advice, refuses to get help. He’s fine, not to worry. I cannot help him. And try to calm the urges. You can’t help. You can’t. You can’t.
Hi Cynthia. Great connection you've discovered here. The difference between mice, young, pudgy, pink and rats, which are larger, dirtier, even greasy. How addressing the rats in your shed is a "messy job." How you struggle to be able to address, i.e. "help" you brother. You've got an essay in the works here :-)
One thought on the title--you might go with "In My Shed" and let the easy reveal and discuss the mice versus rat question.
Late Easter morning, the sun having long ago made its break-of-day debut, people are still inside their homes celebrating rebirth with their families by finding eggs and eating candy. But there is no resurrection in my life, and I must get out of the deadly quiet of my house. Strolling down the empty sidewalk, I pull memories tight around me like a cape, wispy thoughts of my husband before his illness, before his death six months ago. And in the silence, my edges are blurring, and I am dissolving very slowly. Soon I will be a blob of jelly darkening the white pavement. But a sudden trill pierces my trance, and there is a Carolina wren perched in a tea olive just about eye level with me. I pause and stare, and she trills again, loudly, like she is holding up a megaphone to her beak. How else could she get such an outsized sound from her tiny, almond-shaped body? And in a nearby live oak another wren trills and more join in, and as they go back and forth, I realize they are proclaiming I am here and this is my space! I am here, I am here, and I belong! And in the maple tree just beyond the live oak, cardinals alight, the males flashing red robes, the females dressed in soft browns, all sporting their name-sake cardinal-hat crests and begin chirping, asking their mates: Are you nearby? Are you safe? And sometimes inserting long calls of I love you. I will always love you.
Hi Bonnie. Lovely. Nice foreshadowing in the title, the seeds for the metaphor are set there :-) And lots of sensory details at work here: the deadly quiet of the house in juxtaposition with the symbolic revival/rebirth of the holiday, which isn't present in the narrator's life or home. But outside things come to life with sound, trills, megaphonic trills, a chorus of trills. Love the idea of the cluster of birds making a proclamation. And the personification of the cardinals and what they wear--red robes and cardinal-hat crests (timely :-) And the bird dialogue, pushing the metaphor further, asking Are you nearby? Are you safe? Lots of craft at work here. Thanks for sharing!
Question: what about “common” things that aren’t necessarily daily. Can that fit into the quiet writing category? And does it matter? Ex: getting your hair done. Monthly maintenance isn’t a novelty. It’s common but not the same as feeding the dog.
Hi Rani. Yes routine, or common activities, like getting your hair done, are a good fit for everyday moments. However, when you write those down, you probably want to recall the last time you went to the stylist, or another specific time you went to the stylist, so that you write about the that routine activity as a scene. By definition, a scene happens at a specific place and time and often includes dialogue. That approach, writing in scene, will bring the activity more to life on the page. And as I often say, there will be exceptions to every writing approach, like writing in scene, but I recommend that as the way to start.
re: writing prompt response. I realize that I like reading and writing quiet writing and it’s what maybe I do! where did this terminology come from? quiet writing? quiet is needed to reflect. who knew. revised this part to the prompt. can’t figure out if it should just be a paragraph or the white space.
Lovely poem, Tania. I love the heron image, love herons.
And the term writing quiet--I'm not aware of an original source. It's not a specific genre or subgenere, it's descriptive. You'll see it referred to in other places and ways. The definition I provide in the course is a reflection of what I've found through reading and researching.
Behind him, I notice his gray Nike shoe. It lies underneath the swing. Resting on the worn playground padding as if it’s too exhausted by the day’s deep humidity, unacclimated by its sudden onset. He went over it, back and forth, his legs repeating, “tables and chairs.” I taught him that. My son’s Nike may have been off-white once, like the frayed lace might have once easily fit through the last eyelet, like the sole might have had distinct grooves that formed a pattern.
The playground padding sucked up and retained the earlier thunderstorm. We had been caught in that, too. Instead of the playground, we went to 7-11. There, chilling air conditioning rushed us before our eyes adjusted to the dim interior. Pushed by muscle memory, he went directly to the Slurpee machines that spun red blue yellow purple slush for $1.38 a cup. On our way home, brain freeze hit before the sky released fat, cold drops that hit faster and faster as we ran. I pulled him through the downpour. “You are always running, except now when I need you to,” I said. He laughed. Beads of rain rolled off his glasses. “You need windshield wipers.” I put them in my pocket for the last three blocks.
Now I feel the next storm burst. Humidity pushes me beyond comfort. Prickling my forearms. A drop of sweat down my back. He’d love to stay on the swing and then run through the rain with his glasses in my pocket, but I couldn’t do it again. “Stop!” I tell him as I reach for his Nike. Still in the swing, he rests his foot precariously on my thigh as I tie an X and rabbit ears. “Come on, we gotta go.”
Lots of great sensory writing here David. The title is a great, simple 2-word set up. and starting with the image of the Nike shoe personified--it's exhausted love the way that reflects the scene and action to come. And then how you return to put the shoe back on to his foot at the close, provides a nice arc to the moment. The middle paragraph moves back in time, earlier in the day, in that April rain. You do a good job with time markers--"earlier thunderstorm, we had been caught"--keeping the reader oriented in time as the essay moves forward and backward and then forward again--"Now I feel the next story burst..." Dad's dialogue is funny in para #2 but then the tension hits--humidity pushes, prickling forearms, I couldn't do it again. Stop!
Looking forward to seeing where this leads. Great.
this essay was reassuring to read, because its deeper meaning almost seems to pass by, easily missed, yet if this author is widely read, then it is reassuring that there are readers out there who - don't - miss the multifold refractive meanings cast by her writing style. it meanders, framed by three bugs. I took from this the circumstance of pandemic isolation as a pivotal set up for questioning the meaning of one's existence, and of existence overall. the artifacts and clues of a life lived, the observation of other lives (bugs) living, and when there is no clear answer to the meaning, the reassurance alone, that simply being alive was somewhat comforting. I was reassured that tangential, meandering essays like this are appreciated by readers! does she write in flow of thought naturally or is this planned structurally and edited I wonder. maybe a bit of both. it seems like a process of discovery. sweet.
Hi Tania. Thanks for sharing these great observations and insights! While Thomas came to writing later in life (she dropped out of college freshman year to have a baby and three more children followed), she has been writing for many years. She's 84 now. Her last book, Still Life at 80, is a wonderful memoir, great read. I think her meandering style has been carefully cultivated over time, and she is well appreciated by readers.
I find that one the important keys to the tangents she takes in this essay and in her writings overall is that she takes these alternative paths with purpose and ease. As a reader you don't realize that she's continue to layer and build her essay's throughline. It's natural to Thomas' writing, but I'd call it consciously natural, these tangents maybe outlined or edited in--I don't know her specific process, but they are included with purpose and because they work to support the essay. Yes, she focused on identity here and the ephemera on the bedside table show us both the passage of time and more about who sue is, what she values. And the wasps--we learn that this is a woman who can, "I'm kind of in love with paper wasps."
I liked this essay a lot. it showed the tender relationship between two people and how later upon reflection she would remember. it is the reality that we enter this life and there is at the end, death and along the way those that we love we will also lose. and yet there is beauty in the living. I liked the technique of not knowing- just as maybe the narrator didn't as she lived in the moment that how later she would be reflecting back on that moment. the structure of the essay is set up in the same way in presentation such that the reader retrospectively as well regards the past.
re:What is the deeper meaning conveyed here? What is the story of Liu’s winter swims about?
I felt the quietness of this essay. It also had a voice of the narrator that has a feel and rhythm of a non-European observer- maybe it was the simplicity of the sentences. One deeper meaning I received was that there are the actions that we take, there are the responses those around us have to them, and then there are the experiences that are so personal and wordless that only we can know- so it is a challenge to write about but she conveys this well at the end with her metaphor. I personally love to swim— so this essay personally resonates with me well though I need a wet suit for that kind of cold. I’m off to swim and back to read the other essays later. thank you
- My face I saw in the bathroom mirror when I was genuinely angry -- it surprised me because I loved how it looked
- I sawed up old pieces of furniture to throw them away with regular trash. The furniture was originally family's, and, though it was exhausting, knocking it down felt quite good.
- Early in the morning, I see through the window men and women, young and middle-aged, walking to go to work. I used to commute. How I hated having to go to the office. Now how I appreciate it.
These are gorgeous Kay. Definitely feels like there are stories to mine and connections to be made--and the potential metaphors with dead cicadas--and chopping up family furniture. Wow :-)
In "The Winter Swimmer," this paragraph stood out to me:
You’re not getting younger, she’ll say. Remember how second uncle went in the water once and never came back? Heart disease runs in his family. Liu dips his head into the green-blue sea. Below the surface, he can hear the taut hum of fishing boats entering the marina.
Hearing "the taut hum of fishing boats" as he goes "Below the surface" matters more than his heart health to him. He is not concerned much about worldly matters, but he lives with people who are. I thought this para shows he is not entirely happy with his family, but he is also happy because he has this moment of swimming every day. This is a brilliant story.
I thought Jim had died. If that was the case, if I were in her place, I'd do the same in his sweater, i.e., look for the owl through his binoculars, as if spotting the owl would be like spotting him, to find some comfort.
If he had left for his new life in the real world, finding the owl would bring me more pain.
So, for me, the meaning of the owl, and what metaphor it is, would depend on what really happened. It's all up to the reader's imagination/interpretation. I thought that's part of the craft used in this piece.
Here's mine. No title yet.
How awkward it feels to be wearing a dress for the first time in spring. Our springs here are changeable things, one minute cold and overcast, the next warm and sunny. To put trust in the weather for a whole day is a brave act. To feel the hairs on my leg move in the breeze is a reminder to begin shaving them, another seasonal adjustment. This dress is one I sewed myself, its style a throwback to the sixties. My French teacher wore this kind of dress, a collar and two arm holes, each day the same shape in a different fabric, her hair done in a bouffant we made fun of since it was the seventies. We looked awful in our flare jeans and polyester shirts and she, the epitome of good-taste, dressed as if she was starring in a film by Godard. We told stories about her love life. We sometimes closed our mouths when she began every class ordering us to “ferme la bouche.” Did she hate us? Did she wish she was back in France during her days at the Sorbonne? My French has faded over the years. Not so the memory of our rudeness. I wear the dress, the collar with two arm holes, and I shiver. I might need a sweater, “pull” en francais.
Here's my attempt :) Thanks for the cool lesson!
...
Most mornings, I make myself a cup of chocolate milk. It keeps me from feeling dreadful. It must be chocolate milk, not coffee. Coffee makes me anxious, though when anyone asks, I always say I like to "drink coffee in the morning," because it's easier than explaining.
My current chocolate milk recipe is a mix of cocoa powder, oat milk, a dash of tumeric, and a pinch of pepper. The powder is sugar-free, the milk is lactose-free, and the pepper brings out the health benefits of the tumeric. I used to use Swiss Miss hot chocolate mix before my doctor told me I was on my way to diabetes.
I mix everything with a frother. I wish I didn't have to, but the powders won't mix otherwise. I would use a spoon if I could. Same with the glass straw I plunk into the cup--I hate having an extra utensil to wash, but the thick milk is difficult to drink without it. So, I try to enjoy the luxury.
If I'm feeling particularly deserving, I add ice. But it's optional, so I often choose the extra seconds I gain passing the fridge instead. I love the clink of the cubes in the cup, the cold creaminess on my tongue. But it's extra effort, and I can appreciate cool, clink-less milk. It's fine.
I think about this character both taking care of themselves and at the same time, denying themselves. It's a great way to give us some depth about the person without describing how they look (although that's important too).
My attempt (Exercise 3):
***
This year, again, on one of the balconies of my Tokyo apartment, I find a dead cicada lying on its back. Then I do what I did last year--I leave it lying there, hoping, like last year, the elements will chip away at the parched body over several month, turning it into dust. This means that, each time I hang out my laundry, I will have to see the insect's gray-brown belly with six short legs, the legs that hugged a tree while the creature sang until it decided to fly away to die on my balcony.
I could scoop it up with a dustpan and throw it into the trash can, but tossing a dead body--even that of a cicada--onto a pile of garbage feels irreverent. I could sweep it into a plastic bag and lay it on a soil in a neighborhood park, then I dismiss the idea because the dried-up body on the dirt would be devoured by ants before returning to dust.
I continue to wonder if it would be better to place the body onto soil each time I walk onto the balcony, even with the prospect of unrelenting ants dissecting it. Then this idea occurrs to me: the natural world might have led this guy to this particular balcony, where this human would likely leave it lying so the wind will eventually spirit it away, the ideal way for a body, my body, to disappear from the earth when I'm dead.
***
Ughh I already see this could be written differently. But this is still an exercis, isn't it? :)
Great story! It's interesting to see how a dead cicada anchors the narration. Also love the sentence structure! Can't wait to see how it evolves as the workshop unfolds.
Thank you!
New to the community this week, and excited to have found this workshop. Excellent first lesson!
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Communication
She sees me grab my shoes, and watches as I put them on, head cocked ever so slightly to the side. She doesn’t follow me as I stride into the kitchen. Just sits there, with the same look she’s had from the day she went from foster fail to family pet. Every picture from the last seven years, and her face is always the same, sad expression. The kids try to convince me she smiles, but I don’t see it. I don’t think she’s capable of smiling, and imagine what that would be like, only able to communicate through the wag of a tail, a twitch of an ear, the register of a bark or growl. Sometimes she sits in front of me, still as a stone, and stares into my eyes. I swear she can read my thoughts, but I don’t know how to respond. Words fail, and when I try to lead her away to see if she wants water or a treat, she stays, and her gaze draws me back in. I want to know what she’s trying to tell me.
I pull her collar and leash from the drawer, and shake it once, just enough for the tags to clang together. Blue comes bounding down the hallway, slides across the hardwood floor of the kitchen, and crashes into my leg. She bounces around my feet as I struggle to corral her in and latch the collar and leash around her neck. She’s excited for a walk.
Thanks for sharing this everyday moment and reflection Jason. Love the way the identity of "she" is a slow reveal. And the way you get inside both the body and mind of your pal Blue. And here's a key line, getting to the crux of what this is essay may ultimately be about: I want to know what she’s trying to tell me. Establishes the conflict--what a narrator/character wants drives story. You both show and tell the reader what's wanted, what's at stake. The title, Communication, foreshadows and summarizes nicely. Also like how this start is bracketed by scene. Nice, nice, nice. Thx for sharing.
My humble attempt is below. I really loved the task!
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When I woke up, I thought it was well past midnight. But the ice-blue digits on my bedside clock showed only 10:30.
Then, in an instant, I realized why I’d awakened and why I’d dreamed about seagulls screeching and fighting over my head. From beyond the wall, piercing the cold darkness of my room, came the trickle of a child’s crying.
It was my neighbors’ child — the disheveled young couple who had just moved in and always looked so nervous, so irritated, so messy every time I ran into them in the hallway. I even started to feel sorry for running into them. Almost said sorry once.
Just love this opening. And look how much these three short paragraphs accomplish, evoking telling images of the room and the neighbors, and showing the narrator's personality -- I'd love to read where the story is going!
Thank you so much!
Ditto to Cynthia's comments :-) Good use of sensory details and imagery with the gulls screeching and fighting. And your "feeling sorry"--I think that's the connection to be explored--why?
thx for sharing!
Thank you so much for this workshop! Today I have already thought of several scenarios I could explore, but it will all depend on what is coming in the next lessons :-)
Good start! Lots of tension; I started to feel irritated for you. :-0
Love the seagulls screeching for the baby's cries.
Thank you so much! I don't know where this story is going, but I do love this game:)
My list began with several daily activities: sleeping on the sofa because my outdoor cat now sleeps indoors; a neighbor giving me a ride in a loud muffler-less truck; and how I haven't cleaned house for months, then do a full spring cleaning, as if dust/dirt were the negative thoughts of the past months. None of these clicked, and then I remembered finding the rats in my shed.
What surprised me when writing the scene was the comparison to my brother and the emerging emotions. This is very rough, but there's conflict. :=)
Mice in My Shed
Mack, the plumber, is young, pudgy and pink, reminding me of my younger brother, a toddler when our mother was institutionalized. So in need of a mother’s love. I ask Mack if he needs help with the broken water tank in my shed, but he demurs. “No, ma’am, it’s a messy job.” He works a long while in the dark shed, dank from the ever-present humidity of Florida, then shyly informs me that I have rats in my shed.
Rats? You mean mice. No, ma’am, mice are much smaller. I go to look and sure enough there they are, squirrel-size rats skittering across the rafters while eyeing me, as if I’m the invader of their attic home. They’ve gotten in through holes they’ve chewed through the walls.
The following months are lessons in eliminating pests: traps or poison? What type of pest? Field rats, large but less greasy than the rats of New York’s subway. And how will I close up the holes to make the shed free from pests?
Two decades later the news drifts through siblings of my brother’ drinking, car accidents, a ski bum constantly on the move. I call, we talk, my brother always pretending he's fine, everything’s fine. He refuses my advice, refuses to get help. He’s fine, not to worry. I cannot help him. And try to calm the urges. You can’t help. You can’t. You can’t.
Hi Cynthia. Great connection you've discovered here. The difference between mice, young, pudgy, pink and rats, which are larger, dirtier, even greasy. How addressing the rats in your shed is a "messy job." How you struggle to be able to address, i.e. "help" you brother. You've got an essay in the works here :-)
One thought on the title--you might go with "In My Shed" and let the easy reveal and discuss the mice versus rat question.
Thx for sharing!
Easter Company
Late Easter morning, the sun having long ago made its break-of-day debut, people are still inside their homes celebrating rebirth with their families by finding eggs and eating candy. But there is no resurrection in my life, and I must get out of the deadly quiet of my house. Strolling down the empty sidewalk, I pull memories tight around me like a cape, wispy thoughts of my husband before his illness, before his death six months ago. And in the silence, my edges are blurring, and I am dissolving very slowly. Soon I will be a blob of jelly darkening the white pavement. But a sudden trill pierces my trance, and there is a Carolina wren perched in a tea olive just about eye level with me. I pause and stare, and she trills again, loudly, like she is holding up a megaphone to her beak. How else could she get such an outsized sound from her tiny, almond-shaped body? And in a nearby live oak another wren trills and more join in, and as they go back and forth, I realize they are proclaiming I am here and this is my space! I am here, I am here, and I belong! And in the maple tree just beyond the live oak, cardinals alight, the males flashing red robes, the females dressed in soft browns, all sporting their name-sake cardinal-hat crests and begin chirping, asking their mates: Are you nearby? Are you safe? And sometimes inserting long calls of I love you. I will always love you.
Hi Bonnie. Lovely. Nice foreshadowing in the title, the seeds for the metaphor are set there :-) And lots of sensory details at work here: the deadly quiet of the house in juxtaposition with the symbolic revival/rebirth of the holiday, which isn't present in the narrator's life or home. But outside things come to life with sound, trills, megaphonic trills, a chorus of trills. Love the idea of the cluster of birds making a proclamation. And the personification of the cardinals and what they wear--red robes and cardinal-hat crests (timely :-) And the bird dialogue, pushing the metaphor further, asking Are you nearby? Are you safe? Lots of craft at work here. Thanks for sharing!
Really enjoyed this lesson— thank you!
Question: what about “common” things that aren’t necessarily daily. Can that fit into the quiet writing category? And does it matter? Ex: getting your hair done. Monthly maintenance isn’t a novelty. It’s common but not the same as feeding the dog.
Hi Rani. Yes routine, or common activities, like getting your hair done, are a good fit for everyday moments. However, when you write those down, you probably want to recall the last time you went to the stylist, or another specific time you went to the stylist, so that you write about the that routine activity as a scene. By definition, a scene happens at a specific place and time and often includes dialogue. That approach, writing in scene, will bring the activity more to life on the page. And as I often say, there will be exceptions to every writing approach, like writing in scene, but I recommend that as the way to start.
Love it! Thank you, Andrea
re: writing prompt response. I realize that I like reading and writing quiet writing and it’s what maybe I do! where did this terminology come from? quiet writing? quiet is needed to reflect. who knew. revised this part to the prompt. can’t figure out if it should just be a paragraph or the white space.
and this morning,
distant,
down shore, I saw a heron stepping,
one leg forward, then
the other,
so
steady, so assured,
unquestioningly fishing
for uncertain
breakfast
the light was gentle, the water
still,
and something
lifted,
I wanted it to stay.
Lovely poem, Tania. I love the heron image, love herons.
And the term writing quiet--I'm not aware of an original source. It's not a specific genre or subgenere, it's descriptive. You'll see it referred to in other places and ways. The definition I provide in the course is a reflection of what I've found through reading and researching.
My response to the writing prompt - this was fun!
April Rain
Behind him, I notice his gray Nike shoe. It lies underneath the swing. Resting on the worn playground padding as if it’s too exhausted by the day’s deep humidity, unacclimated by its sudden onset. He went over it, back and forth, his legs repeating, “tables and chairs.” I taught him that. My son’s Nike may have been off-white once, like the frayed lace might have once easily fit through the last eyelet, like the sole might have had distinct grooves that formed a pattern.
The playground padding sucked up and retained the earlier thunderstorm. We had been caught in that, too. Instead of the playground, we went to 7-11. There, chilling air conditioning rushed us before our eyes adjusted to the dim interior. Pushed by muscle memory, he went directly to the Slurpee machines that spun red blue yellow purple slush for $1.38 a cup. On our way home, brain freeze hit before the sky released fat, cold drops that hit faster and faster as we ran. I pulled him through the downpour. “You are always running, except now when I need you to,” I said. He laughed. Beads of rain rolled off his glasses. “You need windshield wipers.” I put them in my pocket for the last three blocks.
Now I feel the next storm burst. Humidity pushes me beyond comfort. Prickling my forearms. A drop of sweat down my back. He’d love to stay on the swing and then run through the rain with his glasses in my pocket, but I couldn’t do it again. “Stop!” I tell him as I reach for his Nike. Still in the swing, he rests his foot precariously on my thigh as I tie an X and rabbit ears. “Come on, we gotta go.”
Lots of great sensory writing here David. The title is a great, simple 2-word set up. and starting with the image of the Nike shoe personified--it's exhausted love the way that reflects the scene and action to come. And then how you return to put the shoe back on to his foot at the close, provides a nice arc to the moment. The middle paragraph moves back in time, earlier in the day, in that April rain. You do a good job with time markers--"earlier thunderstorm, we had been caught"--keeping the reader oriented in time as the essay moves forward and backward and then forward again--"Now I feel the next story burst..." Dad's dialogue is funny in para #2 but then the tension hits--humidity pushes, prickling forearms, I couldn't do it again. Stop!
Looking forward to seeing where this leads. Great.
I like your first paragraph especially. the shoes have life. there’s a feeling too of nostalgia. the shoes and your son.
re: abigail thomas essay, deeper meaning
this essay was reassuring to read, because its deeper meaning almost seems to pass by, easily missed, yet if this author is widely read, then it is reassuring that there are readers out there who - don't - miss the multifold refractive meanings cast by her writing style. it meanders, framed by three bugs. I took from this the circumstance of pandemic isolation as a pivotal set up for questioning the meaning of one's existence, and of existence overall. the artifacts and clues of a life lived, the observation of other lives (bugs) living, and when there is no clear answer to the meaning, the reassurance alone, that simply being alive was somewhat comforting. I was reassured that tangential, meandering essays like this are appreciated by readers! does she write in flow of thought naturally or is this planned structurally and edited I wonder. maybe a bit of both. it seems like a process of discovery. sweet.
Hi Tania. Thanks for sharing these great observations and insights! While Thomas came to writing later in life (she dropped out of college freshman year to have a baby and three more children followed), she has been writing for many years. She's 84 now. Her last book, Still Life at 80, is a wonderful memoir, great read. I think her meandering style has been carefully cultivated over time, and she is well appreciated by readers.
I find that one the important keys to the tangents she takes in this essay and in her writings overall is that she takes these alternative paths with purpose and ease. As a reader you don't realize that she's continue to layer and build her essay's throughline. It's natural to Thomas' writing, but I'd call it consciously natural, these tangents maybe outlined or edited in--I don't know her specific process, but they are included with purpose and because they work to support the essay. Yes, she focused on identity here and the ephemera on the bedside table show us both the passage of time and more about who sue is, what she values. And the wasps--we learn that this is a woman who can, "I'm kind of in love with paper wasps."
thx again for sharing your thoughts.
re: charring cross, deeper meaning
I liked this essay a lot. it showed the tender relationship between two people and how later upon reflection she would remember. it is the reality that we enter this life and there is at the end, death and along the way those that we love we will also lose. and yet there is beauty in the living. I liked the technique of not knowing- just as maybe the narrator didn't as she lived in the moment that how later she would be reflecting back on that moment. the structure of the essay is set up in the same way in presentation such that the reader retrospectively as well regards the past.
yes yes--I agree the mystery and reveal structure is one of the highlights of this essay.
re:What is the deeper meaning conveyed here? What is the story of Liu’s winter swims about?
I felt the quietness of this essay. It also had a voice of the narrator that has a feel and rhythm of a non-European observer- maybe it was the simplicity of the sentences. One deeper meaning I received was that there are the actions that we take, there are the responses those around us have to them, and then there are the experiences that are so personal and wordless that only we can know- so it is a challenge to write about but she conveys this well at the end with her metaphor. I personally love to swim— so this essay personally resonates with me well though I need a wet suit for that kind of cold. I’m off to swim and back to read the other essays later. thank you
from one swimmer to another, I, too, love essays/stories that center around water. I hope you had a great swim.
My list of everyday moments (Exercise 2):
- Dead cicadas on my balconies in the summer
- My face I saw in the bathroom mirror when I was genuinely angry -- it surprised me because I loved how it looked
- I sawed up old pieces of furniture to throw them away with regular trash. The furniture was originally family's, and, though it was exhausting, knocking it down felt quite good.
- Early in the morning, I see through the window men and women, young and middle-aged, walking to go to work. I used to commute. How I hated having to go to the office. Now how I appreciate it.
These are gorgeous Kay. Definitely feels like there are stories to mine and connections to be made--and the potential metaphors with dead cicadas--and chopping up family furniture. Wow :-)
In "The Winter Swimmer," this paragraph stood out to me:
You’re not getting younger, she’ll say. Remember how second uncle went in the water once and never came back? Heart disease runs in his family. Liu dips his head into the green-blue sea. Below the surface, he can hear the taut hum of fishing boats entering the marina.
Hearing "the taut hum of fishing boats" as he goes "Below the surface" matters more than his heart health to him. He is not concerned much about worldly matters, but he lives with people who are. I thought this para shows he is not entirely happy with his family, but he is also happy because he has this moment of swimming every day. This is a brilliant story.
Great close read--and focus on the sensory details and how it's used. thank you for sharing.
About the own in "Charring LIght" -
I thought Jim had died. If that was the case, if I were in her place, I'd do the same in his sweater, i.e., look for the owl through his binoculars, as if spotting the owl would be like spotting him, to find some comfort.
If he had left for his new life in the real world, finding the owl would bring me more pain.
So, for me, the meaning of the owl, and what metaphor it is, would depend on what really happened. It's all up to the reader's imagination/interpretation. I thought that's part of the craft used in this piece.
Hi Kay. Great observation! Yes the author has left space, inviting the reader in, with what she doesn't include on the page.