This weeks creative writing exercise was more straightforward than the last two. Still, it proved to be challenging in its own way. I loosely based it off a memory from my own childhood.
For the assignment I had to use cookery-menu preparation, the love of this essential process-as a way of understanding a man and a woman's relationship to each other.
French Toast
Standing on a kitchen chair, Emily surveyed the chaos covering the stove and counter. She couldn’t understand what she was doing wrong. She had helped Mama make French toast enough times that she thought she would have no problem cooking it all by herself this time.
“What do you think you are doing?!” Daddy stood in the door way of the kitchen with that stern frown on his face that always made Emily nervous. She knew he had just woken up because all he wore was a pair of gray shorts and his hair stood up in odd places.
Emily glanced back at her failed plan, seeing what her father saw. Blackened pieces of toast were piled high on a plate and oozed egg that somehow managed to still be raw. Splatters and spills coated the stove. Broken eggshells littered the floor and chair around Emily’s feet. Even though she had turned the stove off and had removed the last slice of toast, smoke continued to rise up from the frying pan in front of her. Emily had no idea that it was the assertive smell of the smoke that had woken Daddy up in a panic and sent him rushing to the kitchen. All she knew was that this mess wasn’t the picture perfect breakfast she had wanted Daddy to wake up to.
“I was trying to make you breakfast,” Emily explained with tears pooling in her eyes and her bottom lip quivering.
Her two step-brothers chose that moment to poke their heads in and check out what all the fuss was about. While Emily had been hard at work in the kitchen, they had been content to lounge on the sofa in the living room. Now that it looked like Emily would be getting in trouble, they wanted a front row seat for the show. The “Ooooo”s and “tsk”s that the boys contributed to the growing suspense proved to be too much for Emily to bear. She closed her eyes as the tears trickled out and hung her head.
Daddy sent the boys out the room and then walked across the kitchen so he could stand next to her. With a knuckle under her chin, he tilted her head up until he was looking into her eyes. Then, he smiled sadly at Emily. “You are using the wrong kind of bread, baby.” He opened up one of the cabinets in front of them and pulled out a loaf of bread that had been cut into much thicker slices. “This is what you need.”
Emily only uttered a soft “oh” but she listened closely as Daddy began to explain the proper way to make French toast. He replaced the smoking pan with a clean cast iron skillet and Emily threw out the burnt toast. It took until Daddy had mixed all the eggs, milk, sugar and cinnamon together for him to coax a smile out of Emily. She giggled as she dipped a slice of bread into the egg mixture and Daddy scooped it out to put it on the skillet.
“What a mess.” The step-mom entered the kitchen and the boys once again watched from the doorway. Despite the early hour, the step-mom’s face was fully made up and she had curled her hair. She looked like perfection as she moved towards them, being careful not to step on any egg shells and frowning at the stains on the stove.
“Emily and I will clean it up when we’re through,” Daddy promised. The step-mom stood on the other side of Daddy so he had to turn his back on Emily to look at her.
“Oh, I’ll take care of it. In fact, I can take over now if you like.” Something in Emily’s stomach twisted as the step-mom smiled up at Daddy.
“No, Emily and I will do it.” Emily released the breath she had been holding. The step-mom frowned but only for a moment.
“Fine. The boys and I will set the table.” The boys groaned and grumbled at this promise.
As Daddy and her continued cooking, Emily felt like she had won some kind of game or fight. Still, she remained on edge as the step-mom and the boys moved around the kitchen.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Ode to Addie Mae
This creative writing exercise was a challenge but it was also a lot of fun. This time I will give you the directions I had to follow first. Otherwise, you will think I was on something when I wrote it.
The 3 A.M. Epiphany #25 Names: Take the full name (including middle name) of someone you love. Write down as many words from this name as you can. You can repeat letters from the name as many times as you wish. Treat the letters of this name as the only letters in a new alphabet. You cannot use any words containing letters that do not exist in this name. Because this is so difficult, you'll probably be able to come up with only about 200 words for this exercise. When you have built a sufficient list of words, write a fragment of fiction that has to do with a fictionalized situation this person, or someone like this person, would be involved in.
One last suggestion, try reading it out loud.
Ode to Addie Mae
Adwyn Lorelei Brown born on a rainy day. A woolen eyebrow. An airy eyelid. A ready eye. A doll baby weaned on yellow red dawn. A ballerina wobbled on rollerblade.
We adored Addie. Addie wailed and we ran. We were barren low alone. We were wayward. Addie rallied we on wine and ale. We banded daily. Addie nabbed away old air and worn yarn. We were renewed.
None denied Addie. No barn door barred. No boar brayed. No line drawn. No one banned Addie. We were rabble. Addie owned all land. Addie owned all we. Addie owned all lady and baron.
A liar named Addie a drain on noon. A deadly adder yawned lamely. We roared. A rabid bee brawled airborne. A roller derby winner bore down on banner.
In a diner, Addie dialed a bad man. Bad man banned from land. Bad man rode alone. Bad man dined on adder. We learned bad man was no really bad.
Liar died. Deadly adder rode away.
Bad man wedded Addie. Addie was a belle bride. Addie drew we near. We were wowed by Addie. Addie yelled “yey!” We were rewarded by Addie. We dined on a dill meal.
Now y’all bray. Now y’all dare. Y’all are a beady eyed eel. Y’all are all yellowed ill. Addie warn we on y’all. Now we wary. We are redwood arrow ready. Y’all roll web. Bad man bare blade. We are ire.
We will win. Y’all will be bald bear. Y’all will wallow. Y’all will bow down. Addie will allow y’all a deal. Bad man will allow no denial. Addie will bill y’all. Y’all will dine on bean and labor on we land. Y’all will dwell in a barn.
The 3 A.M. Epiphany #25 Names: Take the full name (including middle name) of someone you love. Write down as many words from this name as you can. You can repeat letters from the name as many times as you wish. Treat the letters of this name as the only letters in a new alphabet. You cannot use any words containing letters that do not exist in this name. Because this is so difficult, you'll probably be able to come up with only about 200 words for this exercise. When you have built a sufficient list of words, write a fragment of fiction that has to do with a fictionalized situation this person, or someone like this person, would be involved in.
One last suggestion, try reading it out loud.
Ode to Addie Mae
Adwyn Lorelei Brown born on a rainy day. A woolen eyebrow. An airy eyelid. A ready eye. A doll baby weaned on yellow red dawn. A ballerina wobbled on rollerblade.
We adored Addie. Addie wailed and we ran. We were barren low alone. We were wayward. Addie rallied we on wine and ale. We banded daily. Addie nabbed away old air and worn yarn. We were renewed.
None denied Addie. No barn door barred. No boar brayed. No line drawn. No one banned Addie. We were rabble. Addie owned all land. Addie owned all we. Addie owned all lady and baron.
A liar named Addie a drain on noon. A deadly adder yawned lamely. We roared. A rabid bee brawled airborne. A roller derby winner bore down on banner.
In a diner, Addie dialed a bad man. Bad man banned from land. Bad man rode alone. Bad man dined on adder. We learned bad man was no really bad.
Liar died. Deadly adder rode away.
Bad man wedded Addie. Addie was a belle bride. Addie drew we near. We were wowed by Addie. Addie yelled “yey!” We were rewarded by Addie. We dined on a dill meal.
Now y’all bray. Now y’all dare. Y’all are a beady eyed eel. Y’all are all yellowed ill. Addie warn we on y’all. Now we wary. We are redwood arrow ready. Y’all roll web. Bad man bare blade. We are ire.
We will win. Y’all will be bald bear. Y’all will wallow. Y’all will bow down. Addie will allow y’all a deal. Bad man will allow no denial. Addie will bill y’all. Y’all will dine on bean and labor on we land. Y’all will dwell in a barn.
Monday, September 6, 2010
End of the World Beach
This started as a writing exercise for my Narrative Techniques class. I'm really proud of how it turned out.
End of the World Beach
I sat in the idling Oldsmobile and stared out the windshield. I stared at . . . dirt. No, not dirt . . . sand. I glanced to my left and spotted a tourist shop overflowing with seashell “art” and tacky t-shirts. I was at the beach. Definitely sand, then.
Why was I here? Oh, I remembered. There had been an overwhelming urgency to move so I jumped in my car and drove. The urgency returned so I pulled the key out of the ignition and climbed out. I couldn’t recall the drive. I didn’t know the name of the beach. It didn’t matter. I had driven to the end of the world.
The chill bit me the second I opened the door. Looking at the sand had made me forget it was winter. I remembered now as I lamented having only a thin jacket between me and the harsh wind. I almost returned to my climate controlled car but then I tasted the salty sea on the wind and it beckoned me.
I followed what planks in the wooden path I could find buried beneath the sand. I always hated walking through this same dry bank of sand that made up all beaches. My foot would sink with each step as I drag my other foot out of its hole only to create a new one. I never felt the panic of drowning more than when I trudged through that loose, white sand.
It was with relief that I reached the firm, molasses-colored sand that greeted the sea. I had the place all to myself, except for a handful of fishermen on the pier to my right and the seabirds. Looking out over the Atlantic, I noticed it mirrored the grayness of the January sky. At the horizon, I found it impossible to tell where the sea ended and the sky began. This bothered me. My eyes couldn’t separate heaven from earth, though I tried. I lost time trying.
Something shrieked nearby. My gaze tore away from its desperate mission to land on a couple of seagulls fighting over a potato chip. They screamed at each other, wings flapping, beaks open. I could no longer bear the violence so I retreated to the pier.
Faded blue paint chipped off the splintering boards that made up the pier. More white sand hid the first half of its stairs but I didn‘t let that stop me. I headed for the tip of the pier. I passed several fishermen on my way. Some nodded hello. Some ignored me. I preferred the ones who ignored me.
At the end, I gingerly rested my arms against the railing and looked down. I remembered summers in the gulf with water so crystal clear that I could view all its wonders. I found the Atlantic much more secretive. Murky, gray-green water filled my vision as angry, little waves kept the surface boiling. They walled me out. Anything and everything could be hiding just below those waves. Including the end of the world.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
The directions of the exercise: Describe briefly a lake or a backcountry mountain trail (in other, words, a beautiful natural setting) as seen by a person who had just lost a parent in a sudden, unexpected death. The last time thia narrator saw the parent, they argued violently. In you narrative do not mention the death, the parent, or the argument. Do not tell a story. Simply show us what the lake or forest or street looks like to someone under these circumstances.
Do you think I accomplished the exercise? What should do to expand it? Or should it be left as is?
End of the World Beach
I sat in the idling Oldsmobile and stared out the windshield. I stared at . . . dirt. No, not dirt . . . sand. I glanced to my left and spotted a tourist shop overflowing with seashell “art” and tacky t-shirts. I was at the beach. Definitely sand, then.
Why was I here? Oh, I remembered. There had been an overwhelming urgency to move so I jumped in my car and drove. The urgency returned so I pulled the key out of the ignition and climbed out. I couldn’t recall the drive. I didn’t know the name of the beach. It didn’t matter. I had driven to the end of the world.
The chill bit me the second I opened the door. Looking at the sand had made me forget it was winter. I remembered now as I lamented having only a thin jacket between me and the harsh wind. I almost returned to my climate controlled car but then I tasted the salty sea on the wind and it beckoned me.
I followed what planks in the wooden path I could find buried beneath the sand. I always hated walking through this same dry bank of sand that made up all beaches. My foot would sink with each step as I drag my other foot out of its hole only to create a new one. I never felt the panic of drowning more than when I trudged through that loose, white sand.
It was with relief that I reached the firm, molasses-colored sand that greeted the sea. I had the place all to myself, except for a handful of fishermen on the pier to my right and the seabirds. Looking out over the Atlantic, I noticed it mirrored the grayness of the January sky. At the horizon, I found it impossible to tell where the sea ended and the sky began. This bothered me. My eyes couldn’t separate heaven from earth, though I tried. I lost time trying.
Something shrieked nearby. My gaze tore away from its desperate mission to land on a couple of seagulls fighting over a potato chip. They screamed at each other, wings flapping, beaks open. I could no longer bear the violence so I retreated to the pier.
Faded blue paint chipped off the splintering boards that made up the pier. More white sand hid the first half of its stairs but I didn‘t let that stop me. I headed for the tip of the pier. I passed several fishermen on my way. Some nodded hello. Some ignored me. I preferred the ones who ignored me.
At the end, I gingerly rested my arms against the railing and looked down. I remembered summers in the gulf with water so crystal clear that I could view all its wonders. I found the Atlantic much more secretive. Murky, gray-green water filled my vision as angry, little waves kept the surface boiling. They walled me out. Anything and everything could be hiding just below those waves. Including the end of the world.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
The directions of the exercise: Describe briefly a lake or a backcountry mountain trail (in other, words, a beautiful natural setting) as seen by a person who had just lost a parent in a sudden, unexpected death. The last time thia narrator saw the parent, they argued violently. In you narrative do not mention the death, the parent, or the argument. Do not tell a story. Simply show us what the lake or forest or street looks like to someone under these circumstances.
Do you think I accomplished the exercise? What should do to expand it? Or should it be left as is?
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