Random Freewrite 2: Week of 4/10/11

This is part of that story I've been re-writing over and over. Some parts are becoming clearer, but this particular section feels too expositional, although (hopefully) not as melodramatic as the second draft was. I'm not sure if this is going in the final draft (that is, of the third draft) or not. I still have a lot to work on. I have a feeling this story is going to be a long-term project, but I'm really feeling it and I hope I get a complete draft done at least by Fall semester.

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She had tried all that she knew to try, from tactics she’d happily embraced and those she’d believed were closeted deep away when she had married woman, not man. She had spoken directly, saying, “I’m not happy here,” and spent hours with Blair roadside in silence that could be taken as admonishment or consent, but Blair had never sought to discover which. She had helped Blair search the shrine’s archives and question any passengers that spent the night if they knew the secrets of the ghost; she had withheld nothing from Blair, yet Blair had yet to notice her hand on pages turned or her voice on stories shared. She had worn gorgeous dresses—such as she had—that a year ago would have held Blair’s eyes enticed, and in anger at her want, she had spent hours wearing even less, to catch if only a single glimpse. Blair only seemed aware on nights like these, and for scant days after, on the high of a sighting. But aware only of skin and form, it seemed, having lost translation of Harlow’s voice and face.

“I am more fully a woman now than I was ever before allowed to be,” Harlow had written her sister a year and two months ago. “Tell me everything about it,” her sister had replied. “Let me live through you!” But Harlow had kept silent now for eight months, saving her sister’s continued letters in a small lock box beneath the bed, which she and Blair shared every night but barely touched and only after Blair had been satisfied elsewhere, by books or stories or ghosts in the sky. “I am more specifically a woman now than I had ever before allowed myself to be.” She kept the unsent letters in the box, where Blair would never even guess to look. Some she destroyed in the hearth as soon as she’d written them, revolted by her tears. She could not bring herself to record in ink, “I was wrong about our sex.”

Random Freewrite 1: Week of 4/10/11

(Yes, I'm still doing this. Don't ask me why. I don't know why. It's silly, and I know it's silly.)

Two Tails

an episode

(4)

(Some time later.)

Night had fallen. It was raining, too. Little more than a drizzle.

The house seemed quite tiny, with some windows glowing orange and some windows quite dark.

They could see it from where they were, on the faint slope of the schoolyard.

The Sheep sat on eir rump, resting eir aching feet. The Dog stood next to em, slightly in front. Alert. Eir tail was a stiff line curling slightly over eir back. Eir ears twitched. Eir eyes were set wide and staring, however, down at the house with the tree.

Somehow, it seemed a little wrong. Blocky and hard.

Home had called em all along, but now that they had made it there, ey couldn't find its scent.

The Sheep was very still. Slumping. Eir wool drooped over eir eyes and across eir hooves. Eir head hung low. Ey looked weary and wet.

Very quietly, the Dog sidled up to em and slid down on eir own rump. Eir hip brushed along the Sheep's shoulder, and when ey sat, ey sat on a hoof. The hoof didn't move or seem to mind. The Dog's shoulder nudged into the Sheep's side, and the Sheep bleated once, softly. A lonely sound. But the Sheep didn't move. Ey just sat there with a Dog on eir hoof and stared at the house.

The Dog knew the Sheep was hungry. Ey could hear the soft stomach noises beneath the hum of night.

Ey shifted eir weight and, leaning close, tucked eir chin across the back of the Sheep's neck. It was very soft there. And warm, down deep in the wool. The scent of grass and rain was very strong, but the scent of the Sheep was stronger. The Dog pressed eir nose in tighter against the wool.

The night air was very thick. Sounds and smells and cold wet rain. It felt too big for them. The sounds were too many, the smells too close. Ey was whining very faintly, high-pitched and helpless, as ey breathed out a sigh. It hurt when ey choked it out; it caught in eir throat, but the Dog swallowed over it. That's what Dogs do when Sheep depend on them, and ey was a very good Dog. Ey knew ey was. Ey was very well trained.

The Sheep hadn't made a sound. But something felt different. Calmer. Heavier. The Dog felt the weight against eir chest, and the press of damp, grass-stained wool against eir muzzle.

The Sheep was leaning back.

Just a little.

They were both dirty and matted. And itchy, too. Ey felt the Sheep's skin twitch deep within the wool. So ey dug eir nose in and nibbled there with gentle teeth. The Sheep's muscles jumped, then stilled as the Dog found itch after itch. Gradually, the Sheep calmed underneath the Dog's care, folding eir legs under eir chest to relax on the ground. And although the Fleas were still there, somewhere, ey seemed to become a little calmer.

So had the Dog. Ey draped emself over the Sheep, chin over back, keeping watch for an itch.

And if the Fleas decided to feed on em instead, well, the Dog was content with that.

Reading Response 2: Week of 4/10/11

Steering The Craft

Chapter 10

Crowding and Leaping

The "leaping" section so reminded me of the discussion about the Buffy episode and even my impressions of "Willi," and the "crowding" section brought to mind the very first few discussions we had in class about poetry: being specific rather than using abstract words. I felt particularly challenged by the exercise to cut in half a short story I've written. I think I worked backwards from what Le Guin recommended in one of my stories, writing two very abstract scenes, then trying to fill in the gaps (small surprise that worked so poorly), and now I'm trying to re-write it entirely since the third draft was so impossibly jumbled. It's hard for me, though, because most stories come to me in random scenes that later grow into a complete story, so I find myself trying to add more often than I find myself trying to strip down. I'll have to work on that. I might try her exercise with the first short story I submitted for class, and possibly for the ghouls poem/story. I've been trying to expand the ghouls poem into a story so that it has some context, but maybe it needs to be stripped down. It will be interesting to see which direction is clearer.

Reading Response 1: Week of 4/10/11

Short Story Masterpieces

E. L. Doctorow

"Willi"

I have a love/hate relationship with this story, and once again, I found myself at odds with the rest of the class over what parts I liked and what parts I didn’t. I loved all of that poetic language, and I love how Doctorow described the sensations around the action rather than making the actions explicit. I didn't even realize the opening few pages was a single paragraph; it was a surprise in class to look back and realize it had been a huge block of text. It was such beautiful language that I was reading it straight, just basking in it, and then I got to the plot and the gorgeous mood of the opening scene seemed incongruous until I realized how it tied into the "willi" theme of the story. I was kind of hoping, though, that it was just my mind taking a detour into the gutter and that Professor Ellison was going to point out something else that would shame me. Now I can't read that opening scene without my poor mind swamped by Masturbation, in bold with a capital M. Which is sad and awesome all at once.

Anyway, I loved this story. The only things I didn't like were the gender issues and the language used to exaggerate those gender stereotypes. But I realize what else is going on here, and if the son had been less enamored with his father's grandeur, his voice wouldn't have been authentic for this time, place and character. (I have the same problem with GRRM's work, perpetually caught between love and hate.)

Classmate Response: Week of 4/10/11

Danita Pope: class exercise

Pulling into the supermarket parking lot.  The smell of tar combined with midsummer heat smelt like the mood I was already in.  Stench amplified from the hot hot heat.  Regretting the fact I left the windows down for the ride, instead of using the little bit of gas I had left for air conditioner.  Upon pulling into a space near the entrance, I sat there in the heat hoping the smell would pass.  The black parallel powerlines were blinding from the brightness of the sun.  I stretch my fingers thru my ponytail noticing the resemblance of color.  This makes me happy for reasons unexplainable to myself. I use this sudden urge of happiness like a wrecking ball swaying left to right.  And shifting to the right, then suddenly to the left, I use my body weight to open the car door-which is heavy.  (heavy as if its from my existential plight) which I suddenly break thru placing first my left torn up sneaker then my right onto the pavement.  This is how I get through Tuesday.

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I loved this piece and was left wanting to read more. The "bad news" of my critique is mostly just nitpicks, like the use of "thru" instead of "through" and the phrase "hot hot heat," which might not need the "hot hot" unless it is for rhythm. Some of the part about the "existential plight" might seem abstract, but I think you tied it in well with the very specific language about the power lines and your hair, and grounded the imagery. I really loved that you used the sense of smell, which is often neglected except when it's used for flowers and such. Something you nailed perfectly is setting; I got a very distinct sense of time and place, which seems critical for these types of exercises. Like the establishing shot of a scene for a film, it's all about putting the reader into that moment, concretely, and you did just that. Good job!

 

Junkyard Quotes: Week of 4/10/11

I watched Jesus Camp this week, and so my mind is full of scenes and language from that film. It's too much to go into exactly how each quote makes me feel; I think I'd end up writing a (really boring) novel about it. So I'm just going to quote them this time.

"You don't make heroes out of warlocks!"

-Becky Fischer, Jesus Camp

"I can go into a playground of kids that don't know anything about Christianity, lead them to the Lord in a matter of, just no time at all, and just moments later they can be seeing visions and hearing the voice of God, because they're so open. They are so usable in Christianity."

-Becky Fischer, Jesus Camp

"It's no wonder, with that kind of intense training and discipling, that those young people are ready to kill themselves for the cause of Islam. I wanna see young people who are as committed to the cause of Jesus Christ as the young people are to the cause of Islam. I wanna see them as radically laying down their lives for the Gospel as they are over in Pakistan and Israel and Palestine and all those different places, you know, because we have... excuse me, but we have the truth!"

-Becky Fischer, Jesus Camp

"Did you get to the part yet where they say that science hasn't proven anything?"

-Levi's mother, Jesus Camp

"I think Galileo made the right choice by giving up science for Christ."

-Levi, in Jesus Camp