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PAGE NINE Exercise Assignment January 22, 2001 Exercise #43: "Concept of Time" Let's try a writing exercise using the concept of Time. Take a deep breath, relax and free your imagination. Read the list below
concentrating on the images these words bring to mind. Now, choose one.
Write a short story or poem focusing on your selection. That's it. Now, write! Gram My mother called me at work, crying uncontrollably. It was the first time I had ever heard my mother cry like that, and I hope to God it’s the last. My mother, the strongest and kindest woman I’ve ever known, was reduced to tears and there was nothing I could do. Flushed, feeling as if I was about to pass out, I informed a coworker that my grandmother had just passed away and I had to leave. I still don’t remember driving to the hospital. Walking into the waiting room, I struggled to control my emotions. I don’t know why; perhaps it was some warped belief I had that men weren’t supposed to cry. Perhaps it was because years ago, I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t be sad when someone passed away, because intellectually I knew that I was grieving for myself and not for them. I hugged my mom and felt a lump in my throat as the tears roll down my face. Thinking about it later, I realized I wasn’t crying for my grandmother, and I wasn’t even crying for myself. I had found a new and previously unthought of reason to cry. I was crying for her husband, and her only child. My grandmother was everything to my mom. There was a bond there - a bond that I never fully understood until that day. My grandmother would have done anything for my mother, and my mother would have done the same. I wish I had spent more time with her, before things got bad and her memory started going. Thinking back on my childhood, it’s amazing how much of it was shaped by her, even though I didn’t realize it at the time. The best of my childhood memories involve my grandmother, and the time that we spent at her house, or she at ours. She used to visit us every weekend, and she would cook spaghetti and make her own sauce and meatballs. She always brought baked ricotta, which took her almost a week to make, and is one of the most delicious types of cheese you could ever grate onto your pasta. Sometimes, we’d go to her house instead. As a child, I liked sleeping over there because I could stay up as late as I wanted. I usually ended up falling asleep watching TV, fully dressed. The Untouchables would come on after the news, and one of my fondest childhood memories is the way it felt to drift off to sleep in my grandfather’s lounge chair, the sound of the television fading to a soothing white noise in the background. When I’d wake up, the TV volume would be lower, almost inaudible, and I knew that she had lowered it to avoid disturbing me. When she saw me stirring, she would almost always say, “Why don’t you take off your shoes and get comfortable?” I would always tell her that I was more comfortable with my shoes on, and mostly she’d let it go until next time, when she’d try again. Sometimes, late at night while I’m watching TV in my own house and I start to doze, I can almost recapture the feeling. It’s never quite the same though - and it always makes me a little sad when I wake up and realize I’m not really there. When I was young, she’d make the hot fudge sundaes and I’d have to eat mine at the kitchen table. When I got a little older, though, she let me make them, and would wait in the living room for me to bring one to her. If my grandfather was still awake, he’d get one too. We’d all sit and watch TV together, eating our sundaes. I can remember being so concerned about what she thought of it. Was it good? Did she like it? Not surprisingly, she always did. It probably sounds like a stupid thing, but it was the first time I can recall actually doing something for her that made me feel good inside. Here I was, making something for my grandmother to eat, after spending my entire life with her preparing food for me. At the time, I didn’t realize she was letting me do this because she knew it made me feel important, like I was growing up. During the summers when I was nine or ten years old - I would go there and stay for a few days at a time. If the weather was warm, I’d go swimming with my cousins while she visited with her sister or her nephew. If it was too cold for that, my cousins and I would split up into teams and play wiffle ball until dusk, until one by one we were called in for dinner. After dinner, sometimes it was just the two of us, my grandmother and me. My grandfather would watch television, then go to bed early because he had to be to work at 3 or 4 am. So we’d talk, or sit around the kitchen table and play cards - usually war or crazy eights. She’d teach me swear words in Italian, and make me promise not to tell my mother. What I remember most about being around her is the way she always tried to get me to eat - after a while it became almost a game to both of us. The rules were simple: Her duty was to feed me, and my duty was to resist. She would tell me, “Eat it. It’s good.” And I would always say, “If it’s so good, then you eat it.” We played this game right up until she went to the hospital for the last time. I’m not sure exactly when I started staying over there more for her than for me. At some point in my young life I felt that I had better ways to spend my time. I would still visit occasionally, and make hot fudge sundaes just like we used to, but I think she sensed that something had changed. I thought I was growing up, but I realize now I was just being a typical stupid kid. It wasn’t until much later in my life that I realized how much I had been missing, and how much richer my life had been because of her. I was older by then, almost out of my teens. I was sitting at her kitchen table as I did every time I went to visit, and we got into a conversation about the history of Albany. She was telling me things about the depression, about prohibition and bootlegging, local gangsters and the trolleys that used to run up and down State Street and Pearl. She told me about her sister’s husband building her house, and how it didn’t have a real floor for a long time after it was built - the kitchen floor was bare wood for years. I remember sitting there and thinking to myself that this tiny woman, my grandmother, had overcome more hardship in her life than I would probably ever face. I realized for the first time how much she had sacrificed in her life, and how much she had given to me over the years. It was at that precise moment, sitting there in the kitchen of her small house, that I realized how much I loved her for simply being there - for simply being a part of my life, and making me part of hers. It was at that moment that I realized how much I was going to miss her when she was gone. I still have a picture of her from when she was younger. Her and my grandfather, standing outside the house, smiling. When I was about 8 or 9, I bugged her mercilessly to give that picture to me, but she always told me that I was too young, and I’d just ruin it. Finally, when I was about 13, she relented. I put that picture in an album, and made sure that nothing ever happened to it. It was the first picture of them that I had, and it’s still my favorite, probably because she gave it to me herself. It was hard, toward the end, being with her, watching her body and mind as they failed her spirit. It wasn’t the way I wanted to remember her, lying there in a hospital bed. As much as I wanted to leave and not come back until it was over, I felt like I had to be there, to at least tell her how much she meant to me. She left us before I could really say it, but I like to think that she knew - that she still knows. The week after she passed away, I had a dream, and she was there. In my dream, she looked so young, so happy. She told me not to worry, that she was fine and that she loved all of us. And then she was gone. And when I think of her, when I remember what she was like, it’s this image that comes to mind. I owe her for that. There are many things I can thank my parents for - raising me, providing for me, helping me through the rough spots in my life. But the most important thing of all, the thing that shaped my young life the most, was when they gave me the opportunity to know the woman they called Ma -- The woman I called Gram. I’ll never forget her. Her last gift to me was very special, and I think of her often because of it. She taught my wife how to make baked Ricotta. I owe her for that, too. © Mark Fitzgerald 2001 Mirror Imagination Days' end, I allow myself the I rise from the bath, Through the mist on the mirror Misty mirror clearing, she changes; I lean closer and read the lines, These, deep furrows on my brow, There, on my cheeks, tiny lines, I step back as a tear trickles © Heidemarie McAlister-Bates 2001 Exercise Assignment February 20, 2001 Exercise #44: "Building Character" This exercise was submitted by one of our Co-Moderators, Ann Davie. Whether we write poetry, fiction or non-fiction, the heart of our
work is to discover and describe what makes our subject tick. What
aspects of their personal history, what set of circumstances, what
personality traits determine how a character behaves. The plot will
go only so far in shaping a story; a character's continuity and
realism will bring a it to life. In this exercise, you'll be asked to build a character. Poets, don't
fret...an alternative exercise tailored to your needs appears at the
end of the exercise for the Short Story Writers! Short Story Writers Incorporate the following required paragraphs into a short story --
either at the beginning, in the middle or at the end, it's up to
you. The main character, Barbara, encounters someone from her past. Her
reaction to this person can be one of the following: * Pleasure Pick a reaction and build a story in which Barbara's actions, past
history (if you choose to divulge it) and personality are used to
justify the reaction. You can change the sex of either of the characters, you can modify
the text, change the main character's name, whatever...but the piece
MUST be in the 3rd person. The reason for doing this is to ensure
that you create a whole person rather than relying directly on your
own experiences. And remember...show -- don't tell! REQUIRED PARAGRAPHS Barbara dropped down on to the rickety café chair. Bags tumbled
around her feet as she released her grip on the morning's shopping.
The Market Square was quickly emptying. Stall keepers packed their
vans, and a few remaining bargain hunters circled in hopes of
grabbing a last minute deal. The chestnut trees bordering the square were just beginning to turn
in the early autumn sun. A soft breeze rustled through the canopy
and helped to calm Barbara's frazzled nerves. She hated shopping.
At least now she could enjoy a few quiet moments before trudging up
the hill to her parked car. Taking the mug to her lips, she blew gently to cool her hot coffee.
She looked up briefly and thought she recognised something out of the
corner of her eye. Looking again she caught his profile. It hadn't
changed in all these years, but the skin on his cheeks had weathered,
deep creases fanning to his temples. She was certain the steel blue
of his eyes wouldn't have changed. Poetry Writers Your exercise is based partially on the above idea. Your piece must
recall someone from the past and evoke a clear picture of both the
person and your (or a character's) reaction to him/her. Purple Prose "Barbara dropped down onto the rickety café chair. Bags tumbled around her feet as she released her grip on the morning's shopping. The Market Square was quickly emptying. Stall keepers packed their vans, and a few remaining bargain hunters circled in hopes of grabbing a last minute deal. The chestnut trees bordering the square were just beginning to turn in the early autumn sun. A soft breeze rustled through the canopy and helped to calm Barbara's frazzled nerves. She hated shopping. At least now she could enjoy a few quiet moments before trudging up the hill to her parked car. Taking the mug to her lips, she blew gently to cool her hot coffee. She looked up briefly and thought she recognized something out of the corner of her eye. Looking again, she caught his profile. It hadn't changed in all these years, but the skin on his cheeks had weathered, deep creases fanning to his temples. She was certain the steel blue of his eyes wouldn't have changed." James clicked on the down arrow at the bottom of the screen, but no more text appeared. He nudged the computer desk with his knee, propelling himself backwards across Barbara's office. "You know," he said, "Wal-Mart isn't exactly a "Market Square." "Hey!" Barbara protested from the hallway, "I asked you over for coffee, not to snoop through my private first drafts!" She craned her neck around the office door. "You romance writers certainly are a prolific bunch, "he told her, "We only just knocked carts in Housewares yesterday, and already you've got half a chapter. And such purple prose! Bags tumbling around your feet, chestnut trees flapping about - you make it sound like we were mucking about in bloody Covent Garden, not some overcrowded discount store in God-forsaken Newark." "Purple prose is what sells in romance fiction," she retorted, "and if I want to keep my career afloat, I have to be prolific. Anyway, some right you have to talk about purpose prose when you go saying things like 'mucking about in bloody Covent Garden.'" "I'm British! We do say things like that!" "Wait, then, let me write that one down too," she oozed sarcasm. "I'll put that one in the next chapter." "Look, Barbara. You know I don't mean it that way. I just remember the way you were all those years ago, back in school. Remember all that dogma you used to spout about abandoning all the dreadful rules for writing? All that edgy stuff you used to churn out, and damned if anyone like or understood it, or even read it at all! And now you're - you're - well, you're just like Stephen King, giving the public whatever it wants!" "Stephen King is a multimillionaire, in case you missed that key point, and I'm not doing so badly myself What's so wrong about giving the public what it wants? We can't all be great literary geniuses like the oh-so-esteemed James Garrison," she teased. "Alright, alright, point taken. You are doing well for yourself here, Barbara. And you certainly look well." "Enough of your flattery. Now, quit your snooping and come out to the patio. The coffee's ready. "Excellent" he replied. "But Barbara, there's just one more thing." "Yes?" "When we have our coffee, will you 'take the mug to your lips and blow gently'?" * * * * James set his coffee cup down and surveyed the view of Barbara's expansive backyard. "You know," he said, "For the longest time, I had no idea what had happened to you, let alone that you were the Barbara Burke. I truly never put two and two together until I saw your picture on one of the book jackets." "And what were you doing perusing one of my books of sordid prose? Isn't that a bit below your lofty literary tastes?" Her manner of speech confounded him; it was nearly impossible to discern the border between her good-natured sarcasm and her true thoughts. "Actually, if you must know, my wife was a big fan of yours." "Wife?" "Well, ex-wife. Truly horrid scenario, really. But she did enjoy your books." "How long have you been apart?" "Separated for a year, and then the divorce was final just last month. Which explains -" "-what you're doing in New Jersey." "Exactly. I bought a house out here a while ago. Not too far from the city - not that Newark's any prize, but sometimes one just has to go to Wal-Mart." "Oh, absolutely. Saks, Tiffany's, and Wal-Mart." She smiled, a little self-effacingly for the first time, he noticed. "Well, it certainly hasn't been hard to keep track of your whereabouts, Mr. Pulitzer Prizewinner. I read 'Hill Country.' It really was a beautiful piece of work." "Thank you," he said. "I value your opinion. I mean that." He leaned back in his chair. She hated to admit it, but he was still magnetically attractive, just as he'd been in the photo accompanying the Pulitzer press release in the Times. "The steel blue of his eyes" had sounded a little trite in her embellished summary of yesterday's meeting, but it really was an accurate desription. They were roguish, charming, glinting with life - romance-novel hero eyes indeed. "Even though I write for the masses now?" "Hey, Stephen King's a smart guy." * * * * On the couch, James admired Barbara's profile, still striking. The way she rested her chin on her flat fingers reminded him of her book-jacket photo, how utterly shocked he'd been when he's been packing up Jane's things and seen that paperback. Ordinarily, he'd have tossed it smartly into the trash, and he was poised to do so when he connected the name with the intriguingly familiar face. If a girl named Barbara Berkowitz took up writing romances, she would call herself Barbara Burke, wouldn't she? Undoubtedly. He'd had the paperback in his top desk drawer for weeks now. "What are you thinking?" she asked, leaning closer. "I'm wondering what one of your romance-novel heroes would do now." "Kiss the girl, of course." * * * * The sunlight filtering through the bedroom window illuminated the room and all its plush white linens, and the view outside was so lovely that it did resemble rural England more than the last green space in New Jersey. James blinked, regarding Barbara's dark curls flung halfway across his pillow. "Can you still tolerate me," he asked, "Even though I now have 'deep creases fanning to my temples'?" "It's part of your charm," she told him. "I supposes this will end up in your next work of fiction?" He arched an eyebrow. "Oh, absolutely. As sordid as it gets." © Danielle Hall 2001 Other New Writers' Choice Selections
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