Passageway
“The brain has corridors”
—Emily Dickinson
She moved from street to street, from building to building, from floor to floor. She had done this for more years than she cared to count. In fact, she had grown tired of counting: one year became five became fifteen and twenty as fast as fists could unfold. The passage of time exhausted her, felt like running in place, eyes blinking, clouds covering the sun.
Tagged with: audience, discovery, fiction, imagination, narrative, story, words
Enough
“You are not enough.”
She said it out loud.
Tagged with: fiction, imagination, moments, narrative, poem
Thirst
Those who knew her commented how the color of her skin matched the dry Missouri dirt she walked upon. They worried when the drought came. They watched the dirt open and crack. You could pick up pieces and crumble it in your hands. Dirt powder, everyone called it. And then they noticed her skin, just as thirsty as the earth, took on the same appearance. She tried to explain, but her parched throat would not let her. She tried to cry, but her tear ducts had gone dry.
Those who remember say her skin ached for water. That kind of thirst can cause damage—can keep the crops from growing, the tourists from coming. That kind of thirst can kick up dust that covers everything: houses, fields, cars—a thin film just enough to coat the windows and change the look of any day.
Tagged with: construct, moments, narrative, story
Mirror
She noticed a big house reflected in the pond: an exact upside down replica with windows, a front door, and faded red paint. She could even see the half-closed curtains. It was as if the house were built inside the water.
She sat on the pond’s edge and took off her shoes and socks. She let her feet plop right between the curtains. She slid down further over the edge and then down into the watery window.
Tagged with: imagination, narrative, story, struggle, truth, words
Eyes
“What can I do for you?” The doctor rolled his chair so that he sat facing me.
“My eyes,” I said. “They hurt.”
Tagged with: construct, fiction, narrative, story
Jules reached inside for a quarter or a tissue or a chapstick. Anything. Her pockets were empty. Not even a lucky rock. As a rule, Jules never left home with empty pockets. It was a thing she had. Pockets were meant to hold stuff. To make up for their emptiness, she put her hands there. A passerby kept his head down, his own hands lost inside his overcoat. In fact, all the passersby, men and women, looked just the same: sad, drawn, a bit lost. Jules could barely stand the gloom of it all—the gray sidewalk, the overcast sky, the cold air. Her empty pockets seemed even emptier. And so she dug deeper and deeper. She wanted to find something—anything. And finally, there it was, in the deepest recess of her pocket: a clear marble, the tiniest of crystal balls. Jules stood there, in the middle of the crowded city sidewalk and held the transparent orb in the palm of her hand. And people stopped to see what was there, what might be in store, what the future might hold. People needed something, however small, that was clear and round and easy to carry. Something to keep forever in their pockets.
Tagged with: center, discovery, fairy tale, fiction, imagination, narrative, story, words
Solstice
“I feel completely unfulfilled.” Bea lifted her cup of tea, took a sip, and put it back down on top of the newspaper she was reading.
“Is there something in the paper that made you say that?” Lindsay asked.
Tagged with: fiction, moments, narrative
Prayer
It was a cold and frosty morning. The boy could see his breath. Actually see it! “Look at that,” he said and blew again. His mother reached out to grab his arm—there was traffic, after all—and the streetlight was about to change.
“Hey!” he yelled. “You put your hand right in my breath?”
Tagged with: connection, exercises, fiction, narrative, story, words
Meatballs
She makes them on special occasions. Meatballs. And once you have had hers, you shun all others. It’s just the way it is. She starts first thing in the morning, mixing the meat, the cheese, the pignolis, the oil—all in a bowl. Then those old hands scoop out the perfect amount—over and over—molding the balls, dropping them into the hot skillet. You wait. You smell. You listen to the sizzle from the living room. You move closer to the kitchen doorway. You peek around the corner at the empty plate wondering when one will land there. And when it does, you are waiting with a fork. You stab it, lift it, and hold it like a lollipop—barely giving it time to cool before you bite. And she stands, hands on apron hips, watching—waiting—listening to you chew. Before the first swallow, she smiles and says, “Well? How is it?”
Tagged with: moments, narrative, story
Election
I confess to being caught up in the tides of change, in the steady mantra of “yes, we can.” Tuesday, November 4th, in Boston the sky was bright and crisp—the leaves were gems—and the lines were long. Anticipation hung in the air, and the evening news gave us early confirmation. The suspense did not last long. Still, the victory is bittersweet: on the radio yesterday, I heard that many of those drawn to the polls because of Obama’s call for a new day were the same voters who said no to gay/lesbian marriage in California. Other states created more barriers incuding Arkansas—stating that gay/lesbian couples cannot adopt children.
Tagged with: construct, narrative, struggle
Into the sun
On Friday, I flew from Boston to Kansas City. Then I climbed into a rented car and drove five hours west—into the sunset—toward Hastings, Nebraska.
Destination: my niece’s wedding.
Tagged with: fiction, moments, narrative, story, truth
Laura Nyro
I recently downloaded some Laura Nyro songs from her final album, Angel in the Dark. The producer’s notes mention how important the imagination was to Nyro—it was the “ultimate, the center of spirituality.”
In working with first year college students and their writing, I notice their motivation rises when I give exercises or assignments that invoke their imaginations.
Tagged with: audience, exercises, learning, narrative, quotation
Fairy Tale
I am in New York right now. In today’s Daily News an editorial cartoon depicts Hillary staring into a mirror apparently asking “Who’s the fairest of them all?” And the mirror keeps answering back, “Barack.”
The campaign has divided women in ways I never would have expected. A good friend just sent me a petition, signed by thousands of women, who call themselves “feminists for peace and for Barack Obama!”
Tagged with: narrative, story, struggle
Conflict and Resolution?
My older brother and I do not get along. It’s a sad story, I suppose. Both in our 50’s, we live miles apart literally and figuratively. The figurative distance started in childhood. And now, he has five children—the oldest and I have found an adult connection, one I value very much. When she was born over 20 years ago, I wrote her a story about reaching for the moon.
The other day, she wrote me a story. She is a nurse in a NICU unit. Here’s how it goes:
Tagged with: discovery, narrative, story, struggle, truth
More Stories
At a recent dinner party, a sports fan suggested to the rest of us, non-sports fans, that we would be happier people if we watched sports. “It gives you something to root for. It gives you hope,” she said.
I said, “Well, it is true, that a game is a great story—conflict, crisis, suspense, resolution.”
Tagged with: construct, narrative, story, structure
Comfortable Place to Go
When we ask students to write, we ask students to construct thought. And I have been trying to think about that in simple and obvious ways. I fall back on the narrative because its first person construction of conflict, climax, and resolution creates a comfortable place to go. Students are drawn to reading and writing narratives because they are familiar, and their formula is somewhat ingrained. (I realize my ideas come from a western point of view). So, I think, if we can break down the narrative into its parts and then find those parts scattered in other rhetorical modes, maybe that familiarity will create some new comfort. That’s where I’m at after my first two weeks of a new semester.
Tagged with: narrative, structure, students
Story Structure
For homework, students read three narrative essays, two by published authors Dick Gregory and Steve Brody, and one by a student named Lisa Driver. I showed students how Brody’s piece was built on a story structure with crisis, complications, and climax. Then I asked them to analyze the structure of Gregory and Driver’s pieces, using the same language.
Next class, I hope to continue the discussion with essays that are less story-like, showing students that crisis, complications, obstacles, climax, resolution are useful devices for any type of writing. We’ll see how that goes.