Last Saturday, Marilyn took a one-day writing class. The topic was theme and voice. It was taught by Mary Carroll Moore, her on line teacher and it was an opportunity to see her in person. It was a very interesting day.
When Marilyn started taking writing classs in January, she was seeking a way to tell stories more effectively. Coming from a long line of story tellers in the Ozark tradition, she thought it would be simple. Instead she said it feels like knowing a little arithmatic and suddenly trying to solve advanced calculus problems (not that she ever got that far in math anyway).
There are so many new ideas and concepts to learn and try to apply. It isn't as if she isn't given enough instruction or information, she just is having a problem absorbing it all in what seems like a very short time.
Suddenly she has to work with an inner and outer story and fret about character development and other arcane terms. Nothing worthwhile is easy, she says so she slogs along. This week, the teacher gave the class 7 random words and asked them to “free write” a scene using three of them. Ever the over achiever, Marilyn worked in more. he list of words is:
thief, river, solitude, parchment, wine glass, red, brilliant.
This is what she wrote:
A plain featured man except for an overlarge nose due to the copious amounts of whisky that had slithered down his gullet over the years sat at the end of the bar. Old cigarette smoke, vomit and stale beer clouded the air. He was as oblivious to the atmosphere as he was to the brilliant light that glinted on the pristine river below. The piercing beam had to hurt his eyes, but he was beyond such physical pain; today’s whiskey had taken care of that.
There was something about his solitude that scared me. I would rather have approached him when he was part of a raucous group of buddies. That always put him in a good mood. Laughing whisky, not fightin whiskey. I approached cautiously; I knew better than to startle him. I’d made that mistake in the past. Black eyes hurt.
Other than the glowing nose, his skin was almost transparent – like parchment. The thief of time had overtaken him and he looked older than his actual years. He should have blended into the background. Just another hard drinking guy occupying his favorite bar stool day after day, but his large size and red plaid shirt made him hard to conceal.“Nice evening,” I say as I climbed up on the next stool.
“Mmmh.”
“Mom says it’s time for you to come home.”
“What for?”
“Time for supper” she says. “We’re having your favorite – fried catfish and stuff.”
“Go away, child. I’m busy.” He slapped at me. I ducked.
I slid down to the floor, head hanging low. Mom would give me a whuppin when I got home.
First of all, this is totally imaginary, nothing Marilyn has ever witnessed. She left out wine as she didn't think it fit in a scene about an old sot. Secondly, it might be a tad precious in her effort to work in the words, but she said it was fun to write. I just want her to be happy and enjoy life, so if it keeps her busy, it is great with me.
Lucky
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