Again about shoes. I don't know why... here goes...
Writing about Places and object, or things... another writing exercise
There are many suggestions in this exercise about places or objects to write about. I'm going to attempt to write about 3 different pairs of shoes. Not sure how far I'll get, or how well I will do. I must admit this is fiction as the stories about the shoes are not completely true.
They are a black pair of sandals in a man's size, purchased in Maine maybe to replace the pair I had worn out before them. The older pair had been many places, and this pair has begun to journey as well. The older ones were easy to pack, did well in airports, and survived in hot weather or in the rain. The older ones were black and blue. They went with me to Brussels in the rain, and got wet while I wore an ugly poncho in the cathedrals there. They went with me to Venice and supported me as I walked along the cobblestone canals. And they went with me to Spain where we saw 5 cities in 10 days, absolutely insane!
The newer sandals have not left the country, but they have traveled well. We have been to Nevada, to the Black Rock desert together twice. They have been to Florida and New York City, and to the beach more times than I can count. They got a lot of use when I was pregnant and my feet began to swell, and more use still when I came home. I like these newer sandals and they have become more worn. They can tell of a cross-country road trip in a rented pick-up truck, and of arriving in Las Vegas at 6am. They know of love, and home, and all these goods. They get carried around the house on days when I do not need them by a little girl who thinks I have small feet. They have many more years of traveling and memories in them I am sure.
The shoes I wear today are sneakers, purchased at the local mall. They are permanently laced and stretched out to be comfortable. I can slip them on and off even when I don't have a free hand. They smell like sneakers do of course. White with a little bit of pink, but mostly they are the color of sand, and maybe there is a hole or two emerging underneath the threads. They do not make my feet sweat. I do not touch the outsides much since they slide on so easily. Inside my feet feel soft and cushy. They let me walk quietly except when it rains and then I am doomed to squeak down the hallway of the quiet library. I bought them when I knew I'd be in an airport, burdened with a stroller, 4 carry-ons, and a 2 year old. I needed shoes that would go through security and back on again while my hands were tied up with other things. They served the purpose well. They walked through Epcot and Magic Kingdom and came home to walk the dusty roads near home. They replaced the sandals for the weekend to Martha's Vineyard, in November, in the rain. The memories they carry are all recent ones, and all seem layered with the word "mom". My husband is always surprised when I get anything pink, but the pink is faded and somewhat hidden, and perhaps that is another clue as to who I am too.
the end.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Writing about people- fiction- writing exercise
Writing about people- Writing Exercise-- not posted on writing class yet, having trouble with website
this piece is fiction.
What is the essence of the person you want to portray?
Followed by some questions
and an example of the "Portrait of Jack"
so here we go.. away from the poem and into the prose
as coworkers dialogues mingle in the distance and I wonder if I will need headphones and music to complete this
He is an old man, only a little bit of hair left on top and it was gray, and cut short. He is tall and thin, and wore patches at the elbows on his shirts. His pants hung loose, although his belt is pulled tight, he still seems to be losing weight. He smells of Old Spice aftershave, mixed maybe with roses and Miracle-Gro. He has a slow way of walking, deliberate, unhurried, and if you look real close you might see a slight limp. His words are not hurried either, and you know when he says something, anything at all, it is important.
"Go Army!" He watches all the college football games on a black and white tv because color might hurt his eyes. When the game is over, he goes out to the gardens and tends the roses and the berries, and finally the vegetables. He rarely climbs aboard the tractor anymore. Cows and corn and hay are his son's business now. These are the years for staying closer to home, on what is left of the homestead. He sleeps in a small room, with a twin bed, a dresser nearby, and a small desk. He doesn't need much. Inside the dresser he stashes the new shirts and clothes that he got on Christmas and on his birthday. He saves envelopes and cracker boxes and old cards. Reading seed catalogs and drinking a Schaffer beer are how he might spend a rainy day. A bowl of soggy corn flakes and a banana for breakfast, and meat and potatoes for supper. The salad is rabbit food. The car he drives is 20 or 30 years old. The passenger seat still reserved for the old beagle who has passed away and never been replaced. It is red, 2 door, looks sporty, but probably never needs to go above 40. He doesn't have far to go these days. The day the old farmhouse burned down, he was sitting in the driveway reading the mail, and he never even looked up until the fire trucks came, by then it was too late. His tenants bought the remains for a cheap price, and he went on living in the double-wide next door. Today he is standing on the front steps looking out over the fields, listening to the church bells, listening and waiting.
the end
this piece is fiction.
What is the essence of the person you want to portray?
Followed by some questions
and an example of the "Portrait of Jack"
so here we go.. away from the poem and into the prose
as coworkers dialogues mingle in the distance and I wonder if I will need headphones and music to complete this
He is an old man, only a little bit of hair left on top and it was gray, and cut short. He is tall and thin, and wore patches at the elbows on his shirts. His pants hung loose, although his belt is pulled tight, he still seems to be losing weight. He smells of Old Spice aftershave, mixed maybe with roses and Miracle-Gro. He has a slow way of walking, deliberate, unhurried, and if you look real close you might see a slight limp. His words are not hurried either, and you know when he says something, anything at all, it is important.
"Go Army!" He watches all the college football games on a black and white tv because color might hurt his eyes. When the game is over, he goes out to the gardens and tends the roses and the berries, and finally the vegetables. He rarely climbs aboard the tractor anymore. Cows and corn and hay are his son's business now. These are the years for staying closer to home, on what is left of the homestead. He sleeps in a small room, with a twin bed, a dresser nearby, and a small desk. He doesn't need much. Inside the dresser he stashes the new shirts and clothes that he got on Christmas and on his birthday. He saves envelopes and cracker boxes and old cards. Reading seed catalogs and drinking a Schaffer beer are how he might spend a rainy day. A bowl of soggy corn flakes and a banana for breakfast, and meat and potatoes for supper. The salad is rabbit food. The car he drives is 20 or 30 years old. The passenger seat still reserved for the old beagle who has passed away and never been replaced. It is red, 2 door, looks sporty, but probably never needs to go above 40. He doesn't have far to go these days. The day the old farmhouse burned down, he was sitting in the driveway reading the mail, and he never even looked up until the fire trucks came, by then it was too late. His tenants bought the remains for a cheap price, and he went on living in the double-wide next door. Today he is standing on the front steps looking out over the fields, listening to the church bells, listening and waiting.
the end
letter to my grandmother- more fiction
Grandma, I miss you. I know you are still alive, but since you live in a nursing home now, it's hard to reach you. And since you can't hear well anymore it is hard to talk to you when I see you. You told your son/my uncle not to bother getting you a phone because you can't hear people when they call you anyway. Sigh. I remember when I used to call you so often I had your number memorized. I still have it memorized from so long ago. But you haven't had that house in many years. I think you sold it when I was 22 or 23 years old. Another lifetime, or two ago. You and my father had phone numbers that were very similar, only the last 2 digits were different, and sometimes I would call you by mistake, but I usually found something to say anyway. I miss you, and you aren't even dead. I try to write, but it's hard to find the time, and sometimes I don't have much to say. I just want to reach out to you and say something quick. I love you I'm thinking of you. My allergies are bothering me, but I am otherwise well. I wish I could call you to say I was coming for a visit. What day would be good? Instead I'll have to surprise you, and hope that my timing is okay. I hate "dropping in" like that, but I never know when I call the nursing home whether or not you are really getting the messages I leave anyway. I have some pictures for you. Will you have room for them? Should I put them in a photo album for you? Or frame them so you can hang them on the wall? I used to see you every week, but now there is so little to say, and so many other things to do that I don't visit as much. But I think of you every day. You are 90 years old now, soon to be 91. Amazing, and I miss you. How old were you when we slid down the hill in the toboggan? How old were you when you washed my hair in the kitchen sink? Or read stories to me? I miss you Grandma. You used to be so great, and I know in my heart that you still are. Love, your granddaughter
Some fiction-- The box- written for a writing class
There was a box in my living room. I wasn't supposed to open it. Christmas was coming. It's all wrapped up. The UPS guy left it on the front porch yesterday. I looked for a return address, but couldn't find one. My husband carefully opened it last night and then sealed it back up after I had gone to bed. He told me this morning "Don't touch it. Wait." So I'm waiting and wondering. It's just an average sized box. Nothing rattles when I shake it. It's not too heavy, or too light. What could be inside? My mother likes to send odd gifts. She has sent some nice stuff, and some really bad stuff over the years. One year I got her back. I sent her 2 big boxes for Christmas. The first box had many presents all carefully wrapped, and lovingly selected. The second box had 2 pennies and a can of tuna fish. It said "Don't open until Christmas". So I am looking at this box. Is it a can of tuna fish and 2 pennies? Or maybe deep inside is the new wedding ring my husband promised me. The box is so big though. It couldn't possibly be either of those, could it? Perhaps a new bathrobe and a pair of slippers. That would be nice. Our house is always cold in winter, and I am up so often at night with the child who can't sleep, and the husband who snores. Maybe my in-laws sent us toys for the kid, or maybe a grandmother sent cookies. Could it be cookies? I take a sniff. I hope not. If there are cookies inside, then they are stale by now! I wonder... did my husband go on a big shopping trip for himself, and he doesn't want me to know what he bought? Or did the publisher send 100 copies of our friend's book to us by mistake? What is inside that box? Who sent it? Where did it come from? The wrapping is simple, pretty, but untraceable. The ribbon is store-bought. What has my friend Jo been up to lately? Could she have crafted something? I sit and wait. My daughter ignores the box. She doesn't seem interested in it one bit. My husband allowed himself to look, but won't let me. The box sits there for a week, until it is finally Christmas eve. On Christmas eve we all open one gift. I surprise my husband though, and I resist. I open another gift instead. Whatever is inside the box can wait.
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