Daily Object Writing- Catch Up

I needed a break from work and school for a couple of days so I fell behind on my class-required object writing.  I’m including the last 1.75 days worth of class-required object writing below.  This week’s prompts:

  • focus on WHERE, using location as the starting point for writing.
  • The POV is Direct Address, which uses both ‘I’ and ‘You’.
  • The verb tenses to use are any two forms, past, present, or future;
  • include questions & conditionals
  • Time limitations vary (5m, 10m, 90 sec)

Back Seat (10 minute)

You sat in the back seat of your family’s station wagon,  with your arms crossed and a scowl across your ten-year-old, suntanned face. Your mother reprimanded you for kicking the back of her seat in front of you. Now you sat sullen, tight-lipped, and anger punching the front of your stomach in protest. The sticky leather seat stuck to the back of your thighs because you insisted on wearing shorts. The air conditioning in the car has never worked, and you knew that the leather would stick. You pulled up your left thigh, feeling the skin get peeled back tightly from hot, sticky leather as you moved your leg up and down alternately. The open windows brought in the soiled stench of cheap gasoline and diesel. Hot winds nastily slapped your innocent cheeks. Your eyes slit closed against the air drying your eyes out. The grit of chastisement and pent fury stained and grated your tongue and created a sandpaper mouth. The swaying of the car turned your angry stomach sour with nausea. How much worse could the day get? You woke up bright and eager. Two fights with your mother, one about what to wear and the second about when to leave, hastened an inner tantrum that raged about being stuck in the car for two hours. Now here you were, bored with nothing to read, and a mother continuously complaining about your kicking the back of her seat from your own back seat. You turn your head to look out the window and relax. You let the wind fill your eardrums and your mind with white noise. After you get to the cabin, you will unpack your bathing suit, throw it on, and jump into the pool before your mother has time to punish you. Maybe you’ll stay down there; maybe you want to see how long you can hold your breath. How long can you hold it? Half a minute? One minute? Longer? What will your mother do without you, if you never come up?

Candy Shop (90 sec)

Candy shop sticky sweet. Carmel walls striping makes you think that you can lick the walls and you would taste Werther’s candies. Rows of black, white, dark, milk chocolates. The intense smell of sugar forcing a watering of Snickers and Almond Joy in Your mouth. The crinkling of the paper-plastic as you search for an opening. One bite, the sugar chocolate spreads warmth through your mouth, your taste buds relishing in the joy of sugar. Twirl! Yum! What next?

Frozen Pond (5m)

The frozen pond in the Boston Common, the Frog Pond, awaits us! Let us run down the frosty hill, slippin and sliding while we hold hands towards laughing children in colorful winter hats. Can you feel the the cold leather through your mittens as you struggle to pull on the well-worn rental ice skates? Let the excitement build in your chest as you finish tying your laces tight. Let’s jump up together, hold hands, chop our feet on the ice a couple of times, and go speeding across the pond. The wind will rip our cheeks and freeze our teeth. We will have to dodge parents picking up their toddlers off the frozen floor. The tears of children will not move us. Let us be joyful! Do you remember the time we came down to the pond in the middle of the night? Last year, we woke up at 2am, got dressed, snuck onto the Frog Pond, and ice skated for about 10 minutes before the cops told us to bugger off. You giggled madly as you tried to run away in your skates. Your face hitting the pavement and a bloody gash on your brow changed your tune. We spent the night in the ER instead of the clink. Now we are here together, legally. The world is our playground. Where will we go next?

Airport (10m)

You took the Blue Line from Government Center to Boston’s Logan Airport every time that you traveled. It was your contribution to saving the environment, you said. The grimy floors of the train’s cable car felt sticky under your Chucks, and it made you feel queasier than riding the rickety train. Your heavy carryon luggage dragged you, as if even your underwear did  not want to leave the haven of your hometown. Strange places made your stomach wiggle and your feet itch. Your lace-up boots became prison walls that prevented you from scratching that itch. But leave Boston you must, you told yourself, if you were  ever going to grow up. You flew the  US Airways shuttle to JFK airport, a 45 minute nonstop flight. You were vomited from the passenger plane into the underbelly of the fourth largest city on the planet. Massive waves of people seemed to follow you whichever step  you took. Dirt and oil seemed to permeate your skin, invade your nostrils, and sink deep into your lungs. Your unsteady walk, knees knocking, took you all the way to Gordon Hall at NYU. If anyone asked you, you were not have been able to tell them how you got here. You are bedraggled and beautiful. You lick your lips and I taste grapefruit. Your perfume faintly reaches my nose and I breathe in life. How will you know I am yours? You look into my eyes and my soul resonates with the knowledge that you know it, too. You smile and nod. If you say hello, I am yours. The greeter says your name, Heather. I hear a ballet of satin steps rising in time and tempo to the sweet rhythm of violins. The strings tremble with my heart and I sing to myself. You know it, too.  You straighten yourself up. Hello, you say. Hello, I say. Another smile and you are mine. Where will we go? Let us walk down West 4th Street together with

Dress Shop (90 sec)

You, bent over the sewing machine, eyes trained on lines, shiny needle in your left hand, fabric held down against its will in your right. It has no power over you. You weave your magic and essence in, the flow of your life becomes permanent. Your life in the shop gave you life. Now you create life. Where will the dress be worn? You do not know. Let us imagine parties, balls of which you are the bell, ringing in the joy, drinking champagne,

Daily Writing

If you need an idea for writing, visit http://www.objectwriting.com/ for a daily topic idea.

If you’re out and want to sit and write, look around you and pick something: the sidewalk, a traffic light, gum on the ground, the wind, the wire chair you’re sitting on, the latte that you’re drinking – and write. Let it take you where it will.  Keep your mind open. Pretend that your fingers are writing on their own and that you have no control over them.

Many things lay around you that you can choose. You might think writing about a pen is boring, but suddenly you create a character who held the pen last and start writing. What was she writing? To whom? What feelings are conveyed? Sadness? Joy? Just let go and let your pen fly across the page.

Writing from ‘Where’ + Daily Object Writing

As I mentioned yesterday, this week’s task is to write from a sense of ‘where’, or place. Other writing requirements today: 1st person point of view, present tenses, including all the senses (sight, touch, taste, smell, hearing, body, + motion), sentence types (questions + conditionals). You try it: Set a timer, write, + STOP when the timer goes off. You just want to get into good writing habits. They don’t happen by themselves.  Try it and let me know how it goes.

Here are my writings from today. I will try to hide the long ones behind links, as soon as I learn how to do it.

Open Field
I crested the hill, watching the horizon lift to meet my face, thin line of white clouds over arching cusp of the blue horizon as far as I could see. Seagulls called to one other in panic above me. What did they fear? A cold wind kicked up like a temper tantrum, not wanting to be outdone by the ocean’s commanding vista. A shiver ran down both arms, raising the hair up in alarm, and I pulled my grey, wool sweater closed in front of my clavicles. Salt and hair competed for space in my mouth, like two moles vying for the same warm and toasty den. I spat them out but they were not to be controlled. If the wind stays this way, I won’t be able to be out here on the hill for long. Long slivers of grass seemed to huddle together for warmth. The sun warmed my face, as if God had put the toaster on the lowest setting possible. The blues and greens of the ocean swayed together in a mix. Inspiration and awe rose in my chest, as if the waves of the water lifted my lungs in unison. Maybe I could convince Mark to live here.

Swimming Hole
I scrambled out of the yellow and wood-grain covered station wagon, competing for first one out the door with my two brothers. I muscled Pete and Avery out of the way, stomping on Pete’s foot as I deftly opened the door just before sprinting out. Pete’s reflexes caused Avery to tumble into Pete. I could hear them argue as time rushed through my ears. If I didn’t stop, I would be first one down to the swimming hole. I heard our parents call my name, as if the trees whispered it in my ear. The dirt path swerved downwards. The unexpected change under my feet made my heart leapt into my throat. I felt strangled by my own lungs as they battled to make sure I had enough oxygen. The thin woods were filled with families talking, chatting. Kids laughed, screamed, and ran around me. Cars, minivans, station wagons, SUVs, trailers snaked a parking line along basecamps. Everything blurred as I ran.  After a zig and a zag, I saw it, my goal, the swimming hole.  As I ran down the slope, I yanked off my T-shirt and threw it aside. Kids walked by with towels around their shoulders. A line of parents with toddlers waited outside the shower-bathroom stalls. Woo-hoo! I yelled as I was approaching the swimming hole, not caring who saw me. The short pier screamed its invitational like the red carpet leading to the Academy Awards. The swimming hole, tried and true, over these last three years. My eyes solely focused on the pier. I barreled down past a group of three brothers, huddled after their swim in the hole. One of them tried to stick his foot out to stop me. If he only knew how focused I was, he would have known it was useless. Stupid jerk! Who does he think he is? My foot pounded on the wooden planks. Bam! Left foot, right, left, right. Almost there. Other little kids were grabbed by their moms who pulled them out of my way just in time, like the Red Sea parting for Moses. Still in my chucks, I hurled myself off the end of the pier, pulled up my knees, closed my eyes and

Fourth floor walk up
How long will this take? Huff, puff. I drag one leg at a time. If I just take it one at a time, I can make. Fifty years of human steps up the center of the marble steps warped them into smooth grooves, like a smooth slide. Carefully stepping to the ballasters, I grabbed on. One, two. How many more? The railing ricketed back and forth harder and harder as I gripped it. Squeak! </a>

Daily Object Writing

I’m taking a online writing course at Berkleemusic.com called ‘Creative Writing: Finding Your Voice’. The class is a first-of-its-kind course developed by Pat Pattison, codeveloped and taught by Caroline Harvey.

Five days a week, we are given three timed writing exercises (5 minutes, 10 minutes, 90 seconds), each with its own theme and requirements. These exercises are called ‘object writing’, similar to the types of exercises that Natalie Goldberg writes about in ‘Writing Down the Bones’, because you pick something, anything, and write about it.

Your goal is to write and write every day. The more you do it, the better and easier it gets. Three weeks into the course, I’m gaining confidence. The point is not to have a polished writing, but just to write and write from the senses, as much as possible.

Today’s writing goals: Include sense-bound writing (sight, sound, touch, taste, feel, body (how it feels inside), and kinesthetic (motion, dizziness, etc); include past, present, & future tense; from the point of view (POV) of direct address (You see a ship, etc.)

Object Writing: First Kiss (5 minutes)

So your first kiss was in the basement of a Allston, MA house who residents were Alpha Kappa members, throwing a party for their Providence, RI members?  The smell of beer and vomit mingled like a wasted college-kid’s parfum & a sour smell forced your mouth downward in displeasure. Your head was spinning, music blaring in your ears, your heart beating in your chest. Light is on the lowest setting that your eyes can make out. What do you see? Your man grabs you, throws you up against the chimney, grinds himself into you. You are hot sweaty and a thought threw itself in your face like a bucket of cold water.  Barely getting your mouth away in time, you fly upstairs, claiming illness. Will you burst through the front door, take in a huge, gasping gulp of air as if for the first time? How will you walk home? By yourself? Take a taxi. Imagine that you are flying through the air on a broom, eyes closed, flying straight into bed. Safe. Alone. Goodnight.

Object Writing: Spring Break (10 minutes)

Your plan for spring break was to go to the beach, maybe lay on your towel, smooth in coconut 4SPF suntan lotion on your solo bikini-clad body, and read the trashy vampire novel series ‘Twilight’ before the week was out. But that wasn’t how things went, did they? Instead of being by yourself, you were followed by a small group of strange men. They didn’t come too close to you, did they? No. Well, thank goodness. I know you like to pretend there is no danger at the beach but I tell you – there is! Anyway, I am glad they left you alone after you gave them one good, hard stare right back at them, the best you could manage, to let them know that you knew they were there. The backed away, the trio, shoulders huddled together, hands in front of their faces, whispering, all the while looking at you for as long as they could while trying to walk in the order direction. I know you tried not to laugh at how quickly their interest turned to catcalls and rude hand gestures. After that, you were sitting in the sun, soaking it in, like a sponge that grew for that one purpose. Your skin looks radiant and glowing. I see sand in your hair and a spot on your circus T-shirt that says, “Ice cream was here.” Now, after a shower, you will sit on your deck as the evening star comes out to play, a cool breeze blowing behind your ears and tickling them with hair wisps. The moon will reflect in your lime and tonic soda. The buzzing of crickets will ring in your ears. If you’re lucky, maybe even the peepers will come out. The smell of slightly wet night air will cool your nostrils, open them up to the aromas of evening: charcoal briquettes burning in the chiminea on your red slate patio, the scent of cooling grass still wet from a late evening watering, inhale the beauty of the outdoors for it will be yours if …. What? You have to go, you say? I’m sorry to hear it. When can we meet again? When the half-moon rises in the sky? Why, yes, that’s Saturday night. You’re busy? Washing your hair? Oh. Well, I. Oh. Well, should you decide that walking along Walden Pond’s perimeter, adequately sprayed with anti-mosquito spray, tickles your fancy, then.. Oh. Well, here’s my … No? Well, in that case, let me seduce you with this: cherry kisses, lime caresses, hazelnut songs of love. We will be each other’s desserts. Yumm….

Object Writing: Midnight (90 sec)

Blue black darkness spreads over your face, my love. The moon reflected its whiteness back into your eyes, glowing white orbs reminded me of eggs. The foul stench of eggs consumes you and you can think of nothing else, getting dizzy now. You blink and see the edge of your smile taunting us, like children taunting each other with names on a playground. I feel the cold. Wht