Self-Loathing and the Making of Art

Life is short, art long, opportunities fleeting,
experience treacherous, judgement difficult.
~Hippocrates (460-400 B.C)

While reading one of the blogs I follow**, I learned about a book called Art & Fear, Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of ARTMAKING by David Bayles & Ted Orland, which contains the quote by Hippocrates at the beginning of chapter 1. Since fear has long interfered with my ability to follow my artistic dreams, I ordered myself a copy and began to read yesterday. The book’s main topic is why art does not get done.

As I read through, I saw myself in each chapter. Reasons I have told myself why I couldn’t do art:

• I have no imagination/ideas/creativity.
• Other people are better than me at art.
• Art is an all-or-nothing gift and I was left out of the party.
• Whatever I do, it won’t be good enough.
• I’ll never make money making art.
• It’s not practical and, therefore, it is indefensible.
• I feel stupid saying I am an artist when my stuff isn’t any good.
• It’s easier for others/impossible for me.
• It’s too hard.
• I can’t get good enough fast enough to justify doing it.
• I must justify my art/my own personal pleasure isn’t a good enough reason.

According to Bayles & Orland, I am not alone. All artists go through periods of self-doubt when moving forward seems impossible. The difference between those who do and those who don’t is the difference between those who stop and those who quit. I don’t think I have been a stopper; I have been a quitter. The longest sustained art making that I have done is with my jewelry making, although I have taken a bit of a hiatus since I stopped working at a bead store. (I think I need to find a new place where I can go and make art so I can get out of my house).

In recent days, I have begun to outline a novel I wrote so that I can evaluate the storyline and make organizational changes. The more I have reviewed my writing, the more stupid I felt. I began to hear my voice in my head: This story is unsalvageable. The dialog unimportant. The characters’ actions ridiculous. When I imagined sharing my writing, I felt a sense of inadequacy and shame. How will I be able to face people when I show them this tripe? The sense of hopelessness I felt was increasing.

And then this morning, as I was drying off after a shower, I realized that my problem was not fear. I remember as a child trying to play Barbies with my best friend. What was I supposed to say? What was I supposed to make them do? It was difficult, and I felt stupid. The more I felt stupid, the more I hated myself for it. One can only take self-loathing for so long, even when the activity brings you joy. For years, I have thought fear was my problem. But I was wrong.

I am glad I realized that feelings of self-loathing have interfered with my art making. Now I can address the real feelings, which means I might be able to process them and let go. Because, this time around, I’m going to be damned if I quit this writing thing. I am going to devote my time to improving my writing craft.

I will ask for help. Read books and articles. Take workshops. There is a year-long NaNoWriMo group in NYC dedicated to helping members write their drafts and give each other feedback. I will attend an information session in 10 days. If that does not pan out, I will search for and join another writing group to get writing feedback. Whatever I will go through, I do not want to go through it alone any more.

[**Unfortunately, I cannot find the original post so that I can link back to the blogger who got me thinking. If it’s you, let me know so that I can update this post and link back to you.]

Week 12-Final Project-Earthquake

Earthquakes’ train

The tremor briefly ripples desiccated dirt on the road in parallel lines. Stillness follows. A starling whistles once, then again. Wind blows west and rustles the prairie grass. Chiseled men relax. They return to dig and pick apart the hardened earth with steel pickaxes. Dust clouds fills nostrils and mouths. Sweat pours down their chins. Shirts come off. Sun burns.

Look! A flock of starlings abruptly lift westward from telephone wire. Active men squeal to a halt. Rumbles tingle toes. The numbing of feet forge waves of fear straight through toughened bodies. Jelly legs and panicked voices forewarn men and beasts: Earth’s westbound train approaches. Nails and hammer drop with a thud. Weak waves of dirt flutter in reply. Hundreds of feet begin to stampede in differing directions.

The other men bustle past me. Their shoulders shove mine as they scramble to safety up the cactus-peppered landscape. I fall in line onto my hands and knee; I press my right ear to the ground. I eat dirt and listen. The deafening roar of vibrating earth intermixes with churning wheels. Not sure how far, now. Teams of horses whinny and rear. I push up and run out of the way one second before hooves crash down where I crawled. My stomach derails with shockwaves of adrenaline.

I howl in helpless pulses. Faces around me melt with fear. The inevitable groundbreaking eruption fuels fights. Fist knock hats off balding heads. The beat of the breaking earth trembles louder. How many of the men here will survive? Will I? I slap my face. Wake up, Sam! Don’t freeze up now. A straight path opens up on my left between the Mill and the General Store. Time slows. Hobos cling to the stores’ wood siding. Slate shingles fracture at their feet. The last water barrel topples. Water ejects in thick rivulets. I run, full speed ahead.

Injun arrows cross country above my head as I steam onward into their path. Undeterred, I grit my teeth and put my head down as I run. Ululations thunder out the sounds of my heart beating in my ears. Windows rattle from the increase frequencies underfoot. Cracks split panes. Men slip and fall. Animals scatter and trample. At the last possible moment, I flatten myself against the side of the General Store as the Injuns scream on by me. I watch. The sheriff crumples into a pile of flesh. Blood-soaked dirt swells.

My mental switch flips. I turn sharply on my spurs and run against the undulating flow of teeming Injuns. A tomahawk sails past my head and into the wood. Twang! Rifle shots mix with metal slicing into skin. Short screams reverberate between the stores’ walls. Bile and disgust rise in my throat. Sweat overtakes tears that leak from the corner of my eyes. I breathe in hard. And I run. Gasping, I emerge from the human tunnel and keep going. The crescendo of disintegrating buildings fuels an explosion of debris and dust behind me. Its force blasts me onto my face.

The Mill’s foundation cracks opens and yawns. Wham! Earth rips apart with the sounds of two freight trains that crash full throttle. The Mill shatters and disappears. Burning fuel sears my nose and lungs. I taste blood and dirt. My legs shiver. I collapse. I wait for the shaking and the screaming to stop. I close my eyes and come to a standstill.

When I regain awaken, my temples are pounding. I get to my feet, swaying woozily. A familiar shape lies on the ground. I limp over to the other man, kneel, and push him over on his back. I look into the face of my youngest brother, Jesse.

Jesse? Is that you? Wake up, brother. Wake up! Come on. We gotta get out of here!

I shake him somethin’ awful.
He doesn’t move.

Week 11 Assignment-Old Swimming Hole

This assignment ends Week 11 of my BerkleeMusic course called “Creative Writing: Finding Your Voice.” The criteria for the assignment are:

1. Pick a collision from this week
2. Pick a point of view
3. Pick your verb tenses
4. 300-500 words
5. Include the title in your assignment

Other criteria that we’ve used in our assignments include: varying sentence length and varying sentence type (statement, command, conditional, questions). I included those as well.

Collision Title: Old Swimming Hole -> Temptation -> Jewels in an Unlocked Case
Point of View: First Person
Tenses: Present, Future

Week 11 Assignment

The turquoise waters of the old swimming hole tempt me with their alluring glitter. I thrill from the age-old desire to grab forbidden treasures and make a quick escape. Nervousness floods my mouth. My lips tremble. I lick my sweaty upper lip. I slowly look around. First, left; then, right. I see no one. I hear only rippling waters, tweeting sparrows, and reeds hushing each other as the wind sneaks by. With no alarms raised, I pull off my tank top and toss it on the ground besides me. I forcefully breathe in the emerald marsh air. Ah!, I sigh aloud. I pause to listen, but no one answers.

I go over the plan again in my mind: I will lunge my left leg backwards, ready both fists by my side, bounce three times, and take off. I will race down the weathered diving plank as if the police were in pursuit. My imaginary pursuers will reach for me too late as I spring off the edge of the board and into topaz waters. The plank’s thrumming will drown out the coppers’ anguished cries. The anticipation dries my mouth with the taste of mineral salts. Will this work? A red-tailed hawk scolds me: Stop wasting time. Silver fear infuses my nostrils. I rub my shoulders hard to psyche myself up with bravery.

My ears perk up at the pale sounds of far away laughter. Now: do it now, I mentally yell. Adrenaline floods my limbs. I sloppily throw my left leg back, makes fists, and bounce twice. I sprint down the plank at full speed. At the last moment, I launch. As I descend from the high arc, I hold my knees tightly and close my eyes. I slam through the pearl surface. Water roars into my ear canals and penetrates my mouth. I open up completely, kick my legs, and spin until dizzy. I come up with arms outstretched, gasping for air. Approaching laughter is my final warning. If I don’t get out now, I’ll be seen.

I scrabble haltingly out of the pool of liquid jewels. Each falling droplet leaves a semiprecious trail of temporary clues. I roughly yank my tank top back over my head and down onto my torso. I smell hot August sun drying the last aquamarine memories from my skin. Alum, the fool’s gold of the swimming hole, tarts my tongue. I tiptoe into the tourmaline thicket down a rarely used footpath. I periodically turn back to look for the swimming hole. When I no longer see it, I breathe a sigh of relief. I keep walking. I do not stop or look back. My sandals crunch sticks pleasingly. I whistle victory at my easy escape.

Week 11 Discussion & More!

This post documents my participation in our weekly class discussion question for my BerkleeMusic Course, ‘Creative Writing: Finding Your Voice’.

Teacher Question:   Of all the other students’ postings this week, which was your favorite?  Why?

My Response: 
Hi, Caroline,

I’m not sure I have a favorite. These last two weeks are difficult to write and I think we’re all struggling to some degree. I feel like we all respect one another’s voices and that it’s not a matter of having a favorite; it’s a matter of understanding what technique or method does the writing we like the most use to a skilled degree that makes it work in the first place. It might also be a better question to ask us about where we’re having the most success, what is most difficult, and suggestions or recommendations that we might generically have for other writers in the class.

Also, I prefer to think of it as ‘writing in both directions’ instead of ‘working in both directions’. I feel like I’m going to need a lot more practice in this area.

Thanks,

Wendy

**************************************************************************************

I’m sad the class is almost over.

Week 11-Day 5-Old Swimming Hole

Old Swimming Hole -> Temptation -> Diamonds in an Unlocked Jewelry Case
The water sparkles invitingly. You reach out tentatively to touch the icy reflection. A million bright lights cut out in angles on the horizon. You squint and blink, pain cutting your eyeballs ever so lightly. Noises! Behind you! You swivel as a thief in rubber-soled shoes, freezing in place. Your eyes scan the scenery for any movement. Only the sound of rippling water greets you. Slowly you reposition yourself and slip your toes in. Pause. No alarms. You put both feet in. Water shimmers around your ankles. No other customers around to dive in. No lifeguard to protect the old swimming hole from intruders. You dive in, the thrill of the chase buoys and propels you. You’re in now. The point of no return. You’re in deep. You rise up for air, gasping. No one’s around to hear you rooting around the place. Yes! You backflip under water. You breaststroke quickly to shore. The place is all yours! No finger prints. You can turn over each piece in the case. Shells, rocks, seaweed, an old boot. It feels good to be bad! No one can catch you now. You fill your heart full of these shiny memories that glitter. Temptation. Fascination. Admiration. You scrabbled out of the pond of liquid jewels, each one dropping off you in a million tiny pieces. You dry off. Water on your skin disappears. Watery fool’s gold. You escape the shop without being seen. No video surveillance to catch your raid. Just dark foot-shaped shadows on the dirt.

Unlocked diamonds in a jewelry case are an old swimming hole 
The pool of glitter temps you. You squint, looking from the corner of your eye. Looking at the shimmer head on? Daggers of pain hit your cornea. Laugher peals out of the swimming hole, temping you to take a dip in its forbidden treasure. Other kids splash and play. They flaunt their watery wealth on their necks. Heads emerge from the black velvety depths. Sun radiates their pearly necks laced with water droplets. The peer pressure bears down on you. You join your partners in crime, digging into the fresh-water case. Joy. Freedom. No parents are around. No lifeguards. Just you, the others, and your wet playground. Water games enrich your day. The unrecorded activities whet your confidence that you will all pull  off the swimming hole heist. Your swimming suit pockets fill with abundance, seep out, then refill. Each fill brings a bigger cache of memories. Adult footsteps crack on sticks. Oh, no. You scramble unevenly to escape your summery den. Hurry! You wave to the others.  Arms and legs brush off the proof of your crime. Towels soak up the blame. Squeals reveal your location. Caught! Your parents see you quickly trying to hide your tracks. Stop! Your father stares. Your mother crosses arms. Feet tap impatience. Come! You hang your head in shame. I’m guilty! Guilty as charged! You lift your head defiantly. Your ear is turned. Ouch! You are dragged away. Your escaped partners watch  from behind bushes as you are dragged away to your punishment: No dinner!

Week 11-Day 4-Western Movie

In this penultimate week to my BerkleeMusic course called, ‘Creative Writing: Finding Your Voice’, we are continuing our work with metaphor. We are given an object (Western Movie); we are charged with picking a linking quality (Adventurous) and a comparison object (Team of Arctic Explorers). We are asked to write for 10 minutes about our topic (Western Movie) but using words from our other object (Team of Arctic Explorers) to describe it. Finally, we are asked to flip it around and describe the comparison object (Team of  Arctic Explorers) with words that you might use to describe the given object (Western Movie).

My challenge has been that I slip confusingly back and forth from one to the other. Or I find the given object (Western Movie) uninspiring.  I read some about Western and Western Movie history, pondered on the qualities associated with Western Movies, and chose one.  It bothers me that they seem to sound similar. I was hoping for something more interesting. Oh, well.  Here’s another link in the chain to building better writing skills!

Western Movie -> Adventurous -> Team of Arctic Explorers
The group decided on their basecamp: Ashtonville, Texas. Two mountain ranges of deserted storefronts formed a central, barren corridor. The harsh landscape warned them from further entry. Winds whistled around solitary cacti in cloud bursts, burn-freezing the inside of the cowboys’ ears with icy fury. The men shouted to each other, signaling with their gloved hands where to drive the the stakes of their spurs. The men took out their pickaxes and started to chip away at the desert sands. They sweated inside their Texas uniforms, bandana’s wrapped around their faces to keep out the dust flying into their skin.  With their backs straining under a dark, ominous sky, the cowboys raised their tents. Standing in a single line, the men passed their tent supplies from one to the next.  When their covered wagon was unpacked, the men retreated to their canvas cave in the middle of their Nowheresville. Mark struggled to zip up the door. The others nailed down the edge of the canvas sides that met the dirt where it was not already held down by their supplies. The men sat around in a circle on their sleeping bags, each one silently unwrapping his protective uniform off his wiry, Texan frame. A small leather waterbag was passed around; each man took the smallest sip possible. A coyote howled. Dust balls hit the side of the tent. The men listened.

Team of Arctic Explorers is a Western movie
The men hustled their animals, their tent, and their supplies down the narrow trail between the two Arctic mountain ranges. The band of five brothers roped themselves together in a straight line. The wilderness called around them. Howls. Cries. A scream cut off. The brothers stopped, swore loyalty to one another, and continued on. The eldest, John, led the way. Nothing would stop them. The sheriff promised the research team a reward: bring home the thief. Get paid. Watch as they hang ’em high! Riches. Feeding their families. Telegrams by covered wagons led by Huskies back East. Warm thoughts of money spurred them on. Gold coin. A hot bath. A hot meal, better than these survival granola-flax-peanut butter snack bars. Roar! A bear stood in their way. On the other side, a frozen lake with an opening. The men huddled under their hats and broke away with shots in the air. Pumped! Full of internal fire, hunger, and need, the men circled around the bear. ROAR! The white bear got down on all fours, ready to pounce. From all directions, the men fired down on the white bear. Red covered white in drips and streaks. Hearts raced. John stepped slowly toward the bear, poking it with the end of his rifle. Dead. They removed their hats, held them over their hearts, and thanked God for their good fortune. The men heaved the bear onto the portable cot, and dragged it back to their basecamp. Yes!

Week 11 Day 3-Cobwebs

Hello!

Today’s writing asked us to take the word cobweb, pick a linking quality, find another thing that shared that quality, and then write for 10 minutes about cobwebs in words that illuminate the linking quality with nouns, adjectives, and verbs from the other shared item. Whew! That’s a confusing summary. Here’s what I did — this will make it clearer. Sort of. Sometimes I start writing things that sound better if I was writing in the other direction. That’s the thing I’m learning this week. I can tell – I’m gonna need a looooooooooot of practice.

Cobwebs -> Capture -> Armies
The threads of the cobwebs spread out from one corner of the doorway. In camouflaged, semi-invisible lines, cobwebs hide their numbers from their enemy  flies. They shimmer in the light of the desert day, blending in harmoniously with the oases that tease from a distance. The approaching fly troops mark a straight line, hoping to penetrate the interior by sheer force and numbers. The flies underestimate the threads that belie the power in their ultimate weapon of choice. The stickiness binds the flies legs and abdomens like rope lines suddenly pulled to fell the enemies’ legs. The troops subdue the body of the flies after a few minutes of struggle. The cobweb’s commanding officer drops a line down to where the enemy is being held. He wants to see for himself that the enemy is captured.  The black widow spider pulls out his hands, hold his enemy in his hands, and then pierces the fly with the knife on his machine gun and empties his poison into the fly.  A few seconds later, still and stiff as a wooden plank, the spider binds up the fly, carries him to up to the corner, and leaves him for the troops to snack on. The spider returns to his desk and waits for the call from his troops to parachute in for the final kill once again.

Armies are cobwebs
The troops last assignment: fan out in straight lines to hide their numbers; go from corner to corner and stick together so that no enemy can break through the lines; hold your positions and do not move unless ordered to do so. The men dutifully walked single file until they hit a wall. They turned direction approximately 20 degrees to the right and kept on walking. Meanwhile, the commanding officer sent a second division up towards the top of the hill. One by one, they parachuted on silk threads down until they reached the other division at a second spot along the wooden wall, through which they could not go.  Meeting up, the troops walked inwards, two by two for a brief time, then walked or flew in the opposite direction, until they met back at base camp. All through the night, they worked tirelessly to build their camp. Animals called to each other eerily. The hair on the arms and legs of the troops stood up but they kept going. Towards dawn, their camp complete, the men slept. One kept watch over their camp, on the lookout for any invaders. Finally! An alarm rang out. The men looked up — space invaders! Flies darkened the skies. Legs trembled and hearts raced. How can we tame the incoming beast? Working together the men folded in on the alien more strongly when there was struggle. The men wrapped around the alien and delivered the stunning blow to the gut. All was quiet. A breeze blew. Men wafted gently and then broke away from the camp. The site of the beast overcome sickened them. Some men regrouped, going over their plan. The commander arrived. He surveyed their capture. He pierced its armor and ate quietly, under the hungry eyes of his submission troops.

Week 11-Reversing Direction through Linking Qualities

Hello! Last week? Well, last week I got thrown off by needing to take two of my three cats to the vet two times each. I only got to one daily writing and then the weekly assignment.

Week 11 is more of the same. We are given an object and asked to think of a linking quality and another object that links the two. We are to write about Object A using terms from Object B and then reverse the order and write again; 10 minutes timed writing each direction.  This is hard work. The class has one more week and I can see this work continuing afterwards.

Day 2 – Hatred

Hatred -> Filter -> Camera Lens
The camera lens of your anger filters the way you see the world. Innocent behaviors cast with a red overtone menace at you with intensity. The hot breath of conversation fogs up your ability to focus; you cannot see clearly through the haze of your hatred. People glare at you across the crowded room, eyes bearing down at you through the lens. You try to make adjustments. You pull back from the viewfinder, shake your head, close your eyes, furrow your brow, and bring the eye back to the viewer. You try to switch your mind into manual instead of the automatic setting of your amygdala, which rises in your chest the way the rising heat of sun causes an intense ray to focus onto a dry leaf, setting it on fire. Your emotions have dried up, burnt into the crisp of hatred focused on what little was left of your heart. You take lessons, you meditate. You ask random strangers to pose for you in desperate attempts to shake off the screaming-red colored filter of anger. The wind carries away what’s left of you. You replace the lens. Trying to clean it, you scratch the surface. You wince in pain at the thought of the cost of getting a new lens. You visit the store, try on various  models, and pick one that seems clear. Yet when you leave and try to take a new picture of the world around you, the red remains. Ants look pissed off carrying their crumbs to the hill. People walk by, gesticulating heatedly into their handsets. You catch them from the side; a permanent mark of anger stains their faces. Blue jays scream at each other. Grilled cheese becomes burnt cheese. You throw it out. You pang with hunger. Someone breezes by and fans your anger flames into a roaring fire, into a blaze strong enough to burn down ten thousand acres of ancient forest in a few hours’ time. You capture it, frame by frame, a vast swarth of destruction across the vista of your life. It e

Camera lens is hatred
The camera lens seethes and projects its red-hot anger onto the subjects as they mingle over white wine spritzers at the bar. Watching the people intensely, waiting for an argument to break out, so that it can catch its subjects in the act of duking it out, fists battering each others’ faces, like a scene out of a movie about white trash bar fights. The camera lens pauses, lingers in anger, over its lack of control. Under someone else’s command, the camera lens focuses on plants, bugs, animals with the smell of burnt tires on pavement. It refuses to cooperate, staying out of focus. The photographer growls in frustration at the lens, blaming old age and rusty interchanging parts as the cause of fuzzy photos, streaking colors across keyboards and cats running across the room. The camera lens celebrates its victory over the dictator photographer who insists on shooting the happy moments in people’s lives. How rude. The one wish in the camera lens’ eye is to see others crush in submission to its mean ways. Children will cry and run away in fear. Women will weep. Men will comfort their women, wrap a protective arm around the women’s shoulders, and attempt to lead them away from the funeral crematorium. The lens aches to capture the moments of people at their miserable worst: the owner sobbing over having to euthanize her pet; the dizzying loss of the athlete to another by mere milliseconds; the public pain of a fifteen year-hold high school student by her bullies. The lens imagines frights and rises in proud anger at its imagined magnificence. The photographer gingerly handles the lens, as if it were on fire, and puts it away into the cold, dark bag, where it sits and waits, biding its time, for the next moment when light and air will shine on the lens and fan the flames of its hatred for humanity, for life. Crisp memories of burning fingertips fill the dreams of the camera lens. The exhilaration of a consuming hating desire.

Week 10-Reversing Metaphor Direction

Hello! This is Week 10 of my Berkleemusic.com class, ‘Creative Writing: Finding Your Voice.’

Like last week, we are working with developing our ability to create interesting metaphors.  Unlike last week, we are writing twice for 10 minutes each from two pieces of information, an object and an essential quality about that object.  We pick the comparison object.  Then we swap the order and write about it for another 10 minutes. I’ll stop explaining – Read below. You’ll get it.

Day 2

Teacher–>Linking Quality: instructs –> Target Idea: –>_Pain_______.

Pain: pain, ache, throb, dull roar, stab, hurt, cry, stomach, heart, head, foot, hand, torture, surgery, accident, fall, crash, smash, broken, limbs, hang, tears, beg, mercy, heartless, cruel, cruelty, Chinese water torture, repetition, infliction, shame, humiliation, rejection, desire, sob, hysterics, desperate, desperation, taboo, victim, perpetrator, villain, criminal, crimes, uncompassionate, bound, gagged, masked, scream, howl, whimper, submission, dominance, S&M

A teacher is pain to her student victims, bound helplessly to their seats. We dread yet another repetitive math lesson, the Chinese water torture of numbers. Algebraic equations twist their ugly point into our stomachs. Geometry proofs its whip against our brains. Trigonometry gags us, our minds reeling, gasping, dreaming of escape. Calculus heartlessly inflicts its symbols into our hands that are cramped, exhausted, and sobbing for mercy. Our teacher oversees the exercises in cruelty over four years’ time, twisting the lessons to suit her own purposes: that we learn enough to pass the PSATs. Our tears go unwiped and our prayers unheard. We cower in unconditional submission to the educational pecking order. When free of our parents, we are indentured in servitude to our teacher’s villainous ways. We scurry from class to class, avoiding our teacher’s punishing eyes. Our teacher hang us in humiliation on High School Hill. We are the example, the strange fruit. We whimper in humiliation under the ruler. Our crimes posted in hallways, declaring our guilt. We have been sentenced to twelve years hard labor. The teacher thrusts the unwanted lessons on us, pinning us down in effigy until we learn the point of it all. The dull roar of submission dies away

Pain –>Linking Quality: instructs –> Target Idea: –>_Teacher_______.

Teacher: Instruct, learn, lesson, lesson plan, students, school, schoolroom, classroom, tutor, repetition, test, quiz, pop quiz, grades, grading, progress chart, EIP, guides, children, discipline, enlighten, inspire, critical thinking, skills, life, relationship

Pain is a teacher, laying out its careful lesson plan. Pain points out our flaws, over and over again, until we learn the lesson. Our growth indicates whether we have passed a test. Pain quizzes us on how well we have learned our lessons, providing us with pop quizzes on a frequent basis. We have no time to study. Pain does not follow a lesson plan, or come to the same place at the same time every day. Pain tests our critical thinking skills. Failure is torture. We are sick with anticipation that we have failed. Turn the wrong way and pain stops us, bringing us back to the beginning. We are students in the classroom of life. Pain disciplines us frequently and we are humbled by its power. Failed relationships guide us towards interpersonal growth. Pain enlightens us on the point of punishment, by bringing our eyes into focus on what hurts us the most. Birthdays are our only progress chart. Blind to the future, we grope around in the dark, searching for the light switch but sticking our fingers in the sockets and getting shocked. Our hands stick to the plate from an ungrounded outlet. We pull away, only to be drawn back into the electrical center. Zap! Zot! Muscles tense hard. With all our might, we pull away and try again. Nothing deters us. Into the sockets our fingers go. The intensity holds us hostage and we scream in agony. Our senses are in sharpest focus now, when the pain courses through our blood, electrifying us into action. We leave relationships or jobs. The pain of grade we receive galvanizes us to try again, to improve. Sometimes, our hearts or legs are broken. We close our eyes, drowning out the buzz of teaching pain that circles us like a flock of vultures. We disintegrate from discipline. We pull out hair in frustration at our lack of learning. We cry at life. No fair.

Week 9 Assignment

I hope you enjoy my assignment submission for the end of Week 9 of the Berkleemusic.com course, ‘Creative Writing: Finding Your Voice.’ This class, especially in this week, has been a boon to my writing in conjunction with a technical editing course. I hope you enjoy this piece.

Week 9 Assignment Requirements

• Choose one of your collisions: Summer -> Carefree -> Children
• Choose your own point of view: First person narrative (I, we)
• Choose your own tense movement:  Present, Future
• Expand in into 300–500 words and focus with your senses.

Summer  -> Carefree -> Children

Children: kids, young, run, jump, play, potential, growth, education, love, chubby cheeks, sweet, fingers, learning, alphabet, reading, crayons, daycare, happy, play games, hopscotch, jump rope, dodge ball, horseback riding, pool, beach, volleyball, softball, baseball, naps, day camp, campers

Summer jumps into the season, giggling and laughing. Passing sun showers hopscotch over our heads. Summer stamps her hot feet through spring’s last puddles. Water fountains splash us playfully. Rainbows draw their colors on the paper-blue sky. Sunrays tag our faces with rosy love. The summer solstice stretches her potential length to maximum. The last days of school peel off in white flakes. A warm breeze rouses us from our homework chains. Freedom becomes our new fresh skin.

Excited Atlantic waves bounce the ferry S.S. Happy Campers on its knees. We wear orange lifejackets, lean over the ships’ bow, and heave in the salty sea air. After we arrive, we burst down the pier. Shoulder to shoulder as we run, we muscle each other out of the way, yelling and stomping our feet. Yes! I win! Fist pumps greet groans in friendly camaraderie. Next stop? Mad Martha’s Ice Cream! We eat our vanilla sugar cones and dig our feet into burning sand. Beach balls hop back and forth over nets. Sand castles rise. Moats overflow. Turrets tumble into the sea. We dig deep, and find joy under pink seashells. For lunch, we unzip sandwich bags with sandy fingers. Coca Cola pops open in wide smiles. Oreo cookies loosely crumble out of our mouths onto damp bathing suits. We nap on cotton towels under a blue umbrella. Comforting sea breezes caress us while we sleep. Splash! Water on our faces! We noisily chase after seagulls with our hands in the air.

Sunset sneaks up on us. Tag, we’re it!  Fluorescent Crayola colors wrap the sky in brief swathes. Dark hues cool our sandy party. What will we play tomorrow? Will we rent three-speed bicycles in Vineyard Haven and meander down-island to Oak Bluffs? Before bedtime tonight, we will imagine putting on plays about our indigenous island ancestors; victory will be ours. Our parents will tell us to go to sleep, but we will read under bed sheets with flashlights until late. Crickets will sing us to sleep. Peepers will peep. We will dream.

Week 9-Day 5-Storm

This is my writing for Week 9, Day 5, of my Berkleemusic.com online course, ‘Creative Writing: Finding Your Voice.’  This week’s writing illuminated for me the power of doing writing on a consistent basis, learning effective tools for creating sense-bound stories, and gaining confidence in what I’m doing. Without further ado, here it is:

Day 5

Find a linking quality for

Prompt: Storm

What quality does my idea have? _________________

Now, using your linking quality, find two target ideas and write your paragraphs exploring each metaphor.

1. Storm–>Linking Quality: __Depresses___ –> Target Idea: –>__Alcohol_____.
2. Storm–>Linking Quality: __Turbulent____ –> Target Idea: –>__Plane Rides____.

Storm -> Depresses -> Alcohol

Alcohol: slow, loosening, bad, judgment, social, alienation, drinking, alone, alcoholism, dizzy, nausea, vomiting, hang over, whiskey, rye, gin, vodka, wine, beer, shaky, swallows, gulps, mixer, cocktail

The storm hangs over the Gulf coast, shaking its clouds lethargically. A few euphoric souls weave along the lethargic shoreline. Birds fly heavily between palm trees. The weak stormy cocktail swirls to a halt. Condensation drips down. People ache and groan. Clouds pass out.

Storm -> Turbulent -> Airplane Ride

Airplane Ride: airplane, tarmac, wind, turbulence, bumpy, shaking, sudden, drops, sweating, heart racing, hands, palms, gripping, praying, pilot, scream, vomit, plastic baggie, anticipation, fear, anxiety, mind racing, visualizing

The storm bumped about its contents roughly in the sky.  Thunder and lightning slammed into each other, screaming. Children cried. Parents prayed. Turbulent winds rattled windows. Trees shivered in anticipation. Rodents hid and curled into balls. Fatal visions raced in my mind while the storm bounced around. A sudden boom jolts me away. My stomach drops away. Dizzily, I sway.

Week 9-Day 4-Mountain Stream

Mountain Stream -> Roars -> Lion

Lion: pride, hunter, golden, fur, menacing, slinky, slink, big cat, big game, cat, teeth, fangs, sharp, white, antelope, zebra, prey, shouting, stalk, kill, carnivore, reign, king, steppes, grasslands

The mountain stream tilts back its head and roars out its animalistic call to the wild. Trees shake in terror at the stream’s growling burbles. Slinking its way menacingly over cowed stones, the mountain stream prides itself on its white fanged foam. Waves hunt unsuspecting chipmunks, birds, and rabbits. The stream’s reign flows from time immemorial and into the back of the mountainside, feasting on granite prey.

 

Mountain Stream -> Trickles -> Hourglass sand

Hourglass sand: hourglass, sand, white, trickle, countdown, finite, infinity, test, contest, falls, falling, desk, pen, timer, timed, timing, life, regret, triste, wistful

The remaining granules of a once-burbling mountain stream trickle slowly through a narrow opening in its path. One droplet at a time, the stream’s wistfully watches its essence pass out of time. Regret and sadness tinge its blue into grey. The mountain stream cries sand. It mourns. Only the quiet hills attend its funeral.

Week 6 – Metaphor Collisions – Nouns + Verbs

The introductory video from Pat Pattison for Week 6 of my BerkleeMusic.com course entitled, “Creative Writing: Finding Your Voice” introduced us to the concept of pairing nouns + verbs in interesting combinations. Some of that has already expressed itself in my writing; however, we haven’t been focusing on that. Now, we are. For example, pairing ‘funeral’ with ‘exhaled’:

‘The funeral exhaled the stench of greedy family…’ ~Andrea Stolpe

or

‘The tsnunami exhaled the funeral onto the beach….’  ~Chanelle Davis

Tomorrow we start with various noun + verb combinations. I’ll try my hand at the funeral/exhaled noun/verb pairing.

The funeral exhaled its mourners out in a wispy line like a trail of smoke that snaked its way to the burial mound.