On Writing, By: me...not Stephen King

My creative writing course is sadly coming to a close.  I had fun and definitely took away new techniques to improve my writing (we'll see if I actually use them).

If anyone is looking for an excellent book to help with the art of writing, I would highly recommend my textbook for this course: Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft by Janet Burroway and Elizabeth Stuckey-French.

During week one of class I read a quote in this compilation of short stories, lectures, practical methods, and unique exercises, that will probably slosh around in my brain for the rest of my life.

"The best fiction comes from the place where the terror hides, the edge of our worst stuff.  I believe, absolutely, that if you do not break out in that sweat of fear when you write, then you have not gone far enough." - Dorothy Allison

This is true.  And this is scary.

I did quite well grade wise in this class, but my most impressive grade and professor feedback came from an assignment that I wept through as I wrote.  The prompt entailed writing a dialogue between two characters who are having a hard time communicating.

I wrote inspired by a dear friend of mine who said something to me that week.  And then I wrote what had been in my heart for the past three years.  

What I wish had been said years ago.  

What I wish I had said that week.  

What I wish no one would ever know.

I cried as the characters played out the conversation I longed to have myself.  When it was completed, I was frightened by my honesty.  I considered deleting the entire work: something that had escaped from the pages of my journals to be seen by someone else's eyes.

Finally, after much self-consoling, I submitted the assignment, convincing myself that my professor in grading will look past my personal life, and probably won't even know it's a topic that isn't entirely fiction. (On second thought, what good piece of writing isn't inspired by real life events?...uh oh.  Abort! Abort!)

A few days later when grades were posted, I saw that he was impressed.  

Every piece I've written since then has seemed safe and boring.  There's no wow factor without vulnerability.

Unfortunately, Dorothy Allison, you're right.

And I'm terrified.

A Snippet from "But Jesus Went to the Mount of Olives"

I was sure that if I stayed in Galilee for just a few more days, God would have been able to speak to me through sunflower fields and grazing sheep. It was devastating to leave the peace of our lakeside kibbutz for the stone, congested city of Jerusalem. Although on the Mount of Olives, another hill, the garden was taken well care of, rather than the beautiful, organic mess of nature in Galilee. With the perfect timing I learned from living on my University’s quad, I dodged the methodical sprinklers to find my own place to sit and sigh, away from the rest of my group who didn’t stray far from the entrance gate. I began to stroll up the garden, following the weaving path, one hand outstretched, allowing it to feel the shrubbery it passed. Watch out for the thistles. I didn’t want the deceptive purple plant to leave me with a sore palm as it had in the wilderness of Banias a few days earlier. I was at least relieved to see that the rocks lining the path resembled those in Galilee: cream colored and porous, like a rock rabbit with iron jaws burrowed through the mass, transforming it into a piece of dense coral. I hopped over a root that had protruded through the tiled jigsaw path where the blocks had turned orange with oxidization. I tugged at an olive branch and let it escape from my grasp as I carried on up the hill. It sprang back, shaking the whole tree. The sounds of nature were drowning out the sounds of civilization as I climbed higher. From this height, the wall protecting the garden was no longer obstructing the view of the city. The golden Dome of the Rock obscenely protruded itself through the simplistic panorama of Jerusalem. It was the perfect time to sit down and sketch, but my mind would not let me rest.

What do You want me to do? Where do You want me? I could… Australia. I need to stop planning. But, ugh, I spent all that time in Durban… wasted? No, no, never education. Never wasted. Stay in Connecticut? I’m so antsy! I want to be in Durbs. Where are you? If I make $12 an hour and I’m only working fifteen hours… How flexible would this be anyways? Back to college? Teaching. Ugh, I’m done with school. Really? Work in the mall when the sun is… miserable! What if I’m missing out on… no, You wouldn’t let me do that…

“Just let me love you.”

I was interrupted.

It wasn’t as if someone stood outside, speaking into my ear. Someone stood inside me, speaking out. I had only heard a voice this audibly once before. Last summer. In a bar.

The only sound now was my breathing, slightly heavy from the incline, the noonday sun, and the shock from the words that permeated my thoughts. I stood in my place, and moved nothing but my eyes. A rock. The path. The city. My hand. Then a cooling breeze blew through the olive trees. The tiny leaves on the skewed branches showed their playful silvery undersides as they tinkered against each other. The cicadas lifted their voices in a crescendo ushering in the coming summer and a bird hidden in a nearby tree repeated his melody.

My own voice added to the symphony. “Is it that simple?”

No response.

The porous rock under the leaning olive tree beckoned me to rest. I tucked my flowing skirt out of the way and joined the rock in the shade. Just let You love me, huh? I dug in my backpack and yanked my thin brown paper journal from between my Bible and water bottle. The front of my journal framed a messy drawing from the day I spent hours on the pebbled beach where Jesus cooked breakfast. I turned it over to the blank back. Through the olive leaves that hung over my face, I sketched Jerusalem.

Water Spirits

The old woman whose name Kristina couldn’t pronounce was squatting in her garden across the street, a wheelbarrow propped up beside her. She wore all of her jewelry, even in the dirt. A wrist full of tarnished gold bangles, necklaces dangling with a variety of trinkets that perpetually forced her head downwards, and thick hoop earrings that would be quite scandalous for a woman her age to wear anywhere in the world but here. Kristina threw her duffle bag in the trunk of her rusted Pontiac and waved.

“Hello, where are you going?” the old woman called across the street, moving a wisp of gray hair off her chocolate skin.

“I am going to the coast. I have a meeting,” Kristina responded, making sure her English was articulate enough for the old woman to understand.

“The coast?” The old woman rose to her feet, showing the soil stains on her geometrically patterned skirt.

“Yes. I am going to the coast.”

“The sea?”

“Yes, near the sea.”

“You go to the sea?” Her inquisitive eyes were fixed on Kristina’s bobbing head of blond curls that answered her redundant questioning. “You could do for me something?”

“Um, I suppose so. I won’t really have much time but I…”

“Please, neighbor. You bring me seawater?” As she spoke, she hobbled across the dusty road, stepping over the chickens, her eyes never leaving Kristina’s.

“Seawater? Why?” she asked.

“It is good for uhh… my tummy. It is good tummy water. Salt and minerals. Very good. You do for your neighbor? Bring me seawater?”

The old woman now stood six inches from her face. Kristina took a step back, away from the overpowering scent of spices and soil. The old woman’s staring blood shot eyes made her consent, just so she could get on the road and away from her pleading neighbor. As soon as Kristina said “sure”, the old woman smiled with her seven teeth, told her to wait a moment, and ran unevenly back across the street, creating a cloud of dust between the two houses. Kristina could hear things crashing within the old woman’s small brick home. She returned a minute later, carrying four empty Coca Cola bottles, a liter each. “Please. This is good,” she said, handing Kristina the bottles, which she then carelessly tossed in her backseat.

After a final glance at the old woman’s crooked smile, and a little chuckle, Kristina got into her car and drove off through the small village towards the city on the coast. She arrived at the hotel three hours later where the other foreigners and she would be encouraged for the next four days, swapping stories and learning the cutting edge techniques of English language teaching. During a free afternoon, her peers enjoyed the entertainment as Kristina battled the hectic waves, gathering the “tummy water” for her neighbor.

Once the four Coca Cola bottles were filled, and her feet were safely back on dry sand, Kristina held up a bottle to her giggling friends and said, “She’s going to drink this stuff? Really?” She shook it and watched as the bits of sand separated from the murky water and resettled on the bottom. “Anyone have a stomach ache?” she joked.

Four days later, with a peeling nose and browned shoulders, Kristina tapped on the old woman’s door with one of the Coca Cola bottles, juggling the rest under her arms. “Hello neighbor. It is Kristina,” she called. The garden wrapped around the one-roomed dwelling was filled mostly with root vegetables and disorderly placed herbs. A small stone statue with a wide-open mouth showing its fangs startled Kristina when it peeked at her from behind a licorice plant. There was a shuffle inside and the old woman opened the door, letting a beam of sunlight into her dark home. Her bangles tinkered against one another as she clapped her hands, her eyes gleaming at the four bottles. “I brought you your seawater,” Kristina said, placing them on the threshold, the old woman’s eyes following their descent.

While the bottles of dirty seawater distracted the woman, Kristina peered inside, curious as to how this eccentric woman lived. A young man was asleep on the floor cushion, bordered by small bones and skinny pillars of rising incense. The old woman didn’t say a word but scooted the bottles inside and shut the door, as Kristina craned her neck to look longer at the young man. Once she could see nothing but the closed door, she crossed the dusty road back to her house. She settled into her couch with a cup of mint tea and a book that reminded her of home, the image of the young man and the bones interrupting her only a few times.

Across the street there was only a thin stream of light coming from under the door of the small brick house. In the dark, the old woman rummaged through her clutter, found her hollow gourd, and filled it with her long waited for “tummy water.” She looked at the sleeping young man, and in her ancient native language, she spoke. “Do not worry, my dear boy. You will get better. Healing will certainly come now.” She took a gulp of the “tummy water”, and continued. “Come, water spirits, come.”