journal wednesdays
I'm taking two classes this fall: the one on Tuesday mornings is an exercise class, of sorts. The instructor prompts us with a starting sentence or the direction to "write a scene where..." We write for three or four or five minutes (it's never enough) and then read what we've done. It isn't competitive in any way: the writing's not great, we don't comment on the content of the work, only how it speaks to the particular exercise. The value in the exercises is the practice just writing. The practice writing descriptively, and quickly, and without the constant feedback of Myself, The Critic. I walked into this class planning to direct all of my exercises at Keeping Score, and with one exception I've done that. I've made several interesting discoveries about the secrets my characters are keeping -- from each other and themselves -- as a result of the scene's I've written in five minutes or less. "Take an alien character and put him/hr in a setting that is familiar to us, but make it unfamiliar to the character." Ugh. I can't imagine wanting to apply this to a bridge room. Well, damn. Now that I'm thinking about it again, I can think of all sorts of ways to work usefully within my manuscript. But I couldn't think of anything quickly at class yesterday, and I hate to waste the writing time trying to think of something to say. So here's what came out.
Squealing, they are. Separate, together, singly many. Darting, they are, herky-jerky bodies in motion. Hard and cold, this is. Bumply black with yellow lines around which they shriek and holler. Cold, it is. Colors, they sound and boing around, orange balls like heads pushed and shoved, kicked and caught. Across the way, the smaller ones, infants, they are. Hatchlings, learning to fly. Soft, woody, the landing pad for hatchlings. Yes. My own hatchlings would land softly there. These small ones are afraid, never let go. Curious, they are. How will they learn to fly? Jangling, loud and cold. Primitive, they are. A call to order, it is. Darting and shrieking again, and cold, their essences alight inthe atmosphere, little breath-puffs of life riding out on their laughter as they arrange themselves, smallest to largest, and stand still.
