Morning came too early and too cold as Carson fought against the scream in her muscles to get out of bed. Dressing through muscle memory with half-lidded eyes, she dragged a brush through her hair and zombie-walked outside in perfect timing for Colin to pull up in his mom’s Subaru. She tossed in her backpack and eased into the heated seat.
“Man,” she sighed, relishing the warmth travelling up from her backside, “These are hella tight.” Mmmhmm, Colin nodded earnestly as he checked for traffic before veering back into the street. She continued, “In ten minutes I’ll have convinced myself I peed my pants, but for now, heaven.” Pulling up to a stop sign, Colin gestured to the coffee cup in the cupholder at Carson’s knee. “My hero!” Carson squealed, kissing her hand and then smacking Colin’s shoulder. Curling around the steaming cup, she propped her feet on the dash and sunk even further into the passenger’s seat. “Sooooo,” Carson said, blowing absently into her coffee, “what’s up?” “Nope,” Colin replied, cranking the stereo, “After Bowie.” With an impatient groan, Carson open the waxed bag holding her fresh croissant. She tore off the first bite and tossed it at her friend, who expertly snatched it from the air without taking his eyes from the road, and she started to munch away as they moved towards school. Colin tapped his fingers against the steering wheel in rhythm with the music and adjusted his Buddy Holly-esque glasses at every stop sign and traffic signal. Clad in an earth tone plaid button down and well-fitted khakis, Colin did not look the part of the slam-dancing gutter punk enthusiast he was. The gauges in his earlobes, narrow though they were, would be the only indication to a stranger that Colin was anything but a vanilla square. Throw flip flops on the boy and he could’ve been plucked from a Dave Matthews concert. His attention to detail to avoid attention had long ago garnered him the nickname The Senator. Carson harbored a deep hope that Colin would, in fact, enter into politics, if only to give a platform to his remarkably well-researched and devoid-of-conspiracy-theory ideas about disassembling “the establishment” and creating a true equality of opportunity. He could truly become a twenty-first century Robin Hood if he wanted. David Bowie was still crooning about Mars as they pulled into the senior parking lot in front of the fine arts building. Colin threw the gear shift into park and turned in his seat to look at Carson head on before screwing his mouth to the side and huffing through his nose. “Ok,” Carson’s eyes got big, “What? You’re scaring me.” “Our buddy has a crush,” Colin sipped from his own cup, which Carson knew without knowing was hot chocolate with a shot of espresso. Uggghhh, she grumbled into her palms, fingertips curled into her hairline. After huffing her own sigh and taking a long pull from her coffee, she finally looked at Colin, “So you saw that, too?” “Oh, you know?” he asked, “How astute of you. So, will you talk to her for him?” “Huh?” Carson shook her head slightly as if trying to shake a veil of misunderstanding. “I know it’s kind of middle-school-ish, but you know how he--” “Wait,” she held her hand up, “Who are you talking about?” “Anna Marie.” “Anna Marie? My friend, Anna Marie? Anna Marie Baptiste, Anna Marie?” “Yeah,” it was Colin’s turn to lower his eyebrows in question, “What are you talking about?” “Nothing,” Carson waved off his inquiry, “Who has a crush on Anna Marie?” “Andrew. Who did you think I was talking about?” “Nobody. Nothing. You want me to do what?” “You know. Talk to her. Do whatever girl stuff you guys do. Make her see his handsome charm or whatever.” “Colin,” Carson laid her head back on the seat and closed her eyes, “What, exactly, about the past decade makes you think that I know how to do that?” “Oh yeah,” Colin chuckled, “Forget it. You’d definitely screw it up. Probably end up turning her against all men. Not into a lesbian, mind you, just totally asexual. Nun-like.” Carson landed a playful punch on Colin’s shoulder and spotted Holly sauntering towards the car in a gray peacoat, a floppy beret, and knee high leather boots that were more equestrian than rock-n-roll. Flowing blonde hair framed her rosy cheeks, which peaked into a grin when she made eye contact with Colin through the windshield. Carson kicked open the car door and gathered her belongings before swinging her legs out of the car, “I’ll talk to her. I mean, I’ll try my best.” “Word. Thanks, dude. Don’t be obvious.” “Me?!” Carson feigned offense as she exited the vehicle to make space for his girlfriend, “I’m totally a master of inconspicuous sneak...er...y...ism.” “Yeah,” Colin smirked, “and clearly a master of the English language, too.”
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What follows is a VERY necessary revision of the first scene from my major work. I received fantastic feedback from my new batch of Creative Writing students in the first Writers' Circle of the year. This revision is based on their feedback. The original scene was very cramped and inelegant, with characters simply appearing fully formed and way too many descriptions and convoluted sentence structures. I hope that this is clearer.
Whereas most of my other posts from this work are out of context, this opening scene should speak for itself. Carson burst from the club, spat out from cramped doors along with dozens of other leather-clad, spiked show-goers. She stomped of thighs devoid of bone and calves without muscle. The exertion of the show, between the kicking, skanking, and all around crowd-sanctioned brawling, left her buzzing with adrenalin but with little muscle endurance left to do anything about it. Only her faith in steel-toed Doc Martins punctuating her legs kept her upright and moving. Her breath, still labored and ragged, erupted from a busted lip into a cloud in the D.C. winter night. Steam rose in plumes from the bodies of the sweaty, panting youth around her. Scanning through the masses yelling to be heard over the damage done to their ears, Carson searched for any sign of her own group. But all she saw were the patched shoulders of those towering around her. She jostled her way to the curb, unconcerned with the bodies she hip-checked out of the way. Her bee-line path wasn’t likely to upset anyone around her anyway as the crowd slowly redefined natural expectations of personal space after the sardine-can experience of the last two hours. Reaching the curb, she was still surrounded by looming elbows and shoulders and glanced around for a solution to her height problem. Finding what she needed in a broken newspaper vending machine, she threw open the busted door, wedged a boot in the hinged opening, and hoisted her petite frame above the mohawks and liberty spikes topping the crowd around her. A scan around the intersection revealed the motley group of boys she sought. Her heart warmed upon seeing them and her stiff attitude of self-preservation loosened--she couldn’t help it. Anyone who didn’t know better might think they met each other in some online carpooling venture rather than in the oversized desks of a second grade classroom ten years prior. They held together in a loose pack and wore styles and attitudes as varied as the entire club of punks behind her. Two guys at the edge of the group worse leather jackets and were scream-singing and ogling at passers-by. Two others, one with a stiff mohawk and the other in a newsie cap, slap boxed with knees bent in wide stances. In between was an array of plaid and argyle, black and checkered, laughing and sneering. Exactly as each should be. Her boys. Smack in the middle of the group, the slender teen with dark hair one month into needing a cut caught her eye, and Carson thought she could see a physical lightening of his shoulders as his mouth grew a sideways grin and his head jerked in a beckoning gesture. In response, she quickly and with exaggerated facial expressions pantomimed stage-diving of the rusted metal of her perch into the roiling crowd between them. The boy smirked, slight dimples pressing into his cheeks. Satisfying with the reaction, Carson scurried in between darting bicycles and puffing cabs to cross the street, bound over the curb, and launch herself on an unsuspecting back towards the edge of the male group. Time - 1990s
Location - A New Planet Character - Knight Conflict - Lost Sir Galahad’s Excellent Adventure The suns were high and askew in the sky when Sir Galahad finally fell to his knees. The overlapping metal plates of armor at the joints sunk into the hot sand, crunching in a barely audible screech. The knight yanked his molten hot helmet from his head and tossed it down with a dull thud. If there had been a breeze, even the slightest whisper of moving air, his auburn locks would have danced about his head. It was not, however, windy, and the tresses clumped in wet strings around his face and down his neck. I’m not going to make it. Using both hands to shade his eyes from the two angles of the suns, Sir Galahad scanned the horizon. Nothing but desert greeted him back. Even the wreckage of his trusty intergalactic steed was no longer in sight. He was utterly, completely, hopelessly lost. Afraid that if he came to a total rest that he would not get moving again, the knight remained stiffly kneeling and reached for the saddlebags that were responsible for the indentation in the sand behind him tracing his journey so far. They felt lighter than they should be. That could only mean he was running out of water. He uncorked the bag with a satisfying pop and peeked winkingly into the bladder. Giving it a slosh before knocking back the contents into his ready mouth, Galahad reckoned there was about a liter left. Plenty for the day and night, but what about tomorrow? What about the next day? The next week? He hadn’t seen a single soul since crash landing on this miserable desert planet, and he certainly wasn’t holding his breath that someone would magically come along now. He finally allowed himself to rock back on his haunches, getting closer to accepting failure and subsequent death. When the knight's shiny rear end clanked against the scalloped metal of his feet, a different sort of clunking resonated underneath the metallic scraping of his armor touching. It was echoing and substantial. It was... Of course! How could I forget?! Tugging his hands free from their silver gauntlets, Sir Galahad pried the hip juncture of his armor with one hand while the other snaked inside. His brow furrowed and his tongue writhed, all while the fishing hand continued to dig below the sheets of his armor. With a triumphant grunt, he wrenched free, falling back on the hot sand and clutching the heavy gray case of a Game Boy. Of course! Galahad was practically giggling with glee as his shaking hands set to prying open the portable video game. Careful to keep the highly advanced circuit boards away from and out of the sand, Galahad chuckled to himself. Just like Geordi. It wouldn't be more than a couple hours before he could boost the energy to the output power and rewire the circuit series to his busted comm-link. With any luck, he'd be relaying his last known coordinates to the Round Table before darkness brought unknown evil to these dunes. I finally shared an excerpt from my on-going Major Work with my new Creative Writing class. There are some returning customers, but there are also a lot of new faces. No matter how many times I share my ideas in meetings, my lessons in front of students, or even songs in front of friends, it is always nerve-wracking to share my writing with a new set of ears. This post is an effort to introduce these new readers to the characters I've been living with and working on for a year.
As always, my apologies for it being totally out of context. After dusk had lingered in the junctures of tree limbs, and after the contents of the crock pot were ladled into matching bowls with oversized spoons, and after Carson’s parents had nodded smiling through Anna Marie’s updates with vicarious pride, the two teens collapsed onto Carson’s plush bed, sinking in with a collective groan of full bellies. The darkness that had settled outside belied the early hour on the clock. It would take an inappropriate number of sitcom episodes to wait out the hours before a suitable bedtime. “So,” Anna Marie stretched her long limbs to the corners of the bed, disregarding Carson’s body underneath hers, “what’s your cabinet up to tonight?” Anna Marie had always found clever ways to refer to Carson’s posse of boys. In elementary school, they had been a boy band. In middle school, when everything is sexual but no one is having sex, they were a harem. In early high school, the muppets, once they were old enough to embrace rather than be embarrassed by such a childish thing. Now, in the fray of constant studying for AP Government, they were her cabinet. Though, in reality, if Carson were to compile a group of trusted advisers, many of those fellas would not make the cut. “Something sufficiently asinine, I’m sure. Want to hang?” “Sure. Might as well make the most of my freedom while I’m out on furlough.” A few pecked out text messages revealed that everyone was at Parker’s house. His over-worked-nurse single mother and away-at-college older sister meant he had a basement to himself and the leniency to enjoy it. Every other weekend, his mom would work the 6pm to 6am shift, so, every other weekend, the gang convened at Parker’s for Team Fortress tournaments, Risk tournaments, beer pong tournaments, bong rip tournaments, tournament-creating tournaments...they were a competitive bunch. Carson traded her Chuck Taylors for lace-up boots and raided the hall closet to layer her and Anna Marie in sweaters, scarves, and hats in preparation for the half-mile trek to Parker’s. She also secured the records for David in between her t-shirt and zip up hoodie layers, a little bulky but barely noticeable after she finished piling on clothes.They’d decided to walk even though her dad insisted she could drive, some delusion he held regarding how his own childhood in New England meant that she somehow inherited an innate ability to drive in inclement weather despite only fleeting opportunities to practice. If Anna Marie’s wide eyes weren’t enough to convince her, then her mother’s instantaneous nail-biting was enough to seal the deal. They hollered farewells over their shoulders and exited the house with her dad’s protestations following after them. Something about how this is actually the safest time to drive because all the idiot bozos would be scared off by a couple flurries that would be put to shame by a moderate case of dandruff. Those flurries had already accumulated a few inches, requiring high knees and sure steps to navigate around backyards and sidewalks to reach the walking path that connected the backend of most of the neighborhoods that sat between the highway at the parkway. They had an easier time once they reached the path, as the trees had shielded it from some of the snow. “I guess you better get used to this if you’re going to live in Philadelphia,” Carson mused, sticking out her tongue to catch a snowflake. “That’s still a big ‘if’, and I don’t think it’s any worse than here,” Anna Marie kicked at the powdery snow, causing a cloud that settled like a snow-globe, “Is it?” “How should I know?” “Because you know all the things.” “Hardly,” Carson’s voice adopted a tone more dour than she had intended. “Whoa, what’s up?” “Knowing facts and understanding things are totally different.” “Deep, bro. Deep.” Carson chuckled and shoulder-nudged her friend, “No, really. I’m starting to think that I don’t actually know shit.” “Carson, my dear,” Anna Marie pulled her hat off and held it to her chest in a flourish, “I do believe that is the smartest thing you’ve ever said.” Carson stooped to grab a handful of snow and tousled it into Anna Marie’s tight braids, jogging down the path to escape retaliation. A snowball to the back and a perilous slide on black ice brought a quick truce, and the pair continued their walk arm-in-arm. “So, have you processed?” Anna Marie asked a humming Carson. “Huh?” “Your end-of-night weirdness you were talking about earlier.” “Oh yeah. Um, not really.” “Want a processing pal?” “No, but thanks. It’s just too weird, and I’m probably making it up anyway. Mountains and molehills and all that.” “Well, just don’t ignore it. You are not typically a mountain-builder, sweets.” They took the right fork as the path split, and stomped through meager shrubs to emerge in a blanketed backyard. As they approached a backdoor tucked under a deck, they could hear the faint thump of music pierced with occasional roars of raucous laughter and what could equally be believed as derision or praise. Knowing the company, Carson figured it was probably a little bit of both. I prefer writing in the past tense, and many of my students agree that it is easier to stay in the same tense and build plot in the past tense. However, I ran into an issue with instilling tension and immediacy to a scene while maintaining that tense. It felt stale and flat. I wanted the reader to feel present in the high energy moment, but it took a lot of reconsidering, reworking, and rewriting. It is, of course, out of context, and the formatting is not what I intended.
Here's what I came up with: As if by cosmic intervention, a general silence fell over the room as the political talkers took a breath to process the latest bit of terrible, unbelievable data Colin had spouted, David and Garrett were deep in concentration over a game of rummy, and Carson was mid-sip. The Pennywise song faded and ended. A power chord rang out and a not-quite-melodic voice brought the room to a halt. I’ve met some people along the way Some of them split, some of them stay Voices sprung up in unison around the room Some of them walk, some walk on by I’ve got a few friends I’ll love till I die Cards fell scattered on the floor. Hands reached out to grip shoulders. From all these people I try to learn Some of them shine, some of them burn Eyes closed, and chins turned up. Faces stretched into knowing grins trying to be sneers. Some of them rise, some of them fall For good or bad, I’ve known them all The room exploded. Colin launched across the couch to tackle Andrew. Sea Bass kicked wild legs, arms swinging. Carson’s knees bent, and she leaped over upturned folding chairs to land hard on the coffee table. Fist pumping and vocal chords straining, she was vaguely aware of Anna Marie’s wide eyes and tightly curled position. She knew this was a rude display of insider behavior, a ritual for the initiated to be performed at the expense of interlopers, even invited ones. But she knew her friend well enough to know that she would patiently take in the show like an anthropologist and survive the experience without hurt feelings and maybe even with a calm awareness of her superior maturity and development. We live our life in our own way Never really listen to what they say She felt a tug at her wrist and turned to see Mark with a reckless, ravenous, beckoning gaze. She tossed him her now-empty can and jumped in a twist to land on the roiling pile of her friends. The kind of faith that doesn’t fade away We are the true believers By the final, crunchy chord, the temperature in the room had risen several sweaty degrees, and red, grinning faces exchanged glances full of affection. Parker spun the volume down on the stereo that had been cranked near max. Anna Marie shook with amused giggles, still taking in the room with wide eyes. P.S. Thank you to the Bouncing Souls for the lyrics. Getting the timbre and cadance of authentic voices can be a real challenge for writers. I have often, and with gusto, leaned on the side of scene-building and description rather than tackling an extended conversation between two or more characters. I think that this can be difficult because we write from our heads and often alone. I've been trying to incorporate more dialogue into my work, and below is the most ambitious attempt taken seriously out of context from a longer piece:
“I forgot you used to do that gymnastics thing,” Colin drawled. “Eight years”, Carson plucked tiny splinters from her palms. “Why’d you stop?” “Oh, I don’t know,” Carson sighed, “It was expensive. I didn’t really like it anymore.” “Your parents paid for your brother’s private buffoon lessons for a decade,” Colin pointed out, “I’m sure it wasn’t a money thing.” “It was bassoon lessons,” Carson corrected with a giggle, “and, I guess, I mostly just stopped having fun with it.” “Why?” Colin picked at fuzz balls on the couch. Carson leaned to the side to get a better view of him, “You’re just full of questions today, Inquizitive Ian.” Colin chuckled, “I guess,” he gazed back at her through heavy lids, “Are you afraid of them, Sidestep Sally?” Carson glued her attention to the just-for-show fireplace, “Let’s just say I lost interest” “No, let’s just say more.” “Why are you busting my balls, dude?” Colin merely held her gaze and waited. Carson broke first and looked back at the fascinating fireplace, memorizing the layout of bricks. “It was all girls.” Mmmhmm. “Girls are terrible.” Mmmmm. “They were catty and competitive. They hated me. They were--” “How do you know that?” “What?” Carson cut eyes at Colin. “How do you know they hated you?” Back to the fireplace, “They never talked to me. They’d go out for fro-yo after practice and never invite me. You just know when people think they’re better than you.” Hmmm. “Stop doing that!” Carson’s eruption garnered the brief attention of the room, but they quickly turned back to their tasks at hand. “I wonder why it makes you uncomfortable” Colin mused. She was ready with a retort, “Because you’re not Sigmund effing Freud, you weirdo. And I’m not your patient.” “No, you’re certainly not patient.” Colin deflected the gentle punch she threw his way. “Well my diagnosis --” “Your unsolicited diagnosis,” Carson interrupted. “My unsolicited diagnosis is that you have delusions of persecution. You imagine this warfare, this me-versus-them dire battle, when really people don’t care about you at all.” “Wow. Thanks a lot.” Carson plucked her iPod from off the stereo and started scrolling through bands in search of a mood change. Change your soundtrack to change your mood. Foolproof tactic. “You know I don’t mean me,” Colin dipped his head in an attempt to catch her eye, “Or any of us,” he encompassed the room in a sweeping gesture. “Yeah, whatever,” Carson grumbled. “We love you,” Colin started burrowing into the crook between her neck and her shoulder, right into the gaping smile of a Misfits skull, “We looove you,” he repeated in increasing, though muffled, volume. The rest of the room took up the chant and zombie-walked towards her. We looove you. We looove you. They started piling onto her, Colin, the couch arms and back, whatever surface would hold their collective mass, until she was thoroughly buried under five teenage boys and all their teenage boy smells. Cheap body spray cologne, cigarette smoke, a tinge of body odor, and Cheeto breath. I have my students work on longer pieces that they continue to revisit and revise throughout the year. While shorter, daily prompts provide novelty and can hone target skills, nothing is better preparation for the life of a writer than sticking with something for an extended time. I am working on a longer piece of my own, coming back to an old idea I first started when I was a creative writing student in high school myself. I, of course, have changed my views on the characters, theme, and purpose of the whole thing, but I'm excited to reflect on those changes.
Here's the beginning, or, at least, what I wrote first: Carson stumbled out of the club, spat out from the too-small doors along with dozens of other leather-clad, spiked, and studded show-goers. She stomped on thighs and calves devoid of bone, only her absolute faith in the steel-toed Doc Martins punctuating her legs kept her upright and moving. The exertion of the show, between the kicking, slam dancing, skanking, fist pumping, and all around crowd-sanctioned brawling, left her buzzing with adrenalin but with zero muscle endurance to do anything about it. Her breath, still labored and ragged, burst from her busted lip into an opaque cloud in the D.C. winter night. Steam rose in plumes from the bodies of the sweaty, panting youth. Scanning through the mass of teens and twenty-somethings yelling at friends to be heard over the damage done to their ears, Carson sought out any sign of her own group. She jostled to the curb, unconcerned with the bodies she hip-checked out of her way. She’d be lost in another layer of people before they’d look to see who shoved them, if they even looked at all. But with everyone redefining natural expectations of personal space after the sardine can experience of the past two hours, her bee-line path would likely go unnoticed. When she reached the curb and found the broken newspaper kiosk, she threw open the busted door, wedged a boot into the hinged opening, and hoisted her petite frame above the mohawks and liberty spikes topping the crowd around her. When gathering material for last year's literary magazine, I encouraged students not only to search through their best pieces to find good fits for our theme, but also to find inspiration in our section titles to create new pieces. I almost always tell students to title a work well after it is complete, after they know where the idea takes them, but it can also be an interesting exercise to work backwards, from title to substance. The following is one such piece I started then and continue to revisit.
Entrance Heels click against marble floors Pearlescent and pristine Hallowed slabs reverberate hollow snaps Don’t fall - Don’t fall - Don’t fall A staircase spans the length of the room A wide open mouth to swallow or regurgitate Handrails like thick ivy curl, seeking light, strangling Don’t fall - Don’t fall - Don’t fall Take the stairs one at a time, a truncated gait Arms and legs have lost syncopation Branches no longer communicate with the trunk Don’t fall - Don’t fall - Don’t fall Pay attention to your face Soften the grimace, bevel the edges Leech grace from the elegant floors Don’t fall - Don’t fall - Don’t fall Breathe in out in out Climb stairs carved out like notches, like teeth Cling with the toes and amble up and on and up Don’t fall - Don’t fall - Don’t fall Don’t forget who you are Don’t let them tell you why you’re here Don’t drop your gaze or speak from the top of your throat Don’t fall I dragged my hands down my cheeks, eyelids pulling down to expose the white of my eyes as empty as my mind. A weary growl escaped my mouth and garnered the attention of a student. I shared my frustration with the utter lack of inspiration I was experiencing. She said, "Write about me!!" I hope she doesn't regret that gleeful cry...
The Young Writer The young writer’s hands hover over the keyboard, twitching slightly in anticipation of the next idea. If you watch carefully enough, you can see the moment the idea lands. The proverbial light bulb illuminating. The pupils enlarge with a sharp intake of breath, the right side of the mouth ascends to an acute angle, and the fingers fly across the keyboard in an attempt to land the elusive idea. The idea, like an insect, dips and thrusts, and the fingers flail about like the disgruntled fast food worker tasked with swatting it. Such furious haste means the backspace is smashed more than any other key, but the idea is caged. The young writer is safe to release a jagged breath, de-escalating to a not-quite reverie. She will not be caught unawares when the next idea comes buzzing. Ah, the perilous "Free Write." Student writers loathe the barbed wire confines of a structured poem, rage against the inspiration vacuum of the prompt, and generally detest guidance. BUT give them an opportunity for freedom and they waffle, cower, and procrastinate. Freedom can be paralyzing. If you don't believe me, Sylvia Plath would like to talk to you about figs...
In the spirit of getting ideas out on paper (or screens), I jotted out the below poem. I've had this idea floating around me for a while. The following is cursory attempt to snatch at it. It's not quite right, but it's something. Now, at least, I know what my idea is not. Dancing is an Old Man's Game Young people dance with their feet planted so firmly on the ground Gyrations or fist pumps, yes But no matter the branches swaying Those roots don’t budge an inch Feet shoulder-width apart As if about to deadlift cold metal So serious and so concerned About their bodies and others’ bodies and what to do with their hands But you don’t dance with your hands Or your arms or even your hips It is your feet that kick-step-kick-step Your thighs that challenge a partner’s space Your calves that thrust you upwards as you push the earth down Old people dance with gliding feet Partners in conversation without moving their mouths Or their hands Or their arms For they know that it’s the feet that do the work Flair is not substance And twerking is not dancing |
AuthorMs. Jopling teaches English at Broadway High School, eats an unseemly amount of cheese, and laughs as often as possible. Archives
November 2017
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