Our final assignment for this class was to write a reflective essay answering our guiding question: Why do writers write? Throughout the quarter, this question was in the back of our minds with every in-class guest speaker and external reading assignment we completed. This essay was a nice chance for me to reflect on my learning throughout the course and think about why it is that I care so much about producing scribbles on a page. It allowed me to reflect on storytelling as an art and as an aspect of the human experience. Why Do Writers Write?
In his lecture on ‘mythos-minded’ thinking, David Bosworth made the claim that: “the stories we write are metaphors in motion. Even in this scientific age, we remain a storytelling species” (Bosworth, 1/31/19). This to me is the foundation of why writers write. We write because telling stories is a human impulse, one of the oldest we have, and language is the most versatile tool at our disposal. Stories have always been our way of connecting with each other and the world around us. Our identities are composed of stories: about our childhoods, our relationships, our adventures. Every human being is a storyteller. Writers just take that impulse a step further, in preserving our stories through words on the page. In his essay “Into the Wardrobe, into the Self,” author Lev Grossman writes of C. S. Lewis, “That’s the kind of writer I aspire to be: one that helps the reader make that seamless passage, from the real world to the land of fantasy, from real life to the realm of reading” (Grossman189). Grossman’s description is in reference to his experience of reading Lewis’ fiction, but I feel that a similar sentiment gives writers their power. A writer could drown themselves in barrels of advice on craft, story structure, form of a poem, but the best writers truly aspire towards the moment when the rest of the world falls away and all that is left is the story in motion. I feel that writers write in order to chase this state of enrapture, the moments that, as Bosworth suggests, are so fundamentally human. However, writers don’t write only for themselves. Azar Nafisi states in her essay “Enough About Me:” “If I love a book, it first strikes my heart. The mind comes in later… you need that initial emotional link” (Nafisi 292). To me, it is that fragile thread of connection, from author to story, from story to audience, that has kept us a storytelling species all these thousands of years. In our stories, we find kinship. We seek reflections of ourselves. We also find connections with others – stories are one of our greatest instruments for fostering empathy. Through reading and writing alike, writers attempt to comprehend and reproduce all our many unique ways of experiencing the world. As Angela Flournoy says, “(Writing is) hard, when you’re worried about representation, or whether or not you have the right. But at a certain point, you have to be kind to yourself as a writer, and trust your own motives.” No writer is perfect. Language is an insufficient tool to represent the human experience. But as writers, we can try. If one story, or scene, or even sentence is able to connect with someone, remind that one person that they are not alone in our crowded and lonely world, that is a writer’s greatest purpose. Writing is a difficult craft. Putting a pen to the page, or fingertips to a keyboard again and again can be a grueling chore. But stories are important enough that they’ve endured these millennia, spent decades transfixing our species. Stories are the memories that outlive all of us, and writers are the craftsmen and warriors that guard these. We write because it is our impulse, our nature, but also our legacy, the fingerprints we smudge on the swirling coffee mug of our world.
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My final short creative writing assignment for this class was based on the identity of the speaker and subject of a literary work. This was the only poem I ended up writing for this class! Though I was very pleased with my final poem, my professor did point out that I didn't really accomplish the task of including 'secrets' - an improvement I might need to make if I ever were to revise this. However, I had a lot of fun experimenting with the prompts I was given and combining them into a coherent piece. Epistle14 line poem (short! but you've got to pack a lot in) Write an epistle: a poem in the form of a letter. In the epistolary tradition, the reader is looking in on a correspondence that isn't meant for them, so play with this secrecy. You can write a letter from someone in any sort of intimate relationship to the other person in that relationship (lovers, spouses, best friends, siblings, parent-child, etc). You'll fill it full of secrets only the recipient of the letter would know, BUT the relationship (its nature, its tone, its status) should NOT be completely opaque to the reader. By the poem's end, the reader should have a good basic sense of what that relationship is like, even though they won't know exactly what all the secrets refer to. Both the speaker and recipient of this poem/letter may be you, anyone you know (unless they're a member of this class), or any one you invent. Begin with responding all 13 prompts below in a list. Then put at least 7 of these pieces together in order to make your poem, of course adding other material as necessary. See below this list for other expectations and suggestions. Epistle Poem:
A Poem For My Future Child Inspired by Sarah Kay’s “B” (or “If I Should Have A Daughter”) To my little chick, hidden away, not yet emergent, When you are born, your eyes will be planets, reflecting the depths of the universe: Moon-starer, they’ll call you, my young astronomer, a child of the stars. Chickadee, small and sweet, your feathers speckled like the freckles of your cheeks, Already, you are my heart break, dream by day, mare by night. The fears I will whisper form smoke and ribbons, this dark lullaby keeping me from cradling you close. Do you remember these midnight secrets I braided into your hair? Darling, I am a craftsman, a storyteller, a worrier, and too much a child – I am apt to forget to remember[1]that you are not Icarus; no tragedy is written in your stars. “Tous les enfants, sauf un, grandissent,”[2]but you are not Peter Pan, trapped forever in Neverland, that place between stars, in need of a mother to guide you home. Someday, I will realize that the finger paint and glitter glue I’ve given you has given way to creation, and the frame of the wings you’ve built yourself will send a shadow over the sun, and You will spread your wings and take flight, (m)y love. The sky (a)waits your (ma)gnificence. [1]Line adapted from “[anyone lived in a pretty how town]”, by e. e. cummings [2]“All children, except one, grow up”, the first line from J. M. Barrie’s Peter Pan. This was our third writing project for this class. (I am noticing a trend in my writing assignments: so far, out of three options, I've chosen the fiction option every time...) I absolutely adore fairy tales, and so the chance to do a modern retelling of one of my favorites, the story of Scheherazade from One Thousand and One Nights, was an opportunity I jumped at. One component of all these in-class writing assignments has also been to provide peer reviews to other students in the class on the rough drafts of their work. I've done peer revision before, and value the chance to both receive feedback on my work and to explore opportunities for improvement in someone else's. I was faced with a particularly challenging piece of writing to edit for this prompt: it stretched my ability to provide positive and constructive feedback on a story I noticed a lot of faults in. I think this experience stretched me as a writer and editor for the future! Mythos-Minded Thinking
500 words, fiction
A Story of Home “I know a thousand tales, to fill a thousand nights.” They’re going to separate us come morning. It’s hard enough to place individual children in the system, harder still when they’re older and brown-skinned and weepy, like Dinah. Or quarrelsome, like me. But tonight, I don’t scorn my sister’s tears. Instead, I pull her close on the mattress beside me; breathe her achingly familiar scent, spice and roses, and press my forehead to hers. “Zadie,” she murmurs, her small voice piercing this purgatory of a shelter. “Will you tell a story?” The only thing that can lull my little sister to sleep is the worlds we visit between dreams and waking. Though Dinah loves our tales, I’m the creator, the queen of who lives and dies, who gets a happily-ever-after. I know I’m not a benevolent ruler. On nights I’m cross with Dinah, we share no adventure. I feel a pang in my gut when I picture my sister sniffling her way to sleep, alone. Before I can answer, the echo of footsteps infiltrates our secluded bubble. It’s Shahryar, our caseworker. I don’t know what powers-that-be thought he should work with the screw-ups that are foster kids, but whenever some foster mom shouts herself hoarse over my fights at school, or Dinah holes herself up, unspeaking, in the corner of her classroom for days, it’s Shahryar’s slash of a scowl that greets us on the doorstep. Somehow, this godforsaken shelter assigned him the night shift. I see his shadow in the doorway, listening. But even Shahryar won’t spoil my final night with my sister. Gently, I twine one of Dinah’s curls round my finger, and begin our whispered tale. I’m never certain what will happen in our story, but the one thing I ensure is that it never finishes. No tidy conclusion, never over and done. What else do Dinah and I have to build together? But tonight is an ending of so many sorts. Before I can approach a stopping point, I feel the pinpricks of tears well in my eyes. No. Dinah’s the one who cries. I can’t – I mustn’t. I’m so focused on banishing the lump in my throat that I don't realize I’ve stopped speaking until I hear Shahryar’s footsteps approaching our bed. My tears vanish, replaced by the cold fury I know so well. “What?” I challenge, a shout in the darkness. “Have the two of you always told stories together?” His voice is softer than I’ve ever heard, his accented words a balm instead of a knife. I don't answer. Dinah buries her face in my shoulder. “When I was young and just arrived in this country, my brother would whisper to me just as you do. Stories of home,” says Shahryar. “He was my protector. You remind me of him.” His weight vanishes from the foot of our bed, and my tears return, floodwaters rushing, and there’s not enough workers building my dam. A small sob escapes. I taste salt on my tongue. Dinah’s chapped fingers squeeze my hand. There’s a long silence, and I think Shahryar’s gone, but the deep hum of his voice resonates once more. “I’m watching out for you two. Like he did for me. Family belongs together.” The door shuts behind him. That was the night Dinah and I realized we’d found a home after all. This was our second creative writing project we completed for this class, going through stages of rough drafting, revision, and final drafting. I decided to expand upon a location - Avis - I had created mentally for a larger project, but had never gotten to explore on the page. This assignment was a joy for me, and I was pleased with both the final project and the feedback I received from my instructor. Imaginary City300 words, fiction
Aviary Noun: a large cage, building, or enclosure for keeping birds in – and other creatures out. The first thing that strikes me is that the city appears to be floating, strung up in the space between cliff-sides. Avis is a city on guard, isolated in its suspension, and I must be cautious. As I approach, I try to steady my quivering breath, but my lungs are dizzied by the wind that whips through the canyon – sharp and cold, so distant from the pine and crackling embers of home. My mouth tastes of copper, and I know I have bitten my tongue, but I force my shoulders back, even as a flutter beats on in my chest. Everywhere are the glints and gleams of shiny things. The rooftops reflect the watery sunlight like mirrors, and the cobblestones glow in the rich tones of gemstones. The citizens here care only for the appearance of things. Even the economy reflects this – the value of items is entirely based on the sheen of their surface. But even though it’s all a façade, it’s hard to deny the splendor. I try to drift down the lanes as the Avisians around me appear to. I have to stay alert - my friends are depending on it – but there is no silence in a city like Avis. It’s a place built on noise and bustle, but I feel the ominous beam of beady eyes and razor beaks around every corner. The rustle of feathers drowns out all that is gentle here. Squawks mask silent screams. There is danger here for outsiders like me – if I am discovered. The people of Avis protect what is theirs: their goods, their customs, even their stories, and I am the thief they scorn. It is these stories the city conceals behind golden archways and bittersweet nectars in silver decanters. Avis holds the story of my past, my friends – our origins. I am desperate enough for answers that I risk detection in this city of talons. Plus, is it really thievery,I ask myself, as glitter wafting from a market stall tickles my cheeks, my nose, if it was never theirs to hoard? This was my first creative writing assignment for my writing lecture series class. The assignment description is as follows. I was very proud of this piece - a spark of inspiration struck me when I was writing it, and I feel it turned out well. Making the Unreal Real
Children of Shadow I awake to the sooty taste of ash in my mouth and I know that the shadow children have visited. The shadow children revel in darkness, so when day spears its rays into their realm, they come to burn our nights away in fiery glory. I glimpsed them once, as a child myself shaken from nightmares by a rustle and the smell of smoke. They were alight with dark energy, with dancing obsidian fingers that beckoned through the blackness. Each gesture rang with the pure note of a bell, coupled with the crackle of flames. I remember stretching my fingertips to brush theirs, startled at the gentle warmth emanating from such a figure. Their glittering onyx eyes gleamed, reflecting back my own wide-eyed gaze. We each were sheltered by the innocence of childhood. The difference was that they were not afraid. I yearned to leap from my twisted covers and join in their revelry, twirl with them as they leapt through the starlight, buoyed by night’s biting wind, but cloaked in the warmth of their protection. I knew with them, I would never come to harm. But I felt the shiver of blazing breath on my cheeks that I knew was their parting embrace, and my eyelids fluttered, and the next thing I knew, sunlight crept through my window and my mouth tasted of ash. There was soot on my fingertips. I was alone once more. But since that night, I have found that I have nothing to fear from the dark and the shadows. I can drift into dreams without being startled awake by nightmares. I know, that as I slumber, the shadow children watch over me. Though figures of darkness, they are all the best and brightest parts of ourselves. |
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