Where I’m From

I have used this prompt with various populations: inmates in a women’s prison, veterans, grief groups, new and experienced writers. It is one of my favorites, and never fails to generate strong writing from the participants. Read “Where I’m From,” by George Ella Lyon, and begin your writing with the words “I am from….”

Because I have written to this prompt numerous times, this session I offered two alternatives. The first: fill in the blanks on a worksheet based on the poem. (I will post the second alternative in a separate post.) You can download a similar worksheet here.

***

I am from a basement Ping-Pong table,
a boarded-up fireplace
and a bedroom shared with my brother.
I am from a deep front porch, red bricks
surrounding all who shelter there.
I am from the magnolia tree, flowers
fading as soon as they bloom, and the neighbors’
window I can see into at night.

I am from peanut-butter-and-butter sandwiches
and dishes done by hand, from
Jesus loves me, this I know,
and the adventures of Stuart Little.
I’m from Stop crying or I’ll give you something
to cry about, and Say God is love
when you skin your knee.
From You’re not the boss of me and
Do you want to learn through your ears or your butt?
I’m from the Little House books
and riding a bike no-handed.
I’m from the cinder-paved playground
my sister’s silly songs
and never enough time to read.
From decorating the Christmas tree
and macaroni and cheese for every birthday.

I am from Bob and Linda, Mom and Dad, Bryan and Susie,
stories spun from the moments I remember–
whether they happened or not.

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Spring Workshop Dates

Spring is a time of renewal and fresh starts. Animals that hibernate through the cold months begin to emerge from their nests and burrows, in search of company and food. Humans, too, shed their heavy winter coats, and seek their own form of sustenance. If writing feeds your creative soul, consider attending a Sunset Coast Writers workshop–new groups begin on the first day of spring!

Sunset Coast Writers will offer two workshops in the spring session:

Monday 6:30-9:00 pm (March 21-May 9, 2011)

Thursday 1:00-3:30 pm (March 24-May 12, 2011)

Sunset Coast Writers’ workshops are open to writers of all genres and levels of experience. No outside writing is required: we write together in response to prompts I offer, and then read our work aloud, following the Amherst Writers & Artists method. Those who have been a part of the workshops call them inspiring, motivating, helpful, and fun. If you’ve always wanted to write, want to return to writing, or are looking for writers to write with, consider making a Sunset Coast Writers Workshop part of the new season.

Visit the about and workshops pages for more information.

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Where is the Rain Heading?

This prompt was stolen (er, borrowed) from The Catalyst, a blog maintained by AWA leader Chris DeLorenzo of San Francisco.

Write in response to the list of weather-related terms culled from the Weather Channel.

I wrote:

Does the rain know where it’s heading? Does it have a compass, a pocket-sized atlas, or even a GPS? Does rain ever stop, or does it, like Shane, keep moving onward, never settling down, following the call of the open road, the next adventure, the unreachable horizon?

I picture rain as a closely-huddled group of tourists, moving forward in fits and starts with much consultation among the raindrops: Is it this way? No, this. Are you certain? I thought for sure…

I see the rain in a trench coat buttoned tightly, collar turned up against itself, the brim of a fedora darkening in the weather.

Some rains blow through town like bandits in an old Western, astride plunging steeds whose eyes roll with madness from the burdens they bear, guns blazing, leaving the townsfolk to pick up the debris and wonder what just happened.

Other rains tiptoe down the window, darting out of sight should it catch you watching, bashful at being seen.

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Mangle Me This, Tootsie

The prompt: Choose 2 words at random from the dictionary. Use the first word as the first word of your piece, and the second word as the last word of your piece. Our words: mangle and tootsie.

“Mangle that Valentine, Buster, and I’m gonna belt you one.”

“I’m not doing anything! I’m just looking at it.”

“Well, stop it.”

“It’s a free country. I can look if I want to.”

“Mom!”

“Buster, stop bothering your sister.”

“I’m not doing anything! Why do you always blame me for everything? I get blamed for every darn thing that goes on around here.”

“Don’t say ‘darn,’ or I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.”

“Darn’s not a swear word, Ma. Matt Dillon said it on TV.”

“I don’t care who says it. It’s a stand-in for the other D-word, and you mean a swear by it. Thoughts matter, young man, and I won’t have the neighbors saying I’m raising a pack of heathens. What did you just say?”

“Nothing, Ma.”

“He said, ‘Darn, darn, darn,’ Ma.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“You kids knock it off or I’ll wash both of your mouths out with soap.”

“Why me? Buster started it.”

“I don’t care who started it, I’m gonna finish it. One more word out of you, young lady, and you can put all that stuff away. I’ts almost time for dinner, anyway.”

“But Ma, I gotta finish these. Miss Patterson said we had to bring a Valentine for everyone in the class.”

“Well, you better not be getting glitter all over the floor.”

“I’m not! Geez, Ma.”

“What did you say?”

“She said, ‘Geez.’”

“That’s it. I’m getting the soap. And not the Ivory, either.”

“But, Ma–”

“Don’t you sass me, or you’ll go straight to bed without supper, Tootsie!”

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To Whom It May Concern

The prompt: write a formal letter of complaint to your deepest, darkest fear.

October 8, 2010

Fear of Being Laughed At
Department of Looking Stupid
Worrying Too Much What Other People Think, Inc.

To whom it may concern:

I am writing to you today regarding a lifetime’s subjugation to the fear of looking stupid, sub-catagory: fear of being laughed at. After fifty years, this fear continues to operate as efficiently as if its constituent parts and features–embarrassment, humiliation, exposure, blushes, and, yes, tears–were brand-new. In fact, it sometimes seems that this fear of being laughed at/looking stupid works better now than when first installed.

This is unacceptable.

It is this very reliability that makes the fear of being laughed at/looking stupid a health hazard. Frankly, I’m surprised that you have not already been sued for damages inflicted to self-esteem, ego, and potential. Do you have any idea of the things I have avoided doing because of you? Singing where anyone could hear me. Dancing. Writing. Saying “I love you” when it might have made a difference. Saying “I love you” when it wouldn’t have changed a thing.

While we’re at it, let’s talk about my fear of losing control–kissing cousin to the fear of being laughed at/looking stupid–which requires–requires!–me to be in control at all times. I must avoid any and all situations in which the unexpected might occur. Surprise is anathema.

Thanks to you, someone is always watching. I am always watching, always vigilant, always less than I could be, my light perpetually basketed, lest someone find it/me laughable/stupid.

I really must insist that you accept the return of this paralyzing gelotophobia–which, by the way,  I never wanted in the first place. As it was a gift, handed down through countless generations of my family–along both matrilineal and patrilineal lines–I do not have the receipt. Regardless, I feel certain that you will find a way to make restitution.

I look forward to your prompt attention to this matter.

Barbara

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God Went to the Movies

The prompt: read “God Went to Beauty School” (below), then begin your writing with the words “God went to ____.” (Or ____ went to ____.)

This prompt generated some great pieces, most less irreverent than my own.

God Went to Beauty School
by Cynthia Rylant
He went there to learn how
to give a good perm
and ended up just crazy
about nails
so He opened up His own shop.
"Nails by Jim" He called it.
He was afraid to call it
Nails by God.
He was sure people would
think He was being
disrespectful and using
His own name in vain
and nobody would tip.
He got into nails, of course,
because He'd always loved
hands--
hands were some of the best things
He'd ever done
and this way He could just
hold one in His
and admire those delicate
bones just above the knuckles,
delicate as birds' wings,
and after He'd done that
awhile,
He could paint all the nails
any color He wanted,
then say,
"Beautiful,"
and mean it.

God went to the movies. He’d heard that Titanic was good. All the angels said so, and for once, even the archangels were in agreement. God likes to keep up with what his peeps are into, although it must be said that these days, what with the interntets and all, obsessions change so rapidly it makes even his head spin.

Oh, and by the way, he doesn’t capitalize any of the pronouns used to refer to…well, him. He doesn’t know how that got started, but it wasn’t his idea. He doesn’t really have a problem with it, and he does agree that capitalizing any of his many aliases is probably a good thing, he just thinks that maybe his creations are sucking up with that big ol’ capital H.

Anyway, he thought he’d pop down to Des Moines and take in the 7 o’clock showing. He’d have preferred a matinee. He gets up before daylight, you know, and pulling the sun up over the horizon is harder than it looks, what with the law of inertia and all that. It’s like trying to roust a fifteen-year-old on Monday mornings. That big ol’ ball of gas just wants to sleep for five more minutes, so they struck a deal: in the spring and summer, Sol gets up a minute earlier every day–without argument–in return for getting up a minute later every fall and winter day. It works out pretty well for them. Mornings are much more tolerable now, althought as I say, it is pretty hard to get the sun to rise and shine, even for God.

So, God would have liked to watch the movie, eat some popcorn, maybe suck down a Coke slurpee, and be home before dark, but thought he might be less noticeable in the evening crowd. Des Moines is not very diverse–though he knows they’ve tried–so he figured that one more old white guy would blend right in. And he did.

In the crush of romantics yearning for admission, he was just one more patron without a ticket. (He did feel a bit out of place, though, the only unescorted male in the line that snaked from the Eden Mall Multi-plex entrance all the way to Applebee’s.) He considered pulling rank, but remembered just in time that when he had revealed himself to John Denver, he found himself locked into a three-picture deal with Warner Bros, and swore he’d never do that again.

The fact that he was the one and only deity in his party worked in his favor. The foursomes and couples ahead of him were unwilling to separated, and God got the very last seat. Which, of course, was in the very first row, where no one, even God, ever wants to sit. He scrunched down and stretched his legs out, grumbling a bit over not having a seat to put his feet up on, but he settled down once the Coming Attractions started.

As for the movie itself, he liked the special effects, and thought “Nearer my God, to Thee,” was a particularly nice touch. He wondered what his next-armrest neighbors (one of whom had apparently not learned much about sharing in kindergarten) would do if they knew how near to God they were, and got a fit of the giggles, which the usher came down to shush.

He was a lanky kid, gawky, with thin arms and bony shoulders. He pointed his flashlight at God. “I’ve got my eye on you,” he said.

“Me, too, Sparrow-boy,” God thought, but didn’t say. The usher retreated up the aisle, narrowing his eyes and raising his eyebrows meaningfully at God as he went.

God had every intention of sitting quietly, but after watching with increasing amazement as various characters got off and then back on the sinking ship, bellowed, “Oh, for the love of–” (remembering, at the last moment, to use the code name he sometimes employed among friends) “Pete! Will you just sink the dang thing, Jim? My Go–er, goodness, the real ship didn’t take this long to sink!”

He arrived home (earlier than expected), feeling smitey and set-up, and thought he should have known something was going on when all the angels and archangels were in agreement.

He entered his gates, muttering, “I bet I know whose idea this was. Me and Lucifer, we’re going to have us a long, long talk. I swear, that boy is just heading for a fall.”

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A Red Fib

Sometimes, at the end of a workshop session, we have a little time left over. Not enough to do a full writing session, but too much to just go home.  At those times, we write for five minutes, then read our work aloud with no comment from the group, sharing our words as gifts to one another.

The prompt: write about red, using words of one syllable.

Red, ripe swells of flesh, fresh from vine or plant, a warm day’s treat. Fruit from the fields, bursts the bounds of bag or box. Fills the hand, mends the heart.

Later, I learned about Fibonacci poems, also called “fibs.” Fibs consist (typically) of six lines, with each line containing the same number of syllables as the corresponding number in the Fibonacci sequence: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8.

red
swells
of flesh
fresh from vine
or plant–a warm day’s
treat–fruit fills the hand, mends the heart.

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(That I May Serve) Why I Do This

In the Veterans Writing Workshop yesterday morning, a gentleman asked why I was “doing this.” “This” being a free workshop for veterans. “I know you’re an unselfish person,” he said (not true; I don’t offer all my workshops for free, after all), “but I’m just wondering if you’d tell us why you’re doing this. The answer concerns me quite a bit.”

My first thought was, “Because I can.” Which is not untrue. But as I prepared to say that–with a self-deprecating smile and a head-tilt–a wave of emotion surprised and threatened to swamp me. One of the essential practices of an AWA workshop is that the leader takes the same risks as those she writes with. So I attempted to answer honestly, even if that meant risking tears.

I went to Virginia Tech.

Although Tech is a top-tier research institution, with a student population of 30,000 and a truly beautiful campus, and although Tech’s football team has been to a bowl game in every one of the last 17 seasons, for many people the words “Virginia Tech” conjure up scenes of unimaginable horror. What they may not know about is the incredible sense of community that existed before, and became stronger after, the events of April 16, 2007.

Many of those killed that day were dedicated volunteers. A number of service-based programs have been created in their honor. The university itself began an initiative to encourage, and in some cases facilitate, the efforts of students, faculty, staff, community members and alumni to truly embody Virginia Tech’s motto: ut prosim. That I may serve.

I don’t live in Blacksburg, Virginia, home of Virginia Tech, anymore. I was not part of the events, I am not part of the healing. This, in particular, grieves me. I can’t pack up and move back to the state I still call home, but what I can do, in my own community, is offer a safe place, once a month, for people to tell their stories. Whether those stories come from imagination or memory is not important. It doesn’t matter whether they’re poetry or prose, songs or plays. What does matter to me is that those who wish to write, do. That those who need permission to call themselves writers, receive it. That those writers recognize the strength of their own voices, the beauty and importance of the stories that are uniquely theirs to tell.

That is why I offer a writing workshop for veterans. That is why I offer every workshop.

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Scar

This summer I am leading a workshop for Lory’s Place, a grief healing and education center. In our first session I shared the poem “scar,” by Lucille Clifton.

scar

we will learn
to live together.

i will call you
ribbon of hunger
and desire
empty pocket flap
edge of before and after.

and you
what will you call me?

woman i ride
and who cannot throw me

and i will not fall off.
–Lucille Clifton

(The “edge of before and after.” Don’t you just love that?)

The prompt: Write, from imagination or memory or both, to or about a scar.

Dear scar on my back,

I missed your birthday. I forget exactly when it was–July 29? 27? July 25, that’s it. Or, wait. When did you come to be? On July 25, 1980, you were just torn flesh. When does a wound become a scar? When the stitches are removed? When the newly-adorned owner trusts that the edges of what was once unbroken will not spring loose?

Or was it when the last bits of shattered glass worked their way free a year after the accident? It was selfish of you to hoard them, souvenirs of your creation. Did you know that you were unwanted, and so sought comfort from those shiny fragments, rendering them, in the holding, significant and therefore precious? I do not remember–did not see–the other pieces of glass that broke my until-then-unbroken skin. I did not want to see, could not look, for fear the sight of blood–my blood–would shatter my fragile calm. I did not see the stitches.

But you, scar on my back, you I could not resist, twisting to devour your pink rawness in any mirror I could find. We had just met, but I knew we would be together for the rest of my life.

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The Amherst Writers & Artists Method

In a Sunset Coast Writers workshop, as in all workshops based on the Amhert Writers & Artists method, we write together in response to exercises and prompts. I use the word “we” deliberately; I write, too, following the same prompts and exercises. And I, too, read my work aloud afterward, taking the same risks I ask my writers to take.

For me, there is something magical about putting pen to paper in the presence of other writers, all of us beginning our solo journeys from the same point of origin. Often the pieces I write in workshop become the seed for a new essay, or find a home in a work in progress. More than once, I have found, through a 10 or 15-minute freewrite, an entrance into a subject I had been struggling to approach. And many times, those who listen to me read–and then respond with what they found strong and what they will remember–notice connections and symbolism that I was unaware of, and their comments become the origin of yet another journey. These responses are a gift, as is the honor and opportunity to listen to the work of others. One of my favorite moments in a workshop is when I ask, “Who would like to share what they’ve written,” and someone says, “I will.”

In this blog, I plan to share some of the prompts we have used, as well as what I wrote in response. Feel free to comment if you like, or to post your own writing. As I tell my writers: you are free to use the prompts in whatever way you like, and that includes ignoring them completely, in favor of whatever it is that you need or want to write.

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