Last Friday Writers during break, one of the gals was intently scrolling down her phone until she came upon an email she wanted to share with the group. While I certainly have my opinions about being read to via I-things and other mechanical stewards for reasons thousands, the listening experience—the receiving of the story—was not cheapened by its plastic bookends, as is my typical experience. In fact, au contraire mon frere; I hung on every digitized word as an amazingly moving story typed by a friend in grief unfolded so beautifully we may as well have been sitting around the campfire. When she finished, we all sat in reverent silence.
Then we begged to hear her response...what she had emailed back to the friend in grief... the continuation of the story. By then we were so drawn into the exchange, we would have waited forever to hear her reply read aloud, even if it came out of a Ouija Board, never mind a cell phone.
The hunger for human connection, especially through storytelling is encoded in our human genes. The most beautiful thing in the world about the invention of the alphabet is that at one time we hungered for that connection so deeply that we learned how to scrape letters from the forest floors, branches, skies and sunsets and string them into words. Did we do that to get a good grade in cave-making class? No. We did that because by expressing our stories, hopes, griefs, dreams, love, etc in words on paper (or cave walls) we knew there was a chance that those words may perhaps, perchance, be received by another. It blows my mind that we have moved so far from acknowledging and embracing this simple miracle.
I know I have. I know I send countless mindless texts and emails just because I can. I also know that I send countless mindful ones for the sheer pleasure of it. Pleasure? We never can really know where the words will tumble and fall on the page. We never know what unexpected hallways of memory will appear as we let loose on the page and follow the inky trail. We never know what emotions may linger just beneath the surface and which answers dance beneath that layer. We discover what we love, fear, and wish for, and how certain words and images feel as they move through the body and onto the page.
All this is to say that I am known to write epic emails, often overflowing with loving thoughts and poetic word play. Of course these raw writings are never consciously intended for publication, yet they remain the best writing I ever do, similar to the RAW WRITING we do in my classes. Your inner critic cannot find you in this sacred writing space, does not know how to survive here. (Rest assured it returns when you decide to publish or share the thing, but we'll deal with that later.)
Wanna see what I mean? Here's a line I wrote this week in a quick email of thanks to a friend: "Because in a rainstorm, the trees somehow know to bend and cradle the wild wind." I was talking about how we, as humans, imitate nature, especially in regards to how we "know" how to care for one another. It just came out of me. I don't know how or why. It just did. I'm sure if I prethought it, or wrote it in the context of publishing, it would have been out the door before I even thought it up. Now. I'm not at all saying this because I think it's such a striking line of literary art; I'm just saying it was the truest most effective way to express what I was trying to say.
Earlier in the email I had questioned the origin of my free spiritedness, given its anachronistic tendency to get me in trouble here in the Midwest. I won't quote myself again, but it had something to do with rings of a tree and the Hollywood bigtop.
So at the end of Friday Writers I got the bright idea that we ought to bring in and read any beautiful or moving emails/texts/notes/etc—either ones you wrote or received— to read aloud and share in class. So, this then is your prompt. What words of communication have surprised you in their raw beauty? Can be a note you found from long ago, yesterday's email, or maybe a text you've yet to send... This is sort of along the lines of "seeing beauty in everything," with a twist. I'd be jumping for joy to read any of these (of course with permission of any sender's). Or, you can post them at the, yes, really, blog, BEAUTIFUL EMAIL. (forgive me! I'm Link Happy!)
Sad, but true to think that in the not too distant future we will be waxing nostalgic over the days of long emails written and sent with the miracle of click and send. "It was too good to be true," we'll soon say between telepathic exchanges to our beloveds across the planets. Of course in the beginning I opposed email, perhaps for the the same reasons I now oppose Facebook, but I don't have anything against letters sent via post. Remember those?
And now... Click. Send. Connect?
WRITING WITH ROX weekly
Monday, April 23, 2012
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
WRITING WITH ROX WEEKLY PROMPT—TO SHOW OR TELL... THAT IS THE QUESTION
Show Confronts Tell*
"Shut-up! Just shut-up!" Show said throwing a plastic purple flower power ring at Tell. It was lite and didn't travel far. Wasted energy. Just like Tell, Show secretly realized.
"I'm telling you...." Tell began
"No, don't tell me! That's what I'm saying to you, don't tell me. Damn it. Just show me. For once just show me. Action man! Words, words, words are all you've got. I need you to take me there not tell me about it. I want to see it for myself." fin
Tell Fights Back**
Show was upset and told Tell to shut-up. Show was mad because Tell only told stories and never let Show experience the story. Tell tried to explain to Show but Show interrupted and threw a plastic purple flower power ring. It didn't hit Tell. fin
The ubiquitous "show verses tell" is all to familiar in the writing kingdom. Until the concept is introduced, many writers pass carefree days at the coffee shop, freely penning stories, poems, emails, and memoirs across the page, completely oblivious to the fact that one day, sooner than later, someone is going to come along and be a big old buzz kill. You, too, will soon be caught. When you least expect it, someone will come along and write largely in the margins of your story: SHOW! DON'T TELL!
But "hey!" you say, "what do you mean SHOW?" Que'est qu c'est SHOW?
Again, the all-capped response in your once white virgin margins: CAN YOU GO DEEPER HERE? LINGER? WHAT DOES "SCARED" LOOK LIKE? WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'SUMMER WAS HOT'? WHAT DOES "LUSTING" LOOK LIKE?
And then it dawns on you: The writing life as you know it is no more. Long gone are the days of writing just to hear the sound of your own memorysong flying around the cloudless page.
Of course, I am among those who unexpectedly take your whimsical word freedom to a dead halt in the middle of a steamy romance just seconds before the next article of clothing (or preposition) is about to come off. Indeed I'm the big Hollywood word-director calling out CUT! just when things are heating up.
But Why?
Why?
"WHY?"
Because I want more, baby. I want to know just how hot that room is and how much sweat is falling off your brow and how it changes the color of the moon when it splashes into your eyes and smears away all reason. I want to see, relive with you on the page, exactly what passion feels like, high on that swirly hill in St Cristobol de las Casas, Mexico. I want to hear the stray dogs. I want to love those Southern desert stars as much as you do. Take me there. Show me there. I want to go with.
So yeah. I am part of the "Show don't Tell" Word Police, lurking on the sidelines of your pages, waiting to pounce on every last misused telling or overly told showing. I am dedicated to eliminating perfunctory unfelt language that sacrifices truth in order to sound or look good. I will force you to write "I WILL NOT ENGAGE OF TELLING SMALL TALK OR PERFUNCTORY DETAILS ON THE PAGE" over and over and take away your pens and notebooks if you insist on telling me what I already know or for telling me in cliches. AND IF YOU THINK I'M CUCKOO, PRETTY PLEASE READ GEORGE ORWELL'S POLITICS AND THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE for more details.)
But, why why why? Because I care. Oh, because I so so so so care.
I care because I, too, once told. And oh, I kicked and screamed and defended my right to tell and tell and tell. I care because I used to spend hours telling you over and over just to make sure you understood me. I told you in case you missed anything. And I told you so you'd fall in love with me and my writing because I could use the words ubiquitous and avuncular and kudos in one sentence. (It's no surprise that I tend to point out the obvious in real life and hit you over the head until you see it just as I do, but that's another story and clearly not one for the page if I am to make my point here at all!)
Then one gray Seattle evening in 2000, a classmate wrote in really small green fine point ink letters "we know," accompanied by a small happy face beneath one of my sentences.
I was enrolled in a weekly night class in creative nonfiction at U-dub—the University of Washington. I had written a story about me and Ma and a disastrous retreat we took to the ends of the earth that ended in a major medical crisis. After several scenes depicting how I wasn't sure if I was going to live or die, I ended one sentence like this: "Truth is, I was scared to death," beside which my writing companion kindly wrote the aforementioned, "we know." :) She was kind. She could have written "no shit!" or "duh hickey" or "dude, we've been reading this entire story for eighteen pages... don't you think we like know you're scared?"
But Why?
Why?
"WHY?"
Because I want more, baby. I want to know just how hot that room is and how much sweat is falling off your brow and how it changes the color of the moon when it splashes into your eyes and smears away all reason. I want to see, relive with you on the page, exactly what passion feels like, high on that swirly hill in St Cristobol de las Casas, Mexico. I want to hear the stray dogs. I want to love those Southern desert stars as much as you do. Take me there. Show me there. I want to go with.
So yeah. I am part of the "Show don't Tell" Word Police, lurking on the sidelines of your pages, waiting to pounce on every last misused telling or overly told showing. I am dedicated to eliminating perfunctory unfelt language that sacrifices truth in order to sound or look good. I will force you to write "I WILL NOT ENGAGE OF TELLING SMALL TALK OR PERFUNCTORY DETAILS ON THE PAGE" over and over and take away your pens and notebooks if you insist on telling me what I already know or for telling me in cliches. AND IF YOU THINK I'M CUCKOO, PRETTY PLEASE READ GEORGE ORWELL'S POLITICS AND THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE for more details.)
But, why why why? Because I care. Oh, because I so so so so care.
I care because I, too, once told. And oh, I kicked and screamed and defended my right to tell and tell and tell. I care because I used to spend hours telling you over and over just to make sure you understood me. I told you in case you missed anything. And I told you so you'd fall in love with me and my writing because I could use the words ubiquitous and avuncular and kudos in one sentence. (It's no surprise that I tend to point out the obvious in real life and hit you over the head until you see it just as I do, but that's another story and clearly not one for the page if I am to make my point here at all!)
Then one gray Seattle evening in 2000, a classmate wrote in really small green fine point ink letters "we know," accompanied by a small happy face beneath one of my sentences.
I was enrolled in a weekly night class in creative nonfiction at U-dub—the University of Washington. I had written a story about me and Ma and a disastrous retreat we took to the ends of the earth that ended in a major medical crisis. After several scenes depicting how I wasn't sure if I was going to live or die, I ended one sentence like this: "Truth is, I was scared to death," beside which my writing companion kindly wrote the aforementioned, "we know." :) She was kind. She could have written "no shit!" or "duh hickey" or "dude, we've been reading this entire story for eighteen pages... don't you think we like know you're scared?"
Ooooooooooooooh. I see. I get it. Trust your reader. Don't tell us when you already just showed us.
Alas, the show v tell debacle remains one of the most controversial, confusing, and frustrating among writers. It's like the thing you are always aware of once you know it exists. However...
Of course it's really rather harmless. It's intended to make you a more confident writer and to trust in yourself and your story. And it's all about balance. There's nothing hard and fast about it other than write your truth, slow down, know that we are here reading and/or listening to your words because we want to be here and we want to see it all. If you went all the way to India and are writing about it, by God I've never been there, so show me everything. Get me to feel for you and whoever else is with you by showing me the color of the sky and what your expression looks like reflected in the Ganges. Show me enough so I can have a relationship with you as you relate to others on the page. Show me so I can really care. Show me so I can root for you and hope you fall in love and find your way home and rescue yourself.
PROMPT ONE in case I have totally lost you and you have no idea what I am talking about, how about a little bit of intuitive writing?: "Show me so I can... "(and keep going)
Alas, the show v tell debacle remains one of the most controversial, confusing, and frustrating among writers. It's like the thing you are always aware of once you know it exists. However...
Of course it's really rather harmless. It's intended to make you a more confident writer and to trust in yourself and your story. And it's all about balance. There's nothing hard and fast about it other than write your truth, slow down, know that we are here reading and/or listening to your words because we want to be here and we want to see it all. If you went all the way to India and are writing about it, by God I've never been there, so show me everything. Get me to feel for you and whoever else is with you by showing me the color of the sky and what your expression looks like reflected in the Ganges. Show me enough so I can have a relationship with you as you relate to others on the page. Show me so I can really care. Show me so I can root for you and hope you fall in love and find your way home and rescue yourself.
PROMPT ONE in case I have totally lost you and you have no idea what I am talking about, how about a little bit of intuitive writing?: "Show me so I can... "(and keep going)
*PROMT TWO, borrowed begged and stolen from a brilliant student in my Friday Writers** who came up with this amazing dialogue to illustrate the frustrating and ever elusive dynamic between showing and telling: (Create your own show v tell dialogue)
Show Confronts Tell
"Shut-up! Just shut-up!" Show said throwing a plastic purple flower power ring at Tell. It was lite and didn't travel far. Wasted energy. Just like Tell, Show secretly realized.
"I'm telling you...." Tell began
"No, don't tell me! That's what I'm saying to you, don't tell me. Damn it. Just show me. For once just show me. Action man! Words, words, words are all you've got. I need you to take me there not tell me about it. I want to see it for myself." fin
Tell Fights Back
Show was upset and told Tell to shut-up. Show was mad because Tell only told stories and never let Show experience the story. Tell tried to explain to Show but Show interrupted and threw a plastic purple flower power ring. It didn't hit Tell. fin
Monday, April 9, 2012
Writing with Rox Weekly Prompt—Pass-ster? East-Over?
Happy Monday after Easter and Passover! Is it Good Monday?
Saturday Jude and I were at Target rushing around to buy stuff for Passover (Saturday eve) and Easter (Sunday afternoon) and out of the blue he goes, "Easter is my favorite holiday, Mama."
"No it isn't," I say. What does he know from Easter?
"Yes it is," he insists, "And I love the Easter Bunny."
And I go, "No it isn't. No you don't." He must be really tired. "You're confusing the Easter Bunny with Santa," I say.
"But Mama, Easter is my favorite holiday." His little legs start pedaling under his familiar red plastic ride.
"Jude, it can't be your favorite holiday. We're Jewish."
"No we're not," he says.
"Yes we are," I say and stop in front of the apples. "Jude. Yes we are."
"I know that," he says. "But I still love Easter."
"Jude, what do you know from Easter?"
"What?"
"What is Easter? How do you know anything about Easter?" Is my memory really that bad? Did we do Easter last year?
Of course I am the one who must be really tired because I forget that he is a five year old American boy and it would not be unlikely if the Easter bunny hopped on over to his preschool this week. That would be to you and me el conejito de pascua.
Of course I am the one who is really tired because what do I expect him to say? Lucky for me, he doesn't ask what it means to be Jewish or what Passover is. Lucky for me, no one gives me a hard time when later that night after Seder and it comes time to look for the afikoman (the hidden matzo which kids hunt around for in exchange for loot, perhaps in lieu of Easter eggs, one might wonder) Jude joins in on the excitement with "Time to look for the matzo ball! Time to find the matzo ball!"
He never found the matzo ball.
And lucky for me that when it comes time to discuss the meaning of Passover round the seder table, the other five year olds know all the answers, which I find myself waiting for year after year and going, "oh yeah... that." I am also pleasantly reminded that these simplified answers are often the ones I most understand, the goldenest of answers, closer to the mouths of Gods that I'll ever come, what for their raw innocent light.
"See there, Jude?" I say, riding the tribal wave, "it's all about freedom."
"Okay!" he says. "Can I have some ice cream?"
Freedom to have ice cream.
The following afternoon, we go to his grandparents house and as soon as we sit down for Easter dinner, Grandma Rose says, "when you finish your dinner, we'll have to see what the Easter Bunny brought for you."
And today he shows them off, one giant pastel plastic egg at a time, closely inspecting their shiny candy contents over and over. He carefully pulls them out of his makeshift Easter basket, a small yellow shopping bag laced with fresh green soft St Louis Park spring grass and lays them out on the dining room table cracking open the colorful lot of jelly beans, stickers, and milk chocolate Kisses of all the finest foils, again and again, only to carefully refill them so he can do it all again... so he can relive the glorious moment of finding each and every carefully hidden one.
How did you explain Easter or Passover (or anything holiday) as a kid? What did you make up in your head about it? Or, if memory serves you not so well, how do your kids or the little people in your life interpret them? Or, how do you explain them?
I'm still not certain, so anything you share will be of great help and highly entertaining. If nothing else,
write about how you celebrated Easter as a kid and who the heck the Easter Bunny is.
Saturday Jude and I were at Target rushing around to buy stuff for Passover (Saturday eve) and Easter (Sunday afternoon) and out of the blue he goes, "Easter is my favorite holiday, Mama."
"No it isn't," I say. What does he know from Easter?
"Yes it is," he insists, "And I love the Easter Bunny."
And I go, "No it isn't. No you don't." He must be really tired. "You're confusing the Easter Bunny with Santa," I say.
"But Mama, Easter is my favorite holiday." His little legs start pedaling under his familiar red plastic ride.
"Jude, it can't be your favorite holiday. We're Jewish."
"No we're not," he says.
"Yes we are," I say and stop in front of the apples. "Jude. Yes we are."
"I know that," he says. "But I still love Easter."
"Jude, what do you know from Easter?"
"What?"
"What is Easter? How do you know anything about Easter?" Is my memory really that bad? Did we do Easter last year?
Of course I am the one who must be really tired because I forget that he is a five year old American boy and it would not be unlikely if the Easter bunny hopped on over to his preschool this week. That would be to you and me el conejito de pascua.
Of course I am the one who is really tired because what do I expect him to say? Lucky for me, he doesn't ask what it means to be Jewish or what Passover is. Lucky for me, no one gives me a hard time when later that night after Seder and it comes time to look for the afikoman (the hidden matzo which kids hunt around for in exchange for loot, perhaps in lieu of Easter eggs, one might wonder) Jude joins in on the excitement with "Time to look for the matzo ball! Time to find the matzo ball!"
He never found the matzo ball.
And lucky for me that when it comes time to discuss the meaning of Passover round the seder table, the other five year olds know all the answers, which I find myself waiting for year after year and going, "oh yeah... that." I am also pleasantly reminded that these simplified answers are often the ones I most understand, the goldenest of answers, closer to the mouths of Gods that I'll ever come, what for their raw innocent light.
"See there, Jude?" I say, riding the tribal wave, "it's all about freedom."
"Okay!" he says. "Can I have some ice cream?"
Freedom to have ice cream.
The following afternoon, we go to his grandparents house and as soon as we sit down for Easter dinner, Grandma Rose says, "when you finish your dinner, we'll have to see what the Easter Bunny brought for you."
And today he shows them off, one giant pastel plastic egg at a time, closely inspecting their shiny candy contents over and over. He carefully pulls them out of his makeshift Easter basket, a small yellow shopping bag laced with fresh green soft St Louis Park spring grass and lays them out on the dining room table cracking open the colorful lot of jelly beans, stickers, and milk chocolate Kisses of all the finest foils, again and again, only to carefully refill them so he can do it all again... so he can relive the glorious moment of finding each and every carefully hidden one.
How did you explain Easter or Passover (or anything holiday) as a kid? What did you make up in your head about it? Or, if memory serves you not so well, how do your kids or the little people in your life interpret them? Or, how do you explain them?
I'm still not certain, so anything you share will be of great help and highly entertaining. If nothing else,
write about how you celebrated Easter as a kid and who the heck the Easter Bunny is.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
PROMPT RERUNS—MAY 21, 2011
Good Evening!
I had a great prompt ready to go around six this evening when I sat down to send it off, but was delayed with Jude things, which led to watermelon, which led to delays in the backyard, which led to practicing non-judgment when accidentally overhearing my neighbors sitting in Cozies on their deck, which led to dandelions, which led to my second great prompt!
(No, "dandelions" is not the prompt, though it sure could be if you're all fired up... )
Actually, dandelions, the entire gulf of them, with their happy sunny heads, once again filled me with infinitely happy. This "happy" reminded me of way back in the late 90s when I lived in Seattle and my friend Nancy and I were going through a lot of hardtimes about the usual late-twenties hardtimes... and she came up with the great idea to keep a notebook of "happy things", which included the simplest of things, the barely noticed like: Beach Noise, the paper hamburger wrappers from Dick's, the basketball players at Green Lake, running your fingers through shiny pennies in a bowl, hardcandy, sweatpants, etc.......
So tell me about your happy things. Tell me a few and if a memory comes creeping in, see what happens if you follow that memory on the page... You may want to jumpstart your process with "Happy things are..." and remember to keep writing without stopping (no thinking/editing!) until you feel done. Enjoy. This one is a dandy (puns are happy things!)!
As always, thanks for sharing if you choose to do so and thanks to all of you who did so last week! I could really feel the love in those limbs!
Guess I'll have to wait a week to send out the original prompt that was born this morning while writing with my Thursday gals. (Writing with Thursday gals is yet another fine example of "happy things"!) If you can't wait until then, (how could you?!), come write with me! Check out my corkboard website writingwithrox.com and see all the writings-ons goin'. (I crack myself up).
Night-night, ("night-night" is happy things...)
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Writing with Rox Weekly Prompt—Magical Moments of Self Love
I have a new friend. She's one of those friends that I have known all my life; in fact, I'm fairly certain she is actually my dear soul sister friend from Connecticut who has secretly moved here to Minneapolis, changed her hair color, height, and life story. "Nance? Is that you?" I want to ask this new friend, to whom I relate on a cellular, preverbal level, whose ebb and flow is the mirror tide of mine, whose wild locky hair so deeply understands my own.
One of the reasons I am so enamored of this new friend is because she out of the blue drops things like the following into most of her emails: "hows your week going? any magical moments of self-love?" Of course, I speak this language. I know what she means. I know she is referring to the same dying war against old ancient renditions of myself that no longer serve me... or you... or anyone for that matter. I know she is really talking about having the courage to mindfully tune into what we love about ourselves and allow it. Allow ourselves to be surprised and delighted at the miracle of our own voice as it reads Dr Seuss to our little ones before bed, how the words, the rhythm and vibration and rhyme have the ability to actually massage our innermost deepest wounds. I know she is really asking if I have allowed myself to be my own seer... to truly see me the way I've always hungered to be seen. For isn't that love, really? To see and be seen?
Okay, maybe that's not exactly what she was asking, but I think she'd be willing to go with that interpretation. But, really, isn't that a mindset we could all stand to integrate?
A hundred years ago when I lived in Seattle, Nance and I sat across from each other at the Greenlake Starbucks on worn green leather couches at least one evening per week. We just sat there. Sometimes we wrote, sometimes we talked, but sometimes we just sat. Oh, I'm sure we talked about men troubles and being a writer troubles and how many calories in a muffin troubles, but it was our commitment to being together to "do whatever" at Starbucks that we were after. When I was really down, truly distraught, I was a manic whirlwind... I "had to" get up and do the dishes and run around the lake and put away clothes and write a list, or else... or else... "Or else what, Roxy?" Nance would say, now sitting steadily across from me on my couch. "There's nowhere to go, Roxy." And so we sat.
(She was wise beyond her years( (we were only 28).
Do we still do this? With screen time and places to go and people and stuff to Twitter, do we still do this? Do we still just sit with one another to feel the feel of company, specifically their company? A few weeks ago one of my students with whom I have been working on their incredibly page-turning, soul-wrenching, yet somehow also humorous-at- times childhood memoir asked me if I thought people came to write with me as much for the nurturing as for the writing, to which I replied absolutely and good for them. And good for you. And don't we all do that, really? Most of all, don't we seek good bedside manner behind every encounter we have? Would my wonderful writing family keep coming to the Beach and sitting around my table if I made them do writer's jumping jacks and treated them like the dictators at Iowa?
I'm not sure where or how these stories mesh or what prompt they inspire, but any way you care to respond would be most welcome (Here at the Beach we call this a "RESPONSE WRITE.")
Failing any response other than "Rox has gone over the edge", you could write about "Places/People Where or With Whom You Have Sat," and go from there. That oughta be a goldmine actually.
Hope to SIT and write with you soon, Rox
One of the reasons I am so enamored of this new friend is because she out of the blue drops things like the following into most of her emails: "hows your week going? any magical moments of self-love?" Of course, I speak this language. I know what she means. I know she is referring to the same dying war against old ancient renditions of myself that no longer serve me... or you... or anyone for that matter. I know she is really talking about having the courage to mindfully tune into what we love about ourselves and allow it. Allow ourselves to be surprised and delighted at the miracle of our own voice as it reads Dr Seuss to our little ones before bed, how the words, the rhythm and vibration and rhyme have the ability to actually massage our innermost deepest wounds. I know she is really asking if I have allowed myself to be my own seer... to truly see me the way I've always hungered to be seen. For isn't that love, really? To see and be seen?
Okay, maybe that's not exactly what she was asking, but I think she'd be willing to go with that interpretation. But, really, isn't that a mindset we could all stand to integrate?
A hundred years ago when I lived in Seattle, Nance and I sat across from each other at the Greenlake Starbucks on worn green leather couches at least one evening per week. We just sat there. Sometimes we wrote, sometimes we talked, but sometimes we just sat. Oh, I'm sure we talked about men troubles and being a writer troubles and how many calories in a muffin troubles, but it was our commitment to being together to "do whatever" at Starbucks that we were after. When I was really down, truly distraught, I was a manic whirlwind... I "had to" get up and do the dishes and run around the lake and put away clothes and write a list, or else... or else... "Or else what, Roxy?" Nance would say, now sitting steadily across from me on my couch. "There's nowhere to go, Roxy." And so we sat.
(She was wise beyond her years( (we were only 28).
Do we still do this? With screen time and places to go and people and stuff to Twitter, do we still do this? Do we still just sit with one another to feel the feel of company, specifically their company? A few weeks ago one of my students with whom I have been working on their incredibly page-turning, soul-wrenching, yet somehow also humorous-at- times childhood memoir asked me if I thought people came to write with me as much for the nurturing as for the writing, to which I replied absolutely and good for them. And good for you. And don't we all do that, really? Most of all, don't we seek good bedside manner behind every encounter we have? Would my wonderful writing family keep coming to the Beach and sitting around my table if I made them do writer's jumping jacks and treated them like the dictators at Iowa?
I'm not sure where or how these stories mesh or what prompt they inspire, but any way you care to respond would be most welcome (Here at the Beach we call this a "RESPONSE WRITE.")Failing any response other than "Rox has gone over the edge", you could write about "Places/People Where or With Whom You Have Sat," and go from there. That oughta be a goldmine actually.
Hope to SIT and write with you soon, Rox
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