Creative Response: Keep Moving, by Haley Petcher

Dear Classmates,

I didn’t necessarily pick this piece because it is my favorite of the two. I do like this piece, specifically the two main characters, Margaret and Oliver, but I think a few places need a lot of work. I think I’m happiest with how I portrayed them through their actions and small gestures.

I have a few areas I’m concerned about, though. Here are a few of my questions:

• Is it clear what she does to help and why she’s at the bombed site? I tried adding more information.

• Does the Stephen Crane bit work? I tried fixing it, but I still feel like it sounds awkward. I need something like it there, though. Margaret originally made more of a joke, and I had a stronger connection to the poem, but it didn’t fit. I do kind of want to “feel” of the poem in part of the scene.

• What can I do to make the last lines stronger? I’m struggling.

Thanks for your time!

Haley

P.S.—This is the poem I originally tried to use:

                          I saw a man pursuing the horizon;

                          Round and round they sped.

                          I was disturbed at this;

                          I accosted the man.

                          “It is futile,” I said,

                          “You can never—”

                          “You lie,” he cried,

                          And ran on.

                          —Stephen Crane

Keep Moving

                  

           It wasn’t the sun beating down on her but the lack of sun that made her weary. The sky was thick with grey clouds and ash. London, particularly wartime London, was different from her quiet city in Alabama, which she left only a few weeks ago. It was partially this difference and partially the strain—both emotional and physical—of her work that made her weary. In the days she nursed the living, but at night she sometimes carried the dead.

Since she was on the run, she had stolen a teacup from the hospital. She sipped her tea as she walked from the hospital to her next job at the nearest bombed site, and she cringed. She would never get used to this world. Her job schedules generally didn’t overlap. Margaret surveyed the scene. What was once an apartment building and a shop with an apartment was now rubble, like the remains of an ancient city found during an archeological dig. She could not make out the rest.

“Do you mind talking to that young man over there?” her boss said. “His mum and dad died. We thought he was part of the rubble until we found him underneath a steel table hidden by debris.”

            The young man sat hunched over with a blanket around him. He was gray—like chalk—from the ash. He looked about him as she approached but quickly returned his gaze to the edges of his blanket. He picked the fuzz off and flicked it onto the rubble.

            “Hello, I’m Margaret.” She down next to him. He didn’t look up. “What’s your name?”

            “Oliver,” he said and pointed to his ID bracelet. “Mum made me wear it. I told her I’m not a girl,” he said with a chuckle, “and that I’d just become a soldier when I turn eighteen next month. But she still used up too much money to buy it.”

            “I’m sure she just didn’t want to lose you.”

            He scrunched up his face like a rabbit. “Didn’t help her much, in the end. Still lost me.”

            She nodded, and they sat in silence. Another sip of tea caused her to cringe. Some members of her team took inventory of the bodies found. Others heaved pieces of brick walls from the street and sidewalk so that people could pass by. They walked to and fro like ants.

            “Look, can I help?” Oliver asked. “I’m strong. I can move bricks, no problem. As soon as they found me, they gave me this towel and forced me to sit down. I don’t need you to babysit me.”

            “Better that you rest.”

            “Soldiers don’t rest,” he said. “They find ways to stop bombs like this one.” He sniffed and wiped his nose with his sleeve.

            “They try.”

            Again they sat in silence—watching, and trying not to watch.

            “Do you want my cup of tea? Y’all make it too bitter for me. I like it sweeter.” Margaret moved her mug in Oliver’s direction. Oliver nodded.

            “I like it bitter. My mum was making tea. Before the sirens went off.” He rattled his identification bracelet absentmindedly. “Mum said hope was in tea. And answers. I looked, but I never found any,” Oliver said, flashing a crooked smile.

            “It would be nice to find answers in a cup of tea. Britain would have won the war by now.” Margaret mirrored his tone.

            “Do you think we will? Win, I mean,” Margaret said.

            “Yes,” Oliver sipped his tea. “No. I don’t know. At least if I was fighting I would be doing something.”

            “Yes, something.”

            Oliver tapped his foot to a four-beat rhythm. He tapped his fingers on the mug. He looked toward the sky.

Margaret thought back to when she first arrived at her aunt’s home in London.

            “I’m hoping to hear about my younger brother,” Margaret had said. “He was in England when the war started and volunteered as an ambulance driver, but he’s missing.” Her aunt raised her eyebrows. “He liked A Farewell to Arms for all of the wrong reasons. He had to do something,” Margaret had explained.

            “It is futile,” her aunt had said. “You won’t find him.”

            “It’s not futile,’” Margaret had said. She had thought of Stephen Crane when her aunt said “futile.” “I’ll run on regardless.” A nervous chuckle. A loud swallow.

            “What you are really looking for is out of reach,” her aunt had said.

            Margaret looked at Oliver, still tapping his toes and rattling his identification bracelet, and stood up. She pulled the towel from him and used it to wipe the ash from his face.

            “I’ve changed my mind,” Margaret said. “Forget resting, we should keep moving. Help me carry the rubble. Some of it’s too heavy for me to carry alone. Besides, I can’t take hearing you tap your toes for much longer. ”

Creative Response, by Carson Laye

Dear Classmates,

I am happy with the progress I made between this response and my first one.  I feel that I did a better job of describing my setting, and balancing the description and the dialogue so that there is not an overwhelming amount of either.  That being said, if there are any place where you feel there should be more or less description or dialogue, please let me know.

I tried to apply our craft lesson and use dialogue that had a duel purpose, but I don't know how successful I was in doing so.  Please let me know if you see places where I either was able to do this, or places where I could do this.  

I also tried to keep it vague as to why Liz so desperately wanted space to breathe, because I felt that it added some interest to the piece by leaving the reader to wonder and speculate as to what made Liz feel this way.  Let me know if you think I should keep the piece this way, or if it would be better to expand it and include a reason for her wanting space.

Any other suggestions or comment would be appreciated.

Thank you,

Carson Laye

Space to Breathe

            “Let’s get out of here. We’ve been stuck inside all day and I just need a break from all of this,” Alison exclaimed, breaking the quiet trance that had descended upon the room.  The window at the far end painted an enticing picture of green grass and fragrant flower beds packed full of coordinating tulips and pansies; large trees rose above it all, providing a canopy through which warm sunlight filtered.  The tranquil scene was a welcome contrast to the stark dorm room in which Alison and Liz had been studying in for the past three hours.  Somehow the small, rectangular room housed two twin beds and two small tiny desks attached to a slightly bigger wardrobe overflowing with clothes that could not been contained by the limited shelving.  Every piece of furniture in the room served to form a tunnel to the window through which an expansive garden beckoned.  To Alison and Liz, the walls of the room were a suffocating prison compared to the ivy covered walls that marked the end of the garden outside. 

“Yes, please!” Liz replied, snapping her computer shut and leaping from her bed.  Alison joined her and in a flurry of make-up and clothes, the two girls were ready.  They set off eagerly thundering down the stairs pausing only to open doors. 

“Where do you want to go?” inquired Alison.

“Anywhere. I just needed get out of that room! I swear sometimes it gets hard to breathe in there!”

“I know what you mean. Let’s go to the park.  The fresh air might do us some good after breathing in all the dust from that old room.”

“Why are there so many people here? It’s strange how many people come to the park on the weekend.  It’s so different from back home,” said Liz fiddling with her purse strap while her eyes darted around the park.

“It’s not that bad. Come on there’s some space over there, we can lay out and soak in the sun,” Alison replied.  Liz plodded along behind her to the small break in people, where the two laid down their belongings and stretched out on the grass.  As Liz lay back, she became aware of several things.  First, the grass beneath her, while plush, was actually quite itchy if it encountered any bare skin.  Liz squirmed around trying to shift her clothing around so no skin was exposed to the grass’s assault.  Second, the sun while bright, was surprisingly pleasant and just the right temperature to provide warmth without causing her to sweat. Third, and most importantly, the park was anything but tranquil. 

“Mum, I want to feed the ducks!” a young boy shrilled.

“He’s got to sort that mess out,” said a man.

“No, I am not going to dinner with them again last time was a disaster!” a young woman insisted to her companion.

“And then he said, ‘Turn me over I’m done on this side!’” chortled an older man.

RRRRNNNN WEEHOO WEEHOO. The sirens of some emergency vehicle could be heard in the distance.  The high pitched sound of a dog yapping at the birds could be heard much closer.  All of these sounds joined together to form a cacophony that pressed down on Liz suffocating her. 

‘I’ve got to get out of here,’ Liz thought, as she jerked upright grasping not only for peace, but breath.

“What’s wrong?” Alison asked.

“I…I can’t stay here…I’ve…I’ve got to go”

“Where will you go? Do you need me to come with you?”

“No! I…I think I’ll just go back to the room. I really only needed a short break, I’m sure I’ll be fine in there now,” Liz replied.  She scrambled to gather her belongings before quickly scurrying through the obstacle course of couples, families, and birds.  Breaking free of the crowd, Liz practically ran for the comfort of her dorm room.  Retracing her earlier path, Liz was once again seeking the same promise of peace.  Finally flinging open the door to her room, the once oppressive space seemed to offer the answer Liz’s overwhelming need for peace.  Liz eased herself onto her bed and looked once again to the window.  What had once looked like a beckoning paradise, now served her better as a relaxing picture to escape into from the safety of her bed.  As Liz closed her eyes and lay back, she pictured herself in that garden with only the soothing chirping of birds and the whistling of the wind to disturb her.  In the small, rectangular room, Liz lay down and breathed.  

Creative Response, by Kate Appelbaum

Author's note:
I'm happy with the metaphors I'm using, but do they make sense? How can I explain better who the alligator actually is? I know if I had more pages I could continue on to explain, but is there a way I can do that with our page restriction?

Is it clear who is speaking and when?

I'm very much more of a poetry writer so my stories tend to sound too abstract if I find a good metaphor and run with it, so I mostly just need advice on how to make it easier to understand.
--Kate

Story:
I think he's an alligator. Yea, that's what he is. Sordid, slimy, scaly, greedy-green, and full-blooded American. And low, low, low to the ground. Useless creatures alligators are. What purpose do they serve but to lurk?

If he's an alligator then that must make me a turtle. Tiny, timid, torpid, sagaciously-speckled, and purely fresh. Hard on the outside, but with one toothy crack my mushy insides become the vulnerable prey.

But somehow he swallowed me whole. No breaks in my shell, just a swift, scooping attack from behind. After all, turtles always come to the surface when we spit into the creek water. They're easily tricked and teased. No nourishment for turtles- just excess and emptiness from human glands meant to break down the enzymes. Little turtle enzyme hopes and wishes.

"Miss?"

And after the turtles are left with a bubbling swell of disappointment, an alligator grazes by and the turtle falls into his dark and hollow belly, never to be seen again and then the other turtles lose all their turtle trust and--"Miss!"

"Sorry, yes?"

"Miss, the park is closing now you have to go."

"I thought this park closed at sunset?"

"It does. The sun set 20 minutes ago."

"Oh. Alright I'm sorry I'll leave now." I always offer my little timid turtle apologies that I never mean and I'm involuntarily migrated because I've overstayed my welcome.

And if he's an alligator, his kind is ancient--a timeless predator. That's why the turtles adapted and made their shells harder and harder with each learned lesson. But the alligators have so many teeth and they've grown sharper and sharper with each learned lesson. And so it will always continue--the vicious cycles of predator and prey adaptation. I'll always be the helpless prey.

"Ray?"

Why was I even made a turtle? Why wasn't I made a bird? I could swoop and circle the alligators, teasing their taste buds and the only way they'd be able to snatch me is if I got too close. I'd be in control though.

"Ray, are you done yet? I'm really hungry"

"Sorry, I'm sorry. How long have I been talking?"

"Like, a really long time. Mom has called me six times because dinner is ready. But you've just gone off on your tangent for like, five days."

"Sorry, I just get caught up. Let's cross here and we'll move quicker now."

"Besides, you're not a turtle. You're a butterfly...but you used to be an ugly caterpillar!"

"Thanks Jack." He anticipated my usual swift kick to his backside, but somewhere in there was a truth and a compliment, so he just tripped himself.

He's such a good kid. Jack is the best brother a turtle could ask for. He'll probably be a turtle too, though. But for now he's just the smartest and kindest twelve year old animal embryo. He could be an alligator, or even something else; but I can already see his mushy insides growing a shell.

We crossed the footbridge across the creek. The security guard watched us wind around the bend to where the lamps stop and we pushed open the iron gate to the street.

"Where is that alligator now, anyway?" Jack kicked a rock across the road and looked up at me out of the corner of his eye.

6/6: Off to the British Library! (But first, some notes about workshop)

You'll be uploading a revised Creative Response (either one you've turned in, or something inspired by one of the prompts we've tackled in class) on Monday, 6/10. Please do so by 11:00 a.m. Your CR for workshop should be preceded by an Author's Note, in which you explain to your readers what inspired the work, what you think is succeeding in the piece, and most importantly, what you are struggling with.

A sample Author's Note looks like this:

Dear Fellow Classmates, 

            I am really proud of this chapter. I focused much more on Jason’s feelings and really allowed the reader to get to know him in this chapter. I feel like there’s much more description and overall concrete setting throughout. The relationship between Natalie and Jason is definitely heightened a way in this chapter that is both a deeper progression of their bond as friends and a progression of their romantic relationship—without being obvious at all from Natalie’s end and being subtle from Jason’s end. I wanted to make it seem like not even Jason realizes how he feels about her yet [did I accomplish this?]. 

            Also, I’m proud of myself for undertaking a scene of violence between two men. But this is also an area of concern—is it too much? Is the description confusing? Is it trite? Mostly, my concerns lie in how the chapter ends, as brought on by the scene of violence. 

            And again, pace is always an issue for me. I feel like this chapter is well paced, but I am biased because I, of course, wrote it and it also therefore is on a slower pace for me.         

   

            Are you all feeling comfortable with the romantic relationship between Natalie and Jason even through they’re not-blood cousins because she’s adopted? [For a clue in—I revised the first chapter in a way that portrays Natalie as a recent adoptee of 13 months to Jason’s family.] 

            Thank you for reading and I appreciate your constructive criticism. 

            Fondly, Alyson

For Tuesday, we will be workshopping the following people's work:

• Kate 
• Caroline
• Ellen
• Scott
• Cara
• Melissa
• Mallory
• Carson
• Morgan

For Thursday, we will workshop:

• Angela
• Marjorie
• Allie
• Haley
• Patrick
• Tyler
• Zach
• Jill

In preparation for Tuesday, please read the CRs of the folks listed for that day, and leave a thoughtful comment for each writer.

A good comment looks like this:

Emily,

Once again, your story has set up a fun and loveable tone that I’m sure parents and children alike will adore. It’s very cutesy and I love how you are starting to add more depth to each of the characters with their different interactions. Good work!

I want to see more interaction with Laurel and her grandparents. We got such a strong feeling from them in the first chapter and here in the second there is hardly any interaction. I felt like the grandmother whould have reacted when Laurel came downstairs wearing the weird clothing because she doesn’t approve of the kids.

Again, I wanted to see more interaction with the cat. I want the cat to get Laurel in trouble or to cause an awkward interaction/situation between Laurel and Lennon. Maybe kitty starts cornbreading on Lennon’s pants and rips holes?

The scene in the sheep pasture was very well written. You involved almost all of the senses and I felt like I could almost taste the morning air tainted with wet sheep and poop. Beautifully country and awesome. Keep up the descriptions like that!

I enjoy reading what you write, it’s nice to have a story where all the kids aren’t bent on proving they are damaged and hurting. I like the innocence.

Looking forward to discussion! Thanks for sharing your art.

Best,
Cary

Remember that you receive a grade for workshop participation. This includes uploading your piece on time, writing a thoughtful author's note and thoughtful comments for each of your classmates, and verbally participating during the workshop in class.

Also, take note that your short story first draft is due on 6/11. This could make for a very busy and frustrating Monday evening for you if you find yourself composing/commenting. To that end, I'd get that draft done before Monday morning. Just a suggestion.

Your CR #3 will be a revision of the CR you will workshop in class. You'll write a new author's note for me, detailing what you changed/kept, and how the workshop affected the revision. You'll print out the revised CR and author's note and turn that in on 6/18.

As for the British Library today, we'll be viewing some of the literary treasures there, then taking time to work on our short stories. You can write quietly, share your work with a peer and get some feedback that way, find me and chat about the piece. Any of these options are fine. I do hope the library inspires, and provides comfort, if not "strange comfort." ;)

6/3 "Strange Comfort Afforded by the Profession," Malcolm Lowry, Keats and Negative Capability

1) About Malcolm Lowry

"No silk cushion youth for me."

Lowry's epitaph, which he wrote himself:

Malcolm Lowry
Late of the Bowery
His prose was flowery
And often glowery
He lived, nightly, and drank, daily,
And died playing the ukulele.

Documentary

2) About "Strange Comfort Afforded by the Profession"

 Lowry on the character of Sigbjorn Wilderness:

“Essentially a humble fellow, he has tried his hardest all his life to understand (though maybe still not hard enough) so that his room is full of Partisan Reviews, Kenyon Reviews, Minotaurs, Poetry mags, Horizons, even old Dials, of whose contents he is able to make out precisely nothing, save where an occasional contribution of his own, years and years ago, rings a faint bell in his mind, a bell that is growing even fainter, because to tell the truth he can no longer understand his own early work either.”

 How the story lives on in new ways...

3) Things to remember about "useful objects," which are usually:

• portable (smaller than a breadbox)
• inanimate
• tangible
• without explicit symbolic meaning

(with thanks to Michael Byers for the definition)

The "Significant Objects" project, and a story about a choirboy figurine.

How to make useful objects work in a story:

Write about an object that means something to a character.  Mention it briefly at first, nearly as an aside, then proceed with the primary conflict of your story.  Come to the object again, later, perhaps embedded in some sort of memory.  And in the end, when you're wrapping up the story, let that object take a final bow, and somehow, somehow, reveal its fullness of meaning to the character.

4) About "Negative Capability"

Keats' coining of the term "negative capability"--

I had not a dispute but a disquisition with Dilke, upon various subjects; several things dove-tailed in my mind, and at once it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.

 Beth Rushing, Dean at St. Mary's College in Maryland:

"...hope, and truth, and beauty [can be achieved] in the practice of negative capability, in listening patiently, having a certain level of comfort with uncertainty, and in recognizing that what appears to be given, is not necessarily so."

John Keats. 1795–1821

625. Ode on a Grecian Urn

THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape	5
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?	10
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave	15
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!	20
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!	25
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.	30
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore,	35
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.	40
O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!	45
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'

5) Practicing Negative Capability

Strange comforts afforded by....

Jeremy Bentham?!

Info on Bentham, whom you can go visit. 0_o

-->

Jeremy Bentham: After Death, Make

of me the Auto-Icon

--Ashley Parsons

A friend, a physician, shall do it.

Father-in-law to my brother

and a close family friend

even unto death and beyond

shall our relationship last.

Physician, see me

Open up my innermost heart

the workings of my tired body

gain from the husk of me

what use you can.

Then render me to nothing.

Bone, the scaffolding of my flesh,

skeleton exposed and all that remains

of me – save the head.

My head, could it be mummified?

If you can. Shrink it, draw the skin

taut over dry bone. A vessel

of desiccated tissue, the brain within,

nestled like the infant Moses

knocking in the reeds – my skull the basket.

Take me forward, ancients, with your

arcane skill, upon the vast barge

of this place in time, pacing us down

the Nile, river’s flow becomes

the past, mummification,

preservation – stems the tide.

Save me a place on the barge.

Keep me a place in your time.

Yes, if you can, mummify my head.

Then clothe me in wool

and silk – not gaudy – useful.

My own clothes over matchstick bones,

And stuff all with straw.

Kindle me a shape. Breathe on it.

Fire me to semblance of myself. Straw man,

And put my mummified head o’er all.

Wearing my own hair and my hat.

My walking stick beside me.  

In a cabinet shall I reside, leave me

not to the cold and the earth.

House me here. My scarecrow

my self-image. Call it my Auto-Icon.

Renaming is power. Not my remains,

but Jeremy Bentham’s Auto-Icon.

In the cabinet shall my Auto-Icon go

forward, so shall I look forward,

and not reside in the Palace of Regret,

the past, focusing on my failures

and the botched projects and

clumsy courships, broken hearts,

unfulfilled dreamings. No, lead me not

into the past, I entreat you.

Take me forward. Place me there

facing outwards. Make some small

use of me, of my body, and preserve

some part of who I have been.

On Thursday, we'll be going to the British Library to get in some quiet writing time, and take in some "strange comforts" among the literary treasures there. Please bring your notebooks/laptops and drafts of your short story to work on. And do peruse the British Library's website and get a sense of what you'd like to see.

Highlights of the British Library