Kiteley exercise 119

We talked about Jeremiads in my religious studies class once at CofC. They didn't seem nearly as damning as the way that Kiteley describes them, but let's be honest, I was probably too hung over to realize what they were all about. Anyhow, in this exercise (found in the Description section of his book), Kiteley wants the author to create their own Jeremiad. He urges shock and horror and disappointment. The twist here is that you're supposed to describe a situation that wouldn't normally be associated with sin and suffering. The scene is then, supposed to be viewed through an inappropriate lens. Word limit is 500.

I chose a day at the beach. The writing is definitely over the top. I think I have a future in fire&brimstone cult-ivation. Maybe I'll add a reference to the gays and perscription pills and submit this to the Church of Xenu.

The waves lapped at the smooth, white sand with an increasing lust, the ever voracious tide yearning to overtake the innocent land. Rather than run from such a wanton display of lust, the people seemed almost attracted to it. They stripped from their modest garments into scant swimsuits barely covering their most private of parts. Women and men alike ran to the shore and dipped in the unholy water, splashing and rollicking. Though the hot sand burned their feet, they felt impervious to the burning which should have ignited their consciences. Men threw Frisbees overhead, their muscles rippling enticingly to the women who lounged on towels. Children dug at the shore with shovels, creating graves for their parents’ unrepentant souls. The screeches of joy and howls of revelry matched the crashing waves and the resulting cacophony provided the backdrop for Satan’s favorite hymn.

A group of young men sat in a circle drinking and openly eyeing the feminine body that seemed so unwilling to cover itself. The sweltering heat caused sweat to roll down the men’s foreheads as they wrinkled their brows for a better look. The perspiration continued down their necks where their pulses quickened at a glimpse of what should’ve been hidden from their piercing eyes. Biceps tightened instinctively and the men’s base nature took over. Thoughts of survival of the fittest were the backdrop for the rest of their actions and they immediately began to swagger and brag.

“I banged that chick last night,” one said with a laugh.

“I am virile,” the women heard. Immediately they all shifted positions on their blankets, to expose that which was previously hidden. Immediately the men knew it was working.

The children played on, chasing seagulls as if to make a crude sacrifice with the winged creatures. But none of their attempts could save the depraved world in which they were born. Soon they would be active participants in the debauchery and sin. Their swim diapers would soon be replaced with bikinis and board shorts and the world would carry on in the downward tailspin it had already entered.

Gemma stood in the dunes, watching them cavort. Before too long, the wind kicked up the sand and she was forced to avert her eyes. She knew this was not an accident. She was wrong to watch such a thing and remain passive while these souls fried in the sun like an egg on concrete. But they would not listen to her. Their ears had long gone numb to the words of truth. Their eyes were permanently blinded from the glare of their iniquities. They would not listen to Gemma. And anyway, she had lost the will to tell them of their doom a very long time ago.

Buy Kiteley's book and do the exercise (found on page 157) for yourself!

Inspiration

I've been neglecting my writing. But never fear, I've been doing my research. The more I read of Nancy Lamb's book, the more I start to explore the works that have inspired me. And in light of the upcoming Spike Jonze adaptation of Where the Wild Things Are and the equally anticipated (at least by me!) Wes Anderson cinematic rendition of The Fantastic Mr. Fox -- I've been looking a lot at the books that I really looooved as a child. (And children's books I really looove now.)

Here they are, as a list, in no particular order.

• All the Harry Potter books by J.K. Rowling. She's a genuine genius in my eyes.
• The Witches, The B.F.G., and Matilda by Roald Dahl. His dark humor and the power he gives to children is something I aspire to.
• The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis. I recently re-read these books and found them a liiiiiiittle too laden in heavy religious symbolism. But that doesn't mean I didn't love them as a child.
• The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. Words can't describe it.
• Haroun and the Sea of Stories by Salman Rushdie. It is a tribute to pop culture, a political statement, and a children's fantasy all mixed up into one. Fantastic.
• Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak. I thought Max was such a bad boy as a kid.
• Mama Do You Love Me? by Barbara Joosse. That mama loved that girl.
• The Giving Tree, A Light in the Attic, and Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein. Another veritable genius.
• Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Patterson. I haven't seen the movie adaptation, but the commercials tell me it didn't do the book any justice.
• How the Grinch Stole Christmas by Dr. Seuss. I also loved Green Eggs and Ham, of course, but that Grinch allllways got me.
• Freak the Mighty by Rodman Philbrick. This book killed me. It kind of still does.

I'll add more later. But now I might want to write some my own. Funny how thinking about what you love makes you wish to do that thing better....

Kiteley exercise 137

Kiteley presented a number of quotes from some known authors and asked the writer to use them as a jumping off point for a short excerpt of fiction. This one is especially short on my part, don't know why. Won't worry about it, though.

The quote I picked comes from the amazing Ernest Hemingway. Call him a misogynist or an alcoholic. His writing still amazes me.



"One hot evening in Padua, they carried him up onto the roof and he could look out over the top of the town..." He sat perched above the city like a breathing gargoyle, his appearance not much softer than the monsters made of stone.

Umberto stayed with him but moved to a corner of the roof where he puffed thoughtfully on a cigar and ran his fingers along the brick walls, silently willing them to move.

Samuel had no such desires for walls to crumble. But the rooftops, he though, left much to be desired. No kindly old men delivering gifts, no beautiful maids bathing in the moonlight, no signals in the sky calling for a hero or heralding a savior.

The air was still and dry. Every now and again, a gust of wind hit him like the opening of an oven door, but otherwise nothing moved. After counting and then recounting tomatoes in the neighboring rooftop garden, he became aware of Umberto's labored breathing. His companion had finally succumbed to the heat and the night and perhaps would find a few hours of solace in his dreams.

Samuel resisted sleep. His dreams frequently carried him back to a life he'd never regain and sometimes he'd awake with a soft thud as if he'd almost been carried away from this reality. But this reality always set in. It came with the sun and brought traffic jams and burnt coffee.

He hated reality. Hated it almost as much as he dreaded those fleeting moments where he thought he might be freed from it.



This exact exercise is on page 177 of Kiteley's book. I encourage everybody to pick it up for him or herself.

Kiteley exercise 101

In today’s exercise, Kiteley asks the writer to speak as a ghost that is overwhelmed with the length of the afterlife or the intimacy that comes with it. I like the idea. I know I could have done it more justice, but here it is for now.

It was only shortly after I died that I realized I should have just walked toward that damn light. Chalk it up to fear of the unknown or a lack of drive, but I just wanted to stay where I was. But I couldn’t just stay there, it wasn’t allowed. After all, if I was meant to be alive, I’d be alive. So here I am, day after day, so far from the unknown that I’ve begun to hate what I know.

I know everything. Everything about everyone. Two nights after I died, I had to get out of my apartment. Janet’s mood alternated from suicidal to jubilant depending on what she had on the television. Though the intricacies of human emotion are not my strongpoint, I think most people would find it hard to understand how a grieving widow can turn off her pain by turning on the cable box.

It was then that I came to avoid my family and friends completely. I’ve always loved to have my own secrets and the idea that they can no longer keep theirs from me is not an avenue I want to explore. There is no give and take any more. I keep hidden while they pour their heart out to what they think is an empty room. How do voyeurs even perceive that what they are doing is exciting?

I’ve been doing a lot of sleeping on park benches these days. The vastness of space and the variety of people allows me to pretend that I’m not invisible. But I am invisible, no matter what. So I hear about the gossip, the butcher is dating the dog groomer and they’re both married. Her cousin is having a baby, his sister is having a lobotomy. It’s all here, inside my head, and I’ve got this to look forward to from now until the end of time. And when exactly will time end?

I’ve developed a fantastic habit for the melodramatic, in case you can’t tell. It’s not that I find myself to be any sadder or more serious now that I’m dead, quite the opposite. It’s dreadfully boring. Deadful is the word I’m using to describe it. I wish I could send that term to the folks at Merriam Webster.

dead-ful [ded-fuh-l] adj. extremely boring, causing great aimlessness, feeling of intimacy with strangers on park benches, derived from state of disenchantment that comes with death

If I could pick up a pen and paper, I’d write it down. If I could lick a stamp, I’d send it in. For now I’ll just head to the dry cleaners and see what kind of stains Rosalind has to combat this week.

The exact exercise can be found on p. 135 of Kiteley's book, I encourage anybody to pick up the book for his or herself.

The office

This is my parent's basement. I love it for some weird reason. Neon lighting, makeshift desk, and pipes all over the place. (Not to mention the old training potty box full of children's books and stuffed animals.)

Lamb chapter 6 exercise 2

Here, Lamb is stressing the importance of beginnings. The writer must create two paragraphs in which the character is about to meet somebody. Certain elements that she has outlined as crucial to the beginnings of stories for children ought be included:

Joanna walked past the entrance to the lane three or four times, checking her watch nervously with each pass. She had arrived twelve minutes early, and thought that such overwhelming punctuality might actually constitute an imposition. But she had been waiting for an eternity to meet him. That is, if you count three long months in the mind of an eleven-year-old as an eternity. And she did.

He was just a few houses down on the right. The big brick house with the burnt red shutters. Joanna had imagined that he would live in a home more modern, something that reflected his twenty-first century state-of-mind. But something in the traditional structure of his home comforted her. Maybe he could fix it all, cure her of this terrible memory and let her resume her life. That seemed like a lot to ask.

The exact exercise can be found on p. 42 of Lamb's book, I encourage anybody to pick up the book for his or herself.

Kiteley exercise 14

This exercise asks the writer to tell a 300 word story using only images.

Huddled in the back yard, Margot placed a small brick of discarded concrete on top of two small blocks of wood. The humble, makeshift altar barely stood above the layer of dead leaves that rose nearly to the ankles of her canvas sneakers. Above her head, the bare trees stood tall and thin, joining together at the very top to form a much larger altar on which the gray sky rested heavily. She pulled several items from her monogrammed purple backpack. A silver dollar, a blue rubber salamander with yellow stripes went on opposite ends of the monument. She then pulled out a wooden nesting doll in the shape of the penguin. With a determined pace, each doll was pulled from inside the other, reassembled, and placed on the concrete. One figure was missing, making the largest doll loom above the others.

Stepping back, Margot walked to the rusted shed and pulled out a wooden rake. From the handle, a splinter pierced the soft flesh of her hand. Leaning down, she put her teeth to her skin and extracted the sliver of dull wood. She pulled the sleeves of her gray cardigan over her hands and went over to the collection she had assembled. With little haste, she began to pile leaves on top of it. After twenty minutes of methodical raking, a large swath of dirt encircled the mound of leaves that now on top of the concrete memorial. Replacing the rake in the shed, she hastened back toward the house with the yellow siding. Margot knocked three times on the back door before stealing silently to the corner of the home. Fifteen seconds elapsed before a loud click and a heavy dragging sound signaled that the old man was sliding the glass door open. Margot shook a few crushed leaves out of the cuff of her blue jeans and turned to walk home.



The exact exercise can be found on p. 37 of Kiteley's book, I encourage anybody to pick up the book for his or herself.