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.

Kiteley exercise 49

Exercise Overview: Kiteley asks the writer to create a story in which a man and a woman are binary opposites, then you extract 2/3 what you've written and add in as much as you've taken out. Here's what I got.

Original Text

It was hard to define exactly what brought Maisie and James together. When standing together, she came just up to his shoulders and could just barely get her twiggy arms around his thick neck. Despite his physical bulk overwhelming her petite frame, her voice carried across the plains while he preferred to live his life quietly and with purpose. Where she was a talker, he was a doer. She wrote stories in her mind about love and conquest and what exactly her crazy old cat woman neighbor did at night. When she told James the stories, he wasn’t reproachful but instead shrugged his shoulders and went back to work. Oftentimes it was said that she brought a lighthearted happiness in the relationship and he was the anchor, though this seemed hardly fair. If she was to be the sun, that would make him the moon, and that just never seemed comfortable.

Maisie loved the Spring but James flourished in the fall. When she decorated their apartment with lilies, he sneezed in the corner from the accumulating pollen. As he took her on hikes through the park to admire the changing of the leaves, and just perhaps get a nostalgic glimpse of youth playing a haphazard game of football, she wrapped heavy scarves around her neck to keep out the chill.

They kept separate workspaces for weekend projects. James enjoyed the refuge of his garage workshop. Though there were tools for woodworking and home projects, he also kept a secret stash of archival New York Times crossword puzzles and had a DVD collection of various documentaries that he knew his better half would find outright boring. Maisie’s personal space was up in their attic, which was really more of a crawl space. She loved the glimpses of sunlight that shone through the small windows and the assortment of benign spiders that crawled along the exposed brick of her space. Her hobby room was a graveyard of long-forgotten projects. A sewing machine with bits of quilt work still draped above it, a corkboard with various notes from her ill-fated novel aspirations, and recipes in search of the perfect ice cream littered the area. She didn’t mind that her room was where hobbies went to die, but she cautiously avoided this graveyard of ideas after dark.

When they sat down to eat, all bets were off. He introduced her to the joys of a steak that was still red in the middle while she surreptitiously changed out his American cheese for all things smelly. His sweet tooth frequently invaded her love of the savory but together they avoided all things potato, for no apparent reason.

Minus 2/3

It was hard to define exactly what brought Maisie and James together. When standing together, she came just up to his shoulders. Her voice carried across the plains while he preferred to live his life quietly. She told stories of love and conquest and what exactly her crazy old cat woman neighbor did at night.

Maisie loved the spring but James flourished in the fall.

They kept separate workspaces for weekend projects. James enjoyed the refuge of his garage workshop. He also kept a secret stash of archival New York Times crossword puzzles and had a DVD collection of various documentaries. Maisie’s personal space, up in their attic, was really more of a crawl space. She didn’t mind that her room was where hobbies went to die, but she cautiously avoided this graveyard of ideas after dark.

When they sat down to eat, all bets were off. Together they avoided all things potato, for no apparent reason.

Rewrite

It was hard to define what exactly brought Maisie and James together. When standing next to one another, she came just up to his shoulders. To combat any awkward movements in public situations, she frequently wore high heels and he developed a slight, and quite unintentional, stoop. Another equalizing factor was the sheer amount of noise Maisie produced. When she so desired, her voice could carry across the plains while he preferred to live his life quietly. In the silences that might fill a car ride or a wait in the doctor’s office, she told stories of love and conquest and what exactly her crazy old cat lady neighbor did at night. Though James never participated in such stories, he refrained always from giving her the quizzical looks that naturally came to him.

Maisie loved the spring, but James flourished in the fall. She rejoiced in tennis and patterned skirts, but ragweed and pollen always got the better of him. He hoped in secret to convert her to an autumn bloomer and considered their outings to football games small personal victories. To encourage her shift, he frequently made gifts of scarves and told her how attractive she looked while wearing her prized riding boots.

The couple kept separate workspaces for weekend projects. James enjoyed the refuge of his garage workshop. Under the guise of a crafter’s paradise, he kept a secret stash of archival New York Times crossword puzzles which he filled in meticulously using a pencil with no eraser. Maisie’s personal space, up in their attic, was really more of a crawl space. Though she kept bits and pieces of the ghosts of hobbies past, the main attraction was the proliferation of benign spiders that slowly made their way from one cobwebbed corner to another. Something about the accumulation of forgotten pastimes and dark spaces appealed to her, but she cautiously avoided the room after sunset.

When they sat down to eat, all bets were off. Though he preferred sweet and she craved savory, they had one enemy in all things potato. At one recent dinner party, Maisie had gotten herself quite drunk in using red wine to slosh down the aftertaste of the host’s gnocchi. James had to support her quite generously through their entire underground experience home, but he didn’t mind. Having endured years of latkes from his Bubby, this was one experience he understood.

The exact exercise can be found on p. 73 of Kiteley's book, I encourage anybody to pick up the book for his or herself.

What'll It Be?

I created this book over a month ago to chronicle my slow descent into the quicksand that is literature (the only kind of quicksand that I think might just be good). Without making a single post, however, I've spent the past month reading and reading and just recently, I've started writing again. Now I figure that my schedule really is booked solid. Between what I read and what I am determined to write, I think that the title is more apt now than it was just four short weeks ago.

Initially, I was thinking to write some book reviews. Not from a critic's point of view, or a child, or a grandmother, or whomever the intended audience might be. Just from my own. This, I thought, might bring a fresh look to what I read and help me remember, in the future, which books I liked so much and just why I felt that way.

I might still include some reviews.

But for now, I'll focus on two books that I'm using for guidance and reference in my decade long struggle to write a novel (I take it for granted that attempting to write lengthy Nsync fan fiction in my pre-adolescent years counts as the beginnings of my quest for novel).

First we have Nancy Lamb's The Writer's Guide to Crafting Stories for Children. The reviews on the book make it sound really useful and interesting. And so far, it is. The book includes insight of many writers and Lamb's take on how these writers got so damn good. It has exercises, some of which you can do on the spot, and some of which require more in-depth thought. I like Ms. Lamb, I think she and I shall be great friends . . . or at least I will get a lot from this book.

My next source of instruction and inspiration is The 3 a.m. Epiphany by Brian Kiteley. Unlike many books that are strictly exercise-oriented, Kiteley includes not only examples, but reasons for why these exercises are important. He doesn't just promote the use of images, he shows and explains why images make such an impact. For these exercises I will not focus strictly on children's literature (which tends to be my passion) buuuut I can't say that some of these elements won't work their way in.

This blog will journal my exersises daily and hopefully provide a starting-off point for something that entails a little bit more than a hobby.