There’s An Assignment At The End Of This Post
The writing class was amazing.
The class is called “Intuitive Writing”, and the point is to get you away from your ego, from writing with your head. The teacher says we do so many things, like art and writing and dancing, the way we think they are supposed to be done, instead of doing them the way our souls would have them done. Last night’s class was filled with fun and goofy exercises that got us out of our brains and connected us to the stories that were inside us, just waiting to be let out.
One of the things we did was to pair up with someone and swap notebooks. On the top of a blank page in our partner’s notebook, we were told to write a completely ridiculous made up word, and then give the notebook back. The teacher set a timer and told us to write (and illustrate!) a story that somehow incorporated that word. We were given no time to think or plot or concoct- just told to put our pen to paper and go! People had some great words to work with, like ringodello and tongotat and zbefing. I gave my partner the word spelenko. She gave me zdqwiiixlfmn.
Ahem.
I had no idea where to go with that. But I just started writing, and this is what came out:
Once, a long long time ago, young Charlie Spencer was digging a hole to China under the apple tree in his backyard.
Suddenly, his shovel hit something hard. BANG! Young Charlie was curious. Surely a rock or a tree root wouldn’t have echoed so. BANG! BANG BANG! Young Charlie knelt down in the dirt and reached his bony brown arm deep deep deeeeeep into the hole. His fingers scrabbled through dirt and pebbles and dust until they brushed across something smooth and cold. He felt around for the edges, grabbed ahold tight, and PULLED! Out of the hole flew young Charlie, and he landed- BOOM- hard on his back. On top of his chest he held a box. A rusty box. A heavy box. A box with a broken lock. Young Charlie sat up, held the box firmly between his knees, and slowly screeked open the lid. Inside, the box was filled with rocks. Old rocks, ugly rocks, boring rocks. Young Charlie turned the box upside down and dumped the rocks next to his hole. He was mad. Young Charlie had hoped the box would be full of gold- or at least a bigger shovel. China was waiting- he couldn’t waste any more time! So he kicked the rocks aside- CLANG, BAM, RATTLE- and bent to pick up his old puny trowel.
But then something caught his eye. It was a piece of paper- a rolled up scroll- dusty and dirty and buried under all those rocks from that dumb old box. Young Charlie picked up the scroll, rolled it out flat, blew away some dirt, and read the single word: Zdqwiiixlfmn. Young Charlie was confused. Was it a code? he wondered. A secret password? He couldn’t be sure. He turned the scroll backwards, upside down, and spun it around, but still it made no sense. Young Charlie was mad again. He decided the best use for this stinky old word would be to yell it out loud, like a swear.
“Zdqwiiixlfmn!” he yelled. It felt good. So he yelled it again. “ZDQWIIIXLFMN!” He was starting to feel better. “ZDQWIIIXLFMN!” he screamed- and the scroll in his hand burst into flames! From the flames plumed black smoke. From the smoke rose a great red genie.
“You have summoned the genie of the rusty box filled with rocks by thrice calling my name. I shall grant you three wishes.” Young Charlie was stunned! He couldn’t believe his good fortune!
“But… there’s only one thing I want!” he told the genie.
“What is that my son?”
And that was how, on that day so long ago, under the apple tree in his backyard… young Charlie Spencer finally got his hole to China.
Ok, so obviously the point wasn’t to create some amazing piece of literature, or even a good story. The point was to let something out. We were all so surprised by what had come out of us, without any kind of forethought. It was such a fun exercise that helped us have confidence that all of us, no matter what our education or skill level, had stories inside us just waiting to be set free.
So I thought it might be fun to try something like that here. What I’m going to do is give you a word, one that I totally made up, and you’re going to write me a story. Set yourself a timer for 15 minutes, open up Word or Notepad so you don’t see what other people have done with the word before you write, and just go at it. When you’re done, do not edit it! I don’t want something sensational, I want something crazy and spontaneous that you never knew was in you. Copy your story and paste it here in the comments section. I can’t wait to see what you come up with! Are you ready? Here is your word:
flootarious
Go!
The sign of me having cooked a good dinner is when my husband is particularly flootarious.
I am so excited for you!
Comment by Misha — April 18, 2007 @ April 18, 2007 at 8:16 pm
Oh.My.Hell! I love this one! Okay, here we go. I don’t know if the fomatting will be butchered, so I’m posting this on my own page as well. Thanks for this assignment, Karli. You are a gem!
She looked in the mirror. “Not bad”, she thought. A few crinkles at the corner of each eye, but
nothing to open a vein about. A shiny silver strand or two woven into her chocolate brown hair,
but these didn’t bother her either. In fact, she sort of liked them. “36… I can’t believe it. Where
did the years go?” She thought back to her wedding day, how excited she’s been. Just a young
22, she was so sure that he’d change, that he’d love her more once she was his wife. Sure he was
critical, but he was only trying to help her be a better person. And the jealousy? Well, that was
just because he loved her so and didn’t want anyone else to steal her away. Why was he suddenly
repulsed by her touch though? This one she couldn’t quite explain. She tried. She told herself
that he was just pulling away because they weren’t married. Surely once they were man and wife
in the eyes of God, he’d be passionate once again. None of her predictions came to pass. Days
turned into months turned into years, and suddenly, here she was, eyeing her 36-year-old face in a
mirror and wondering how she’d gotten here.
“Everything’s okay, everything’s okay…” she repeated her mantra as she splashed cool water
over her tear-stained face. So what if her marriage was lacking? Certainly she wasn’t the only
wife to have ever lived with an unsatisfying love life. They had a nice home. The kids were loved
and well cared for. They had money in the bank, and some days, they even got along alright.
There were occasional laughs, a rare I Love You exchanged. It could be a lot worse.
“Everything’s okay, everything’s okay…” She crossed days off of the calendar in her mind.
Seven years until Ellisa would be 18. Then she’d be able to leave if she wanted. The oldest two
would be nearing the completion of their college years. Elli would be starting. They’d all be
okay. Then she’d be able to search for that happiness she’d been living without.
She smiled as she imaging her still-faceless future. She’d never marry again, of that she was sure.
But she planned to date furiously. It would be nice to have doors opened for her, chairs pulled
out, someone to actually smile at her across the table. She hoped to find someone to talk to,
someone who loved books as she did. Someone to reignite the flame of passion in her, a flame
that was extinguished way too soon. She wanted love, she wanted romance. Hell, she wanted a
good time in the sack, if she was being totally honest. Mostly though, she wanted someone who
could see her value, who could make her feel flootarious.
Comment by Azul — April 18, 2007 @ April 18, 2007 at 9:23 pm
Yes! I love it! You go girls!
Comment by momonawire — April 18, 2007 @ April 18, 2007 at 10:09 pm
Thank you for this … I needed to let go, today.
The sea was great and shining. The sky was vast and white. And the little boat skimmed along the surface, bouncing on the water, whooshing toward the horizon with sails unfurled and the bow aimed straight and true like an arrow. Across the side in dark blue script that curled like the cresting waves was one word: Flootarious.
The little girl sat with the sea wind in her hair. Her curls dipped into her eyes and flipped around her ears, and her cheeks were chill and pink. She could hear rattling from down below, a friendly clinking of tin pots and plates, the snap and thud of opening and closing cupboards. Mama was making something. Something seafaring and delicious. There would be tea afterward, the little girl knew.
On the horizon was a speck. It grew to a dot. It swelled to a spot. Then it became a smudge, a half circle rising from the shifting waters. It looked like a strange island, perfectly rounded with perhaps a flagpole stuck to its center.
The little girl frowned and pushed her dancing curls back from her forehead. Her mother hummed down below as she set the table for lunch. The little girl stood, gripping a handrail, leaning forward just a little into the wind, squinting.
That was no island. That was the top half if a submarine. As the boat cruised closer, the little girls played the sails to slow her craft and circle these strangers suddenly afloat with her on the vast sea. The flagpole, of course, was a periscope. And just then, it turned and aimed its glassy eye at the boat and the little girl and her mama down below making lunch.
The boat, now, was at a stop, anchor cast down into the dark and salty deep. It bobbed and tipped atop the waves. The sun broke through the white sky in a patch of blue. Down below the girl’s mother was quiet. The girl knew her mother was peering out the little round window toward the submarine and the periscope. They were both quiet. And they waited.
Comment by Amy — April 19, 2007 @ April 19, 2007 at 10:48 am
I was reading along enjoying your story, and suddenly dropped off the end sorry not to join Charlie on his dig to China, find out what he saw
But a good writer leaves her reader imagining doesn’t she? And what fun to imagine the rest
P.S. It is very kind of you to share your assignment with us- Thanks!
Comment by Karen — April 20, 2007 @ April 20, 2007 at 3:23 pm
I recently took this very same class, though your class sounds more like what I had hoped the class would be. Anyway, it was 8 weeks and I didn’t attend the last two due to some baby illnesses happening at home. I am not even supposed to be reading blogs right now … but I will try to return later this week to write one.
I had a really hard time “letting go” of my ego in these classes. I’m a trained writer, which is why I took the class, yet I still couldn’t get into the groove. Glad you did better!! This is great! Incidentally, one of my older blog posts is an entry that I wrote in one of my classes …
Comment by greatexpectations — April 25, 2007 @ April 25, 2007 at 4:30 pm