She looks back at her crooked hand, the pen on the table and the card she was filling with loops. She blinks and swallows, but it seems to take forever. I imagine that swallow is very dry. She’s finished writing. At least she thinks she has. Perhaps she forgot what she was doing and finally realized she didn’t know and just wanted to be done. The illegible script looks more like a child drawing waves or birds, I cannot tell which. The pencil marks go off the page and onto the table, where her broken sight was unable to differentiate from marble table to cream paper. She smiles, wide and as loving as I’ve always remembered, but now appearing toothless and stretched. “You give this to Mat, now,” she says and blinks twice. “What’s your name?”

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

An Experiment?

A number of years ago, I was leading a writing workshop for a number of undergraduates and a couple out-of-state friends who participated through online comments. Each week, we'd use a prompt to throw together a bit of flash or a larger piece for those who were going to be workshopped. Coming up with the prompts turned just as difficult as coming up with the writing, I'll say! I decided to pull out the list this week to write up some flash for our fiction workshop at the university and opted to make my life a little more difficult. Here's the experiment:

Randomly select a flash prompt, then randomly select a decently well-known friend from Facebook (or other similar online networking site). The selected person must star in the flash, and keep to the simple prompt as closely as possible. No changing because randomness makes it "tough."

Typically, I do not write under rules. I like a more free-flowing approach. That, however, threatens to make me write the same. No growth in style. No reason to try something new. Ask any good BDSM crew--some restrictions can really bring out the creativity!

But, when I pulled up "Trauma at the Bar," and Clint's name, I wondered if maybe my 'No changing' rule was being too restrictive. A number of justifications popped in my head. I don't know Clint super well yet. Who am I to write about bar-going? Do Mormons even go to bars!? But, like a good workshop-leader, I didn't take any excuses--even from myself.

The result has Clint deciding never to eat or drink anything that he has not personally unsealed himself... but it made for some lively conversation, at least.

Sorry, Clint! I love you, purely platonically. Promise.

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