Look at this painting: Promenade des Enfants (Children’s Walk) by Timoléon Lobrichon (1831-1914). Write a poem about it, in a style that reflects your initial response when you first saw it.
Writing Activity: take a character on a believable journey from zero to hero
‘Tom Green,’ a story by 10-year-old Zahra Batteh, is a classic redemption tale. Tom Green, a horrible, spoiled, lazy young man loses all his money and privilege, and through a series of misfortunes and (eventually) hard work over several years develops compassion and gratitude, and becomes a better person. In the end, he finds happiness not in the material things that were all he cared about in the beginning but in a simpler, more generous-spirited life spent helping others. What makes this story extra special is the writer’s style: Zahra Batteh tells the story of Tom in a natural, almost conversational voice, but without wasting a word. Every short sentence moves the action forward and paints a picture of Tom’s life and character. In just four pages, Zahra manages to make the reader feel as though they know everything about Tom and how he has spent four whole years of his life. I think she achieves this feat partly though the spareness of her language. She doesn’t hint, or judge, or indulge in long, flowery descriptions; she lays out the facts plainly and simply, showing us who Tom was and who he becomes without ever telling us what she thinks he is like. It’s a great example of the power of “show, don’t tell.” The story also has a well-judged turning point about half way through where the previously unpleasant character begins to transform. The Activity First, read ‘Tom Green’ at least once, paying particular attention to the ways Tom’s character and behaviour are revealed all the way through the story. What language does Zahra use to describe Tom Green? You can also click on the audio link at the top of the story’s page to hear the author reading the story aloud herself at Soundcloud. After you have read it for yourself, try listening to the way Zahra reads, especially where she places emphasis, to get an insight into how she was thinking about Tom Green as she wrote his story. Show don’t tell: One of the things you will notice is how few adjectives and adverbs Zahra uses when she talks about Tom’s actions. She tells us what happens, but she doesn’t make a judgement or tell us readers what we should think of him. For example, in the first paragraph, she tells us that Tom expects all his food to taste incredible: “If there was ever something that didn’t meet his taste buds’ expectations, it would instantly hit the bottom of his trash can with a small thud, and the chef would be off to prepare a new and better dish.” Zahra doesn’t actually say that Tom Green spits out his food, throws it away, shouts at the chef (he has a personal chef!) and so on, but as we read this explanation of what happens, we can just imagine the horrible behaviour that Tom is displaying. Zahra leads us gently, showing us paragraph by paragraph what Tom’s qualities are. By showing us the actions without telling us exactly what to think of them she makes it possible for Tom’s ultimate transformation to sound believable. A clear turning point: Zahra is also very careful not to say too much about what Tom is feeling, which makes the nuggets she gives us speak loudly about him. At the beginning of the story, we learn that Tom “threatened” his parents with a lie, and then did a “small happy dance” when he learned they were dead. When he first loses all his money and has to move into a shed, we learn “he hated everything about” it. We hear that he has been fired from every job he has had over the past year, so it is a surprise to read on the third page that he feels “guilty” when the manager of Pick-up car service is nice to him, because he knows that a few years ago he would have treated this man like an “annoying fly”. This is the turning point. After this, Tom starts to “enjoy” his work, to listen to others, and to feel gratitude for what he has. He decides he wants to help to change the world for the better. Because Zahra has focused on his behaviour, rather than telling us Tom has a fundamentally bad character, her turning point is believable. Tom Green can change, and he does. Invent your own flawed character and think about what might lead them to redemption. Then, try to write their story as simply, and with as little judgement of their actions, as you can. Identify a believable turning point where they start to change for the better. Show us, don’t tell us, who your main character is. Let your readers make up their own minds about who they are and what they are like.
Writing Workshop #38: Sense of Place–Beyond Geography
An update from our thirty-eighth Writing Workshop A summary of the workshop held on Saturday April 17, plus some of the output published below In his first class in the spring 2021 series, William visited the idea of of Sense of Space, taking us beyond geography to think about the impact of place on characters in our stories, and consider the sense of place through the emotions of our characters. Quoting Colin Thubron, William urged the class to take their characters with them in their heads and think about the impact of place on characters as individuals: for one, the jungle might be beautiful and liberating; for another, humid and claustrophobic; for another terrifying and synonymous with death. It’s all about perception. We looked at images through different lenses: how might the twisting branches of the trees in the forest look different to Hansel and Gretel when they think they are safe with their breadcrumb trail to lead them out again, and when they realise that night is coming and it is gone? What is the impact of memory on the sense one has of a place? What you see or don’t see, feel or don’t feel, might depend on what has happened there before. The Challenge: Write a short piece that conveys a strong sense of place as it is perceived through the senses and emotions of your character. The Participants: Chelsea, Hanbei, Gia, Maddie, Lena A, Lena, Delight, Julia, Leo, Mahika, Margaret, Peri, Nova, Lina, Pranjoli, Rachael, Wesley, Reese, Helen, Sage, Sierra, Angela, Anna, Madeline, Grace, Iago, Jonathan, Charlotte, Peter, Tilly. Sierra E., 11Mountain View, CA The Dance of the Sea Sierra E., 11 Rays of orange evening sunlight flew down the coastline, taking a calm breeze and charming birdcalls along. A strip of street, shimmering into the sunset glow, separated the sea from general humanity; vehicles in a rainbow of colors rushed down it, in a hurry to return home to their families. A thick, tall layer of green grass ran down the roadside, hiding the ocean from drivers’ view. The sky above was painted a rich, vivid and soothing violet, dotted with heaps of fluffy pastel clouds, as the sea danced. The water rose into frothy white crests, then fell, crashing to the shore, though it scared not a soul, dancing like it did each night, dancing as if it would never stop. The scent of salty sea air became intertwined with the sugary smell of ice cream in a thousand flavors, drifting from a renowned café back on regular land. The tide disappeared again, creating a pathway for the last few humans left on the beach to dissipate. And dissipate they did, laughing, and sprinting up the golden sand dunes that glimmered in the twilight, until the seaside paradise was empty except for its natural inhabitants. The ocean came in again, drenching forgotten shells that had been collected by small children, and breadcrumbs that hadn’t been swept up; the water threw them into the sea, giving the lost items a fresh start among the crabs with their mighty pincers and the twisting, winding stalks of forest-green seaweed. The sky was darkening at a rapid pace; within an hour it would be pitch black, and the sparkling, silver stars would begin to appear. But before then, in the last moments of dusk, the world was tranquil and silent, except for the dance and crash of the waves. Peri Gordon, 11Sherman Oaks, CA Last Night Peri Gordon, 11 The seat of my wool couch scratched my legs fiercely. The whir of the breeze through the window echoed in my mind, calling for vengeance. I wrinkled my nose at the odor of fish coming from the disorderly place I called my kitchen and scowled at the far-too-large heap of clothing still to wash. I tried not to recall the violence of last night; I tried to instead remember the gentle feeling of the chair I had been in right before and the melodious song that I had been humming thoughtfully. But the incessant buzzing of the pests outside–and most likely inside–and the pleading mews of the kitten I was supposed to take care of drowned out any positivity left, and I kept thinking about the violence of last night. It took me five minutes to summon the energy to get up off of my uncomfortable furniture. I trudged into my bedroom, looking at the stained carpet. My friend, Rita, was there; I hadn’t told her what had happened. She was whistling; I was sure my dry lips would protest if I tried to do the same thing. Rita said, “You like my hair?” My guess was it was styled in a fancy way or something, but I could only focus on how the colors of her clothes–orange and green–clashed so horribly. I mumbled, “Sure,” while still gazing at the floor, still thinking about the violence of last night. I couldn’t bear to be in a room with someone so vigorously optimistic, so I returned to the awful, itchy, expensive, not-worth-the-money-I-payed-for-it couch. And thought about the violence of last night. Lina Kim, 11Weston, FL The Dark Hospital Lina Kim, 11 I glanced around the hospital cautiously and shuddered. The walls were pure white, but I felt as if they were stained with the blood of those who never survived. The doors were clean, the windows shining. It was all a trick. A trap. I clutched my father’s hand. I rarely did, but the hospital gave me flashbacks of my dead mother. I needed comfort. The stench of a thousand disinfectants hit me. I gagged. Dad put his arms around me. We turned a corner and continued walking down the hall. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of people had died in this hospital over the years. It scared me that my grandmother might be next. We found the section of the hospital where grandmother was. The man at the desk searched through the names. “Jiwoo Lee, Jiwoo Lee,” the man
