An update from our fourth weekly writing workshop A summary of this week’s project, plus some of the output published below The Stone Soup Weekly Writing Workshop is open to all Stone Soup contributors and subscribers during the COVID-19-related school closures and shelter-in-place arrangements. Every Friday, we meet for one hour via Zoom to respond to a new writing challenge, write together in our virtual room, and then share what we have written with one another. At our session on Friday April 24, we introduced ourselves and got straight into a discussion of this week’s theme: Trapped! William Rubel, Stone Soup’s founder, presented some images and ideas about being trapped, entrapment, and prisons of various kinds: Traps for birds depicted by Breughel; pulp fiction “Trapped by Love” book covers; ideas about mental traps that people set for themselves; fear of entrapment in humans and animals. Before getting down to our own writing, groups members shared some brainstorming ideas for some more specific ways of thinking about the theme. Brainstorming ideas: – trapping yourself in a bad friendship – you might know this is not a good person, but you do it anyway. – a personal barrier acting as a trap: you want something, but you somehow feel prevented from reaching it, without there necessarily being an obvious reason outside of yourself. – an emotional barrier, such as fear, anger, disappointment, being scared for something, or of what might happen if you take an action. – being trapped by other people’s expectations of you. – being caught out by an enemy (which could be a person or a thing), e.g. being trapped in a elevator. The Writing Challenge: What are your ideas around the idea of being trapped? This concept is as broad as you want to make it, and can include: traps; those who entrap; those who are entrapped (who are either very conscious of it or, for one reason or another, feel themselves not to be trapped when they are); and even those who dream of escape or have escaped! The Participants: Lena (10), Ever (10), Emily (10), Analise (9), Liam (12), Peri (10), Suman (10), Djin (10), Ma’ayan (13), Anya (13), Lucy (12), Georgia (11), Isabella (9), Emilia (6), Tristan (14), Gracie (12), Lauren (10), Maggie (11), Joanna, Sophia (10), Allegra (10), Arianna (9), Aviya & Kesed. There was a lot of free thought going on within the idea of being trapped–and as usual some great writing resulted from our half hour of concentration, which authors then read aloud to the group. There was some encouraging feedback for the writers in the chat section, besides lots of positive verbal responses to the individual readings. We are all overwhelmed by how talented all our workshop participants are, and how their ideas are just on fire for every workshop! Below you can read a few examples of this week’s great workshop output. Puppet Strings By Lena Aloise, 10 The Earth spins silently, In its unseen chains of gravity. The moon plays with the evening tide, On puppet strings. Our hearts flutter in our chests, Because our minds instruct them to. And clouds are pushed by the summer breeze. Are we all just things on our puppet strings, Being controlled by some greater force. Is the existence of humanity, Just an idea thought up by someone else? And if we are just things on a puppet string, Who is the person holding the other side? Or do we cut our puppet strings? Pave our own paths of destiny? Could it be that we bend the bars, Of the prisons of our universe? Concealed By Analise Braddock, 9 The only trap she could stumble through took her He trapped her desire concealing it in her Feeding her the past the trapped moments turn into hours Gripping her freedom but still holding the time Inside where she’s trapped and concealed Eventually she breaks out her desire forever lost Not Here By Anya Geist, 13 I’m standing, watching I know that most people Would give anything to be where I am Would love to bounce, weightless on the Moon Would love to walk in space Would love to see the Earth from afar But none of them are here They say they would love to be here But they aren’t, they’re aren’t here And I know, in my heart They won’t ever be And so I stand And I stare at the Earth Watching the clouds drift over land I remember land, the touch of soft grass I see the oceans, so expansive I remember the feeling of waves and water But will I ever see them again? Weeks ago communications went out No one has come, no one has fixed them I am here, on the edge of the Moon The place everyone dreams of being But I am not here, not in the place where everyone is Untitled By Anya Geist, 13 There is water all around me, murky and dark. Growing darker, darker. Light hardly reaches down here, in the bowels of the lake. It’s like being in a forest, a forest where evil whistles in your ear with every blow of the wind, where every crack of a branch is an enemy out to get you. The vague reflections of my friends on the surface shimmer before my eyes, mirages. I am viewing them from another world, a world no one should venture into. Oh why, why did I take the dare? Hardly anyone has ever reached the bottom of the lake? But I am trying. My chest grows tighter and my ribs and lungs feel tied together. I hardly dare to waste my breath and it seems to shrink inside me, shriveling until I barely know it’s there. Whenever I do risk a slight exhale, whenever bubbles of air rise from my nose, free to return to the sunny surface, I feel a brief respite. But it is like smelling food when you are hungry. In the end, it only makes the pain
Teaching Children
Weekly Writing Workshop #1, Friday April 3, 2020: Inspiration From Random Words
Our first Weekly Writing Workshop! The Stone Soup Weekly Writing Workshop is open to all Stone Soup contributors and subscribers during the COVID-19-related school closures and shelter-in-place arrangements. Every Friday, we meet for one hour via Zoom to respond to a new writing challenge, write together in our virtual room, and then share what we have written with one another. At our first session on Friday April 3, we introduced ourselves, broke the ice by naming our favourite animal (if we had one!), and then got to work on a word challenge. Everyone in the room came up with a random favourite word, which we captured on our whiteboard, and then we got down to half an hour of serious writing. The Writing Challenge: Write a story, poem, or other prose, using at least 5 of the words on the list! The Words: orange, trustworthy, glass, scrapbook, future, luscious, garden, biography, grandfather, run, gallop, sniff, canter The Participants: Lena (10), Anya (13), Liam (12), Eli (7), Jay (9), Abhi (11), Vivian (11), Anna (15), Lucy (12), Ma’ayan (11), Ever (10), Mico (13), Silas (10), Catherine (13), Stella (13) We were so impressed by the writing the participants produced. From haunting poems and reflective prose to outer space adventure, free verse, and a tale of a fruit’s imaginary life, it was just amazing what the workshop inspired, and incredible to see what polished work could emerge in such a short time. Read on for the great pleasure of reading some of our writers’ work. The Storyteller by Lena Aloise, 10 I descend the narrow staircase of my thoughts, Slice the lock from the pirate’s chest of my mind, But the treasure that lies amongst the settling dust, Is not buttery golden coins, Nor rough slices of glistening jade. But the firm feeling against my palms, The satisfaction pouring into my soul is but the same. I pull a story from its cage, Wrestle it under a thin coating of dreams. Sprinkle gently with a handful of wishes, Then part the mist surrounding and reveal a truth. As I jump from the shores of the world I have crafted, I dive into those perilous waters, And return to the banks with something all new. The Garden through the Mirror by Lena Aloise, 10 I stare back at an unfamiliar soul, Through the portal of crystal glass. Eyes two inky pools of brown, Staring back into mine, Swirling clouds of emotion, My past, my future, My fate. Cover the room in a thick fog, And from the misty tendrils, I emerge, Pushing through the uncertainty. I wander through those narrow corridors, Until I enter a world, One of color, Vibrant reds and oranges, One of light, Lucious rays that fill me with warmth. A garden. Spilling off their narrow stems, Are the fruits of memory. And the green shoots that sprout, From the soil of knowledge, Are those of triumph, Those of success. I run through the waving grasses of sorrow, Nipping at my ankles, The crimson droplets forming on my skin, Are those of tearful memories. And the soft breeze, Gently tugging at my shoulder, Whisking away the sharp pain. Is that of stories. This garden of my mind, A scrapbook of my past, My biography, Not yet written. A chamber of possibility, Containing the keys to the doors, Of who I can become. Untitled, by Anya G., 13 It was a dark and cold night, a night when all wild things are best left to their sulking devices. It was the type of night where it might as well rain; it might as well pour, just to fill the vacancy of life and soul in the world. However, the night had no effect on the young girl. At half-past ten, by the toll of the old grandfather clock in the parlor, which stood gathering dust in an untouched corner, she rose from bed, pushing her silk curtains open to admit the silver, luscious moonlight into her room, spilling across the floor; light; the opposite of a shadow. And so she tiptoed down the great hall, past the looming oak doors that guarded her family from the menacing shadows of night. She slipped downstairs, just a flicker of light across the black shapes of furniture silhouetted in the night. She could only contain her excitement for so long though, and upon reaching the great glass doors that led to the terrace, flung them open and flew into the night like a bird getting its first taste of fresh air. It didn’t matter that the air was heavy with malice or that chilling whispers of the wind caused the hair on the end of her neck to stand up. It didn’t matter that the stone on the terrace was cold on her bare feet, cracked and invaded by damp moss. She ran, her blue nightgown trailing behind her. If she were a horse, her mane waving in her wake, the expanse of the front yard was her pasture, the promise of fresh green grass stretching on forever. She reached the end of the yard, and paused, her breath coming in long gasps. Her cheeks were flushed from the run, her fingers tingling from the clawing cold of the night, but she had not accomplished her mission yet. She jumped over the hedge that bordered the lawn, and winded her way through thorny bushes that snagged her gown, and ensnared her blond hair that flowed like a waterfall. And then she reached it, a small clearing in the bramble. She sat on the cold, firm soil, inhaling the sweet aroma of fresh earth. She bent over into the bushes, moonlight splashing her face with an all-knowing light, and retrieved a lantern. Reaching over again, she produced a box of matches, and struck one. Once she had lit the lantern, it filled the space with a warm, orange light. It was a light that was like a piece of sweet candy melting on your
Writing Activity: Using Framing to Add Depth and Power
Emma McKinny’s story “Windsong,” is about going to a performance of Dr. Atomic, an opera by John Adams with libretto by Peter Sellers. Her father is the lead singer. You can use your research skills to get information on the actual performance and its reviews online, but here we want to focus on one element of the story–the way in which Emma frames her narrative. Framing is the subject of this writing project. The basic history you need to know is that the United States invented and tested the first atomic bomb in Los Alamos, New Mexico during World War II. The bombs dropped on the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki were developed in Los Alamos. These bombs ended the war with Japan, which surrendered after they were dropped. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands of civilizations were killed by these weapons, whole sections of the two cities that were the victims of these bombs were obliterated. These bombs gave humans god-like powers which J. Robert Oppenheimer, director of the lab, and the Doctor in the opera’s title, Dr. Atomic, understood. He quickly became concerned about the consequences of his invention. You also need to know that Los Alamos is visible from Santa Fe and this is especially true at night when its lights glow from the mountain ridge where it is located. “Windsong” takes place in the Santa Fe Opera House, a fabulous outdoor theater that sits under the distant gaze of Los Alamos, the place where the bomb-making that is the center of the opera’s story took place. The author goes through a huge emotional experience during the Opera performance. Those of you who attend operas, ballet, and traditional theater may have experienced these deep emotional moments. And then there is the clapping. And the lights go back up. And then you have to get up from your seat and make your way home, behaving normally, with this deeply emotional experience still inside you: “turmoil boiling in the pit of” ones stomach, as Emma puts it. To help the reader understand her experience, and express it herself, she gives her feeling and emotion to the wind which blows through the Santa Fe Opera house. She whispers to the wind the same good-luck phrase she had called out to her father in the beginning, thus transferring the art of the opera and the performers to nature. Let the wind howl, like a wolf, adding its voice to the power of theater. The Activity Write a story where an element at the beginning–a framing device–introduces a powerful idea into the story, that you can use to develop your story, and then return to at the end to convey even greater depth of meaning to it. To help you see how this can work, read “Windsong”. In “Windsong,” the phrase “in bocca al lupo,” introduces a series of related ideas about sound and the elements: it relates to the wind, a wolf’s howl, the power of art and performance, all of which carry through the whole story in various ways. When the author of the story comes back to that same phrase at the end, we all have a greater depth of understanding that allows us to read even more into it. When you plan your story, think about your key message and image, and think of a way you can introduce it as a framing device early on. Try to carry your framing device through your story, and then, as in “Windsong”, come back to it explicitly towards the end. By this stage, if you have woven the ideas into your story, your frame–and your story–will have great depth.
