An update from our fifty-third Writing Workshop A summary of the workshop held on Saturday November 13th, plus some of the output published below In this writing workshop, William asked participants to focus on an origin story of a great character. As William noted in the lecture portion of class, sometimes the origin of a character does not suggest that later on in the story, they will achieve greatness. A character could come from modest beginnings and go on to do amazing things, despite the odds—there are no formulas when it comes to writing a character’s life arc. The class went over some famous archetypal origin stories, including the stories of Moses, Athena and other Greek gods, and Batman. The challenge: Write an origin story for a person who will later achieve greatness in life. The participants: Ethan, Madeline, Peri, Liam, Sierra, Tilly, Aditi, Jonathan, Rachael, Elbert, Marissa, Kina, Grace, Kate, Nami, Iago, Samantha Madeline Kline, 13Potomac, MD Beginnings Madeline Kline, 12 Everyone always focuses on the end. Never the beginning. When people talk about my writing, their comments always have something to do with my endings. People love a strong ending. They love a powerful note, a note that resonates with readers. They always forget the beginning. Always. If life were a story, childhood would be the beginning. The first few notes, the introduction to the song, or the part of a story where the reader goes around getting accustomed to the characters. If my life were a story, I would have too many characters in my beginning to keep track of. Me, my family, the people in my young writers club, everyone else I’ve ever known. The thing is, life keeps introducing new characters, and forgetting about the old ones. It’s almost as if the writer can’t make up her mind. Should she keep this character throughout the story? Should she add someone else as the best friend? Should she add a redshirt, a character who’s introduced only to dramatically leave the show? But it doesn’t matter what she does. Because nobody ever pays attention to the beginning. I find examples of that, throughout my life. When I get a bad grade on an eighth grade assignment because I turned it in fifteen minutes late. It’s the end of the world, but it’s not. Because middle school doesn’t matter. Neither did elementary school. So why does childhood matter? Why do I need to add extravagant language, beautiful imagery, outstanding metaphors, when nobody pays attention, anyway? Does childhood ever start to matter? The answer is no, I think, as I turn the corner, heading uphill towards my high school. I’m alone outside, with no company but my own mind, and my own footsteps. The sun decided to sleep in today. When I left my house, it was still dark, and chilly. Now, the sun is lazily climbing out of bed, yawning. It radiates enough heat to push my jacket off my shoulders, and I pause to tie the jacket around my waist, now that I no longer need it. My shadow follows me to school as I head towards the sun, shielding my eyes with my hand. As I turn into the school building, I head to the seat I usually share with my best friend, Zoe. She’s not there. She isn’t at school at all, I realize, when the teacher takes attendance in our first period class – the only class we share. I pull my phone out under my desk, and send her a quick chat message. Where are you? Hope you’re doing OK. There’s no response the entire day. There’s no response the next day either. Or the next. Zoe’s chair becomes a gaping hole, a black hole that sucks my attention in day after day. It seems to be a vacuum, pulling my mind, all of my energy, towards it, so much energy it’s almost trembling, about to collapse. Over the past week, I’d sent enough panicked texts to overload Zoe’s phone. Not a single one had gotten a response. So when my phone chimed on Friday, while I was walking, halfway to school, I wasn’t going to be surprised when it wasn’t Zoe. But it was. And it wasn’t. I’m sorry, Leah. I thought someone would have told you. Told me what? The three dots dance across the phone screen as I wait, stoppeds in my tracks, the lazy sun reflected into my face. Zoe overdosed on painkillers last Sunday. The sun should have dropped out of the sky. But it didn’t. It stood its ground, sleepily warming the Earth. But I was still cold. And my thoughts turned back, back to when I was walking up to school on Monday. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who figured out that beginnings don’t matter. So she ended her beginning, gave up on the story, not even bothering to add a plot, a climax. And now this is my beginning, too. And no one will pay attention to it, no one will remember it, except me. But unlike Zoe, I will keep writing. I will develop a plot. I will hit my crowning achievement, my climax. And then, only then, will I fall back down with the falling action, until I reach my resolution, my ending. And I already know, I can already tell. My story will be a story that people remember. Peri Gordon, 11Sherman Oaks, CA The Struggles of the Future Peri Gordon, 12 It was the year 2486. Sylvia looked up at the curving crescent moon. My mistress will be up there tomorrow, she thought, polishing the silver jetpack until it reflected her pale face, dark circles under her eyes. It was always a comfort for Sylvia to picture her mistress on the moon. Most people go there within their first ten years of living, she thought. Except me. Sylvia sighed. How many times she had asked to come along on one of her mistress’s trips? She had asked the mistress herself.
Workshops
How Stories Work—Writing Workshop #22: Eating
An update from the twenty-second Writing Workshop with Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday November 20 In preparation and celebration of Thanksgiving, this week we focused on the time honored tradition of eating. We began by looking at a couple different paintings: The Feast of Dives by Master of James IV of Scotland and The Potato Eaters by Van Gogh. Both paintings exalted the poor and therefore the hungry, while the former in particular represented the act of eating as a sort of monstrous excess, which was also found in Mound of Butter by Antoine Vollon, Vertumnus by Giuseppe Arcimboldo, and Hotdog in #NYC by Valery Jung. By way of literary examples, we looked at the poem “Eating Together” by Li-Young Lee and “Eating Poetry” by Mark Strand. The former we found to display eating as communal and ritualistic, whereas the latter associated eating with animalistic and demonic traits. The Challenge: Write a story/poem in which people are eating. Think about what food symbolizes in your story/poem. The Participants: Penelope, Nova, Lina, Alice B, Audrey, Emma, Shilla, Josh, Ethan, Svitra
Writing Workshop #52: Art and Made-Up Languages
An update from our fifty-second Writing Workshop A summary of the workshop held on Saturday November 6th, plus some of the output published below At this writing workshop, William went over the concept of art-languages, or languages made up by writers for their stories. Starting off with Lewis Carroll’s classic “Jaberwocky” poem, the class went over some of the words made up by the famous author. The class also looked at examples from James Joyce, watched several videos of people speaking Star Trek’s Klingon language, and read aloud some of J.R.R. Tolkien’s Elvish language from The Lord of the Rings. Lastly, the class read some examples from previous writing workshop of pieces that incorporated real languages and made-up languages The challenge: Focus on sound and invent words or parts of a language to fit within a story. The participants: Liam, Peri, Lena, Elbert, Ethan, Faiz, Kina, Samantha, Sierra, Elliott, Rachael, Aditi, Kate, Nami, Grace, Madeline Designing a Dress Peri Gordon, 11(Sherman Oaks, CA) Peri Gordon, 12 I paced around the room, inevitably stepping on the precious fabrics I had purchased. Heaps of quem wylven cloel clustered thickly around the heels of the esstappi shoes I was practicing wearing for the upcoming event. Making sense of this clupple snetthoy would not be a shtut ruttel. Knowing I only had a week to design the queen’s heraten gown, I let my voice burst out in waves of doyatere. My mother came running, the soup she was carrying dripping onto her moill shoyanine. She exclaimed, “Resh keru! Yiplash?” But I needed to be alone. After helping wipe the huitren off of her shoyanine, I slammed the door. I approached my sutrebenishien, which was laden with plashti. They glimmered in the sunlight that came through the potoshoo. I sorted through them. How would I choose my favorite? Finally, the idea came to me: Using the wylven cloel I had stepped on as a base for the dress, I would yertin in each sparkly fabric separately. I would be done in less than a week, and the result would be absolutely resenden. I took out my toz and got to work. Dictionary: Quem – (Of a fabric) Shiny and white Wylen – Woven with an elaborate pattern involving swirls Cloel – A thick fabric composed of grass, wool, and rose petals Esstapi – Overly fancy at the expense of one’s safety Clupple – Making one likely to trip and fall Snetthoy – A comedically disorganized room Shtut ruttel – Piece of cake Heraten – The coronation of a king or queen’s child Doyatere – Sincere distress Moill – A dull and murky shade of brown Shoyanine – A dress made with a fabric at least two centimeters thick Resh keru – Good heavens Yiplash – What is the matter Huitren – An edible plant often used in soup Sutrebenishien – Intricately carved desk Plashti – Sparkly fabrics Potoshoo – A triangular window Yertin – Sew in a braided pattern Resenden – Divinely beautiful Toz – A very sharp needle, reserved for the most intricate sewing Nami Gajcowski, 11Seattle, WA Filligri Nami Gajcowski, 11 Filligri is the name of the lillipads on the bright summer’s day. Mooran is the frog sitting on the Filligri. Swog is the flies that the frog is eating. Ligth is the word for the wings on the fly, letting it go aloft. Floof is the word for cloud that the wings brush. Allgen is the word for sky which the clouds clutch. Rrum is the airplane. Zram is it’s engine. Glockenrn is the mechanics to make that engine. Zendgle is their tools. Track is the name of houses built by those tools. Swindlgrog is the name of the tree in the front yard. Smissslfinddle is the name of a forest of those trees. Mrusgsgu is the name of the swamp next to that forest. And Filligri is the name of the lillipads in a bright summer’s day.
