Workshops

An update from our twenty-first Writing Workshop! A summary of the workshop held on Saturday September 12, plus some of the output published below We were so happy to be back this week for the first in our second series of Writing Workshops, and the twenty-first one we have held this year! This time, our founder William Rubel focused on a very useful figurative tool for writers: metaphor. We started with two simple and common ideas–that a man is a rat and time is money–as examples for discussion. We watched some movie clips and read some specific examples from literature that displayed the power of stating that a character IS another object, animal, or force of nature, from Juliet as the sun in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, via the “spider” Drummle in Dickens’ Great Expectations to Hagrid’s “mane” of hair expressing his lion-heartedness throughout Harry Potter, as well as describing his shaggy look. After half an hour of writing Liam, Simran, Gia, Anya, Peri and Elbert read their work to the group for feedback from William. We heard a selection of stories, long and short, and poems, including haikus; several were powerful responses to the ongoing wildfires in California, and all of them were rich with metaphor and creative imagery. Some of those we heard, and more written during the class, are published below. What a tremendous start to the new season! The Writing Challenge: Write a poem or story that builds and develops at least one strong metaphor. The Participants: Nova, Rithesh, Katie, Charlotte, Georgia, Peri, Anya, Simran, Scarlet, Liam, Maddie, Jonathan, Olivia, Tilly, Samantha, Janani, Helen, Madeline, Ella, Chloe, Ma’ayan, Keyang, Dana, Charlotte, Cassandra, Ava, Jayden, Maggie, Sophie, Enni, Juniper, Sierra, Elbert, Hera, Nami, Dhesh, Sophia, James, Ever, Emma, Gia, Sophia, Eden. Dhesh, 11Fulshear, TX Metaphor Dhesh, 11 His beard was like tangled wires, His eyes were dark, similar to the night sky, His hair was shaped like a hair dryer, Why is he dressed up like this to a Prom, I thought? But, it turned out, he was dancing with my mom! Anya Geist, 14Worcester, MA Leaves of Autumn Anya Geist, 14 Leaves twirled through the air, their edges curled as if singed by fire, their vibrant colors beaming as though they were fire. They touched the ground with the grace of a ballet dancer, and then sat silent, waiting for the wind to blow them along. In the night, their color faded with the rest of the day, and they were merely dark silhouettes, phantoms that crept up from the ground. The wind would creep down the roads, through the bony fingers of bare tree branches that made an otherworldly glow in the rare light of the moon, and the chilly breezes would, on occasion, ruffle a few leaves, causing them to crinkle and scrape the sidewalks as they rolled away; a truly ghostly noise. Day dawned, and the leaves burned brighter than ever. They were the sun, strong and shining in the light of daybreak, in the crisp freshness that fell over the world. Any notions of ghosts, of spirits that haunted the world, had been blown away, just as that eerie wind was replaced by fresh gusts that smelled of apple cider and Thanksgiving food. Children giggled gleefully as they walked to and from school, stomping on fallen leaves, catching them as they flew through the air, jumping in neat little piles that blew apart at the slightest touch. Leaves were the harbinger of fall, of that magical time filled with shiny, crunchy apples freshly picked off of trees; of orange Jack-o-lanterns carved into complex patterns, lit by a flickering candle; of all of the good things that made their eyes shine in the cooling weather. And so autumn went, with the leaves that flew gracefully to the ground. Peri Gordon, 10Sherman Oaks, CA Desert Prison Peri Gordon, 10 Water is gold in the desert It’s a superhero Or the last ticket to the show that is life. I’ve been lost here for days A prisoner in an endless jail. The desert is a jail. The lack of water is the executioner. I am at its mercy. The search for water is my final trial. Then what is water? Water is the sign that I am decidedly innocent That my life will be spared. But even if I find it I doubt I’ll ever escape this prison. This desert. Then water just means I stay here longer Lonely and afraid Free from the executioner But not from the jail. Liam Hancock, 12Danville, CA Running From Time Liam Hancock, 12 He runs with his sneakers kicking up gravel, his knees pumping, his hips and chest drawn out with sharp intakes of breath. He is a free man, he is a slave who has broken his shackles and left them in my hands. He is a butterfly who has first sprouted his wings. Once before, he lived as a creature, squirming and writing in my fingers. Could hardly get out of his own way. But he’s liberated now. And is that a cause for celebration? Because I’d kept him in chains for a reason. I’d firmly gripped the keys in my hands, the locks and bolts hanging listlessly from my fingers. Back and forth, back and forth they dangled, like time pressing continuously forward and yet hesitating and moving back again. Time, when he was locked away, was of no value to me. With one variable of Ian’s murder off the table, I had ample opportunity to solve the equation. It didn’t take long for me to realize that I needed to let him go. I had the numbers. I had the memories, the moments. I had everything I needed to uncover him and bring justice, a judge in my black, velvety gown hammering the mallet down onto the broad oak desk. Guilty. Somehow, someway, I knew he was. I had the numbers. I had the equation. But he had me. And I have to face