An update from our thirty-ninth Writing Workshop with Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday, May 28, plus some of the output published below. This week, Conner lectured on something he never had before: long sentences, which have become in today’s day and age somewhat of a dying art form. To begin, we looked at two paintings: Hieronymus Bosch’s Christ in Limbo, which we found to be dark and disturbing, and Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s The Battle Between Carnival and Lent, which we found to be more comedic and prosaic. We then spent five minutes trying to transcribe each of these two hectic paintings, analogous to long sentences, into words. After this short writing exercise, we looked at four examples of long sentences. The first came from Cormac McCarthy’s All the Pretty Horses. We found this sentence to display the speed potential of long sentences by eliminating punctuation and repeating the word “and.” The sentence itself was literally a run-on, enacting the running of the horses. The second sentence came from Don Quixote and was somewhat of an anthesis to McCarthy’s. It was filled with punctuation and interrupted itself, which produced a sense of self-consciousness. The third sentence came from Italian Hours by Henry James, which we were able to synthesize into one sentence: to dwell in a modern city is to live a double life. The sentence was somewhat of a hybrid between the one from All the Pretty Horses and the one from Don Quixote. The fourth and final sentence was from Blood Meridian, also by Cormac McCarthy. We found this sentence to be somehow short and long at the same time, another hybrid. Ultimately this sentence best represented the long sentence’s ability to build upon itself. The Challenge: Write a poem or story in one long sentence. Don’t worry about whether or not your story or poem makes sense. Only concern yourself with how much you can fit into the writing. Make your sentence as long as possible. See what happens. The Participants: Emma, Josh, Ellie, Fatehbir, Shiva, Chelsea, Alice, Zar, Lina, Samantha To watch all of the readings from this workshop, click here. Emma Hoff, 10(Bronx, NY) In the Room of Pharaohs, We Meet Emma Hoff, 10 There were many different countries in the world, and she, he, you, and I knew that, but we would investigate and learn about the world, the universe, the planet, and we would eventually meet in a strange place, the museum, where outside that ominous building the grasses grew tall and had also been sheared short into the gray cement and where there was a fountain, with little gray steps that dared you to climb them, because that was where the little children ran and played in their bathing suits and bare feet; the opening of doors in the night on the other side of the world and the closing of them in the morning stayed in rhythm with the constant laughter emitted by the children, and a couple of businesspeople walked along the streets which matched their prim and perfect suits, but we were not those people, we were from different places and we would all meet in a strange place, the museum, where some briefcases flinched from water droplets and some people bathed in them, where carts selling food wafted their aromas into the faces of innocent passerby and portraits and paintings and photographs created their own museum outside, and smiling faces waited in lines with a few scowling and tired children, or with the happy ones, which scampered around, excited for their turn to climb up the dull-colored steps that led to exotic rooms and echoing chambers and big displays, but we did not have children, we were from different places and we would all meet in a strange place, the museum, and bikes were scary to animals and dogs were scary to daring mountain climbers, and cars skidded along the edges of sidewalks and fences cut you and glared at you, but beyond the fences were trails and flowers and a place to run and dew-soaked hedges and bushes and the crisp air that is humid, warm, and cold, the type you want to walk in forever when you get out of a car, but we did not own any cars, we walked into different places and we would all meet in a strange place, the museum, while looking at Egyptian statues of cats.
Writing Workshop
Writing Workshop #66: Nature Writing
An update from our sixty-sixth Writing Workshop A summary of the workshop held on Saturday, May 21st In this workshop, students practiced writing descriptively about the natural world with examples from J. R. R. Tolkien. William showed pictures of various landscapes, including a few he had taken himself, and as a mini-challenge, had students describe what they saw. William demonstrated that naming certain plants or animals could evoke a more specific sense of place. William also emphasized that you don’t even need to leave your house; you can observe nature on YouTube, a great resource for observing gestures and movements. Lastly, William showed students that science-based nature writing does not need to by dry, but can (and should) be written beautifully, with elements of creative writing such as alliteration. The Challenge: Describe a beautiful place or write a piece that involves one or more animals using any style of writing you wish. This can be a story, poem, nonfiction prose, or any prose style you have in mind, like stream of consciousness or science-based nature writing. The Participants: Pearl, Lena, Eva, Delight, Madisen, Anya, Rachael, Amelia, Aimee, Aditi, Liam, Yueling, Agatha, Sally, Eric, Elbert
How Stories Work—Writing Workshop #38: Anaphora
An update from our thirty-eighth Writing Workshop with Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday, May 21, plus some of the output published below This week we focused on the literary device of anaphora, meaning a repetition of word or phrase at the beginning of successive sentences or poetic lines. From the greek, literally “a carrying back.” After reading the opening passage of A Tale of Two Cities, Walt Whitman’s “I Sing America,” and excerpts from “The Gospel of Mark,” T.S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland,” Mary Ruefle’s “I Remember, I Remember,” Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl,” and MLK’s “I Have a Dream” speech, we were able to diagnose what anaphora brings to writing: rhythm through repetition, intensity/tension, energy, emphasis, and speed. The Challenge: Write a poem or story using anaphora. If you don’t know what phrase or word to repeat, you can an example from class: “I Remember,” “and,” “Blessed are,” or “I saw.” The Participants: Emma, Josh, Ellie, Fatehbir, Shiva, Chelsea, Alice, Zar, Lina, Samantha, Anna To watch all of the readings from this workshop, click here. Emma Hoff, 10(Bronx, NY) Things Are Like Onions Emma Hoff, 10 You see dreams as you pad down the hallway. You see the things in your head. You see monsters bragging they can best Death and monsters lounging around doing nothing. They’re not that scary, now are they? You see your face laughing on a screen. You see a newswoman doing your makeup and your hair and your clothes just so that you can see and hear yourself bray an alarm call. You see a monster that has your face. You see a replacement. You see a reason to go back and a reason to be trapped. You see a river. You see your still done-up face on the screen, drowning in it. You see yourself not being able to swim. You see people holding you down. You see yourself surviving and dying. You see the alarm call that was for you. You see regret and so much fear. Colors: the whole entire rainbow of things and nouns and words. Colors: big bulky sentences you hold up with your scratched hands. Colors: trees and then lampposts and then that big wooden pole outside your window. Colors: can you see it? Colors: your attitude that races ahead of you. Colors: teachers tell you to control yourself but when you don’t you can grow wings. Colors: your class oohing and ahhing at your talent and you suddenly at the back of the crowd. I’m reading an author. I’m reading a book. I’m reading an answer to a question I didn’t read. I’m reading the answer sheet for a test and then forgetting it. I’m reading fun. I’m reading paragraphs and paragraphing myself. I’m reading knives for slicing. I’m reading faces and rooms and body language because people tell me to. I’m reading my own writing as I’m writing it because I am reading. I’m reading buttons and codes and all that stuff. I’m reading what you never read. Why did Sally kill her fish? Why did James stick his finger in the camera when it was about to take a picture? Why did Lulu destroy the pillow? Why did Mary break the glass? Why did Archibald run? Why did Charlie barrel into so many people? Why did Ari ask so many questions? Why did Camila’s limp hand break the glass of her coffin before she was buried? Things are like bird beaks, sharp. Things are like wine bottle corks, popping out of places you never knew existed. Things are like onions. Things are like walls. Things are like freedom and restraint. Things are like things because everything is a thing and that’s just the thing. Things are like the universe and the planets: we swirl everything together.