An update from our nineteenth Writing Workshop with Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday October 30, plus some of the output published below Continuing our run of workshops focused on concrete concepts instead of standardized elements of writing, this week we focused on objects because, simply, objects are weird! In order to illustrate this point, we began by looking at a shovel—yes, a shovel, because as it turns out Marcel Duchamp considered the shovel odd enough that he put one up in a museum. Next, we looked at some of the artworks from an exhibit by Katarina Kamprani, wherein she slightly transformed ordinary household objects—a hammer, a knife, for example—into unusable things, the idea being that the exhibit invites us to consider how strange objects are. We then discussed a few paintings—Still Life with Skull by Cezanne, Violin and Candlestick by Georges Braque, and Sunflowers by Van Gogh, to name a few, all of which presented objects in a distorted, alienating light. From our discussion of paintings we moved into a discussion of poetry, beginning with Wallace Stevens’ strange poem “Anecdote of the Jar,” in which the central object, a jar, seemed to transform itself and its surroundings with its strangeness. We also read “Perception of an Object Costs” by Emily Dickinson, which suggested that by perceiving an object, the object somehow eludes us and escapes our perception, two poems by Gertrude Stein—”A Box” and “Mildred’s Umbrella”—and “The Crystal” by Clark Coolidge. The Challenge: Three short exercises done in ten minutes each. First, choose an object either near you or imagined. Then, one: write a funny poem/story about your object, two: write a scary poem/story about your object, and three: write a sad poem/story about your object. The Participants: Audrey, Simran, Josh, Emma, Lina, Ethan, Shilla, Ellie, Olivia, Svitra, Sinan, Alice B Svitra Rajkumar, 13(Fremont, CA) The Deadly Jasmine Svitra Rajkumar, 13 It was getting late and Xyian still hadn’t found the last ingredient for the crabapple concoction she was making. She had picked the juiciest blood colored crabapples, some wild hibiscus nectar, yellow poppy seeds, and indigo sugarcane sugar. All she had left were deadly jasmine petals. Unlike the frightening name, the petals of the flower had an exotic flavor that couldn’t be found elsewhere. The deadly parts were the stems. If you were to come in physical contact with a deadly jasmine stem, they would drag you underground with them. However, Xyian was prepared. Her mother, having specialized in potion making, knew a lot about dealing with dangerous ingredients, and gave her special gloves to deal with them. Xyian walked into the dark cave that stood in front of her, pushing aside the long vines that creeped along it’s opening. She shuddered as the chilly air hit her face, and tugged on her coat’s hood.
Writing Workshop
Writing Workshop #51: Apophenia – Finding Patterns in Unrelated Events
An update from our fifty-first Writing Workshop A summary of the workshop held on Saturday October 23rd, plus some of the output published below For this workshop, William introduced the concept of Apophenia, which is when one takes differing, unrelated concepts and ties them together through stories. We took a look at some “chance poems” by Tristan Tzara. We also listened to some pieces of music by John Cage, including his famous 4’33 piece. The challenge: Using an online random word generator, each writer chose 8 verbs that they were challenged to incorporate into a story. The participants: Ethan, Liam, Jonathan, Peri, Lena, Sierra, Kate, Faiz, Madeline, Elbert, Marissa, Samantha, Rachael, Kina Regrets Peri Gordon, 11(Sherman Oaks, CA) Peri Gordon, 12 (The words I had to use: Reject, regret, repeat, request, reflect, result, report, restrict) I reject My regrets. I repeat My request To myself Not to feel, Not to think. About stress. Though I ought To reflect On my mess Of distress Can’t reflect On regret Now my life Just repeats To the beat I have set, Though on my hopes I wouldn’t bet. It results In repeating My reports To myself That better days Will come But there’s really Just regret I succumb To repeating The same thoughts: “Don’t reflect” “No regrets” Keep them buried Keep them hidden Stay erect. I succumb To restricting My real thoughts Of regret. Don’t reflect. Keep them buried. Keep them hidden. Stay erect. Being Lonely Lena D., 12Coarsegold, CA by Lena De Napoli I stared out my window, glancing at the road. There were no cars. No leaves blowing in the wind. And no noise. It all felt empty. The shadows in my room cast giant, ghostly, figures that loomed against me. There was no way of escaping. Rain poured down into my heart, and made the tears fall from my eyes. Barely breathing, I grabbed my purple coat, and headed outside. I didn’t care if I would get soaked. I didn’t care if my hair was unprotected. I didn’t care about the way the wind blew, making it impossible to breathe. I didn’t care about anything. I rushed into the forest, knowing that my shoes were soaked by now, but I ignored it. My life would be over soon. I kept running anyway. The wet leaves stuck to my sneakers as I ran. The river started to flow downstream, and I was almost positive that I was being followed. But I still ran. The trees were blowing rapidly against the wind, holding as tight as they could. The rain was pouring heavier, followed by snow. I had to find shelter, and fast. Suddenly, I stopped. I looked up, glancing at the top of the trees. They were so beautiful and powerful. How had I missed this? That nature is so magnificent and all this time I had been seeing only the blue screen of a cell phone? I kept running, but I decided to go slower this time.
Writing Workshop #50: The concept of being trapped
An update from our fiftieth Writing Workshop A summary of the workshop held on Saturday October 16th, plus some of the output published below William revisited the idea of being trapped, which was the theme of one of the first Stone Soup writing workshops he ever taught—from April 2020, at the very beginning of lockdown. The class went over a variety of ways a person or character might be trapped, which could be physically, like surrounded by one’s enemies, or it could be mentally or emotionally, like trying to please everyone around you. After reading some passages from books that demonstrate a “trap” of some sort, including Dickens’ “Great Expectations” and Kafka’s “The Metamorphosis,” the young writers of the workshop got to work drafting their own stories about a trap. The challenge: Write about a trap of some kind, whether figurative or literal. The participants: Maddie, Peri, Tilly, Elbert, Liam, Jonathan, Sierra, Samantha, Kate, Lena, Aditi, Faiz, Kina, Grace, Iago A Trap Suddenly Evident Peri Gordon, 11(Sherman Oaks, CA) Peri Gordon, 12 In sixth grade, Clarise inhaled A’s as if they were air, A’s topped with pluses like ice cream cones topped with cherries. A’s in black pen and red marker, in the smiles of her teachers, in the jealous scowls of her classmates. Every subject came naturally to her. Writing was just saying what she meant to say, and she sure had a lot to say. Math was fun, and history was interesting. She considered science her worst subject because it was the only class in which she had ever received a B on any assignment. It was a beginning-of-year form her parents had forgotten to fill out on time. It barely affected her overall grade. Clarise’s desk partner, Seth, was constantly complaining about the homework load. So was Clarise, who thought that there was too little homework. She planned to go to Harvard University someday, then to get a Ph.D. and become an English professor there. The sixth grade year flew by. Seth thought it had been too long. Clarise thought it had been too short. Soon, it was the first day of summer break. Ten weeks later, it was the last day. Clarise strolled out of her front door, holding hands with her older brother, Daniel. It was a hot morning, but now a delicate breeze was coming in her direction. The siblings stepped across the narrow pathway that cut through their lawn. One side had been mowed recently. It glimmered in the morning sun. The other side had not been mowed in many weeks. It seemed to plead with Clarise: Please, trim me! Clarise turned away with satisfaction, knowing that mowing the lawn was a chore that belonged to her brother, not her. She would remind him later. But now she wanted to talk about school. “Excited for ninth grade?” she asked. “Nope, not at all,” Daniel replied, sarcastically cheerful. “You excited for seventh grade?” “You bet! It’s probably going to be too easy, though…” Daniel made a face. “Maybe for you. For me, it was a nightmare.” “That’s what you said before sixth grade.” “Oh, really? I’m not surprised.” Clarise chuckled at her brother’s negative attitude and pulled him along, her legs full of energy and anticipation of the next day. The first day of seventh grade came as a shock. Clarise’s locker was the same one that she had had before, but it wasn’t working. Her friend, Eliza, came up to her. “Hey, Clarise! Locker troubles?” “Yep.” “Impossible! Last year, you never once had trouble opening that thing! You were, like, Mistress of the Lockers!” Clarise grunted. “Yeah. I know.” Eliza sighed, then skipped away. “You’ll figure it out!” she called. “You always do!” Clarise wasn’t so sure. In class, she was presented with a math problem she couldn’t figure out. Her classmates all rolled their eyes, sure that she wouldn’t be confused for long. But when Clarise got nothing done on the diagnostic test because of her obsession with that one problem, she had to have a talk with the teacher. “Clarise,” the teacher began, “last year, you finished your diagnostic test in minutes. I was expecting something similar this year.” “Yeah,” Clarise grunted. “So was I.” “Clarise, I was counting on you to help the other students to brush up on their math this first week. Can you still do that?” Of course, Clarise knew she should say yes. She knew she would say yes. She had always been someone who helped her classmates, always been the teacher’s pet. Clarise suddenly didn’t want to say yes. This year’s math was going to give her a headache, she knew. But her perfect sixth grade self had trapped her seventh grade self. She had to be a model student. She always would.
