An update from our twenty-eighth Writing Workshop! A summary of the workshop held on Saturday November 14, plus some of the output published below This week we focused on word choice as a way for writers to be sure they have conveyed their meaning as they meant to, and so that their readers will understand it. We looked at different approaches to considering choice of words, from expanding on idea by showing, rather than telling; to finding alternative words using synonyms and antonyms (with a warning about the possible pitfalls of the Thesaurus!); and a reminder about editing and re-writing (“Murder your darlings”). We briefly compared the first draft to the final version of Wilfred Owen’s poem Anthem for Doomed Youth and discussed how we felt about the various changes he had made–some of them ruthless–and how they strengthened the work. Then, we talked about 6-word stories, and how the work of cutting down one’s work can focus the reader (and the writer) on the key elements of your story. The Writing Challenge: Write a short story in 5 minutes; then spend the rest of the time analysing and cutting it down to the essentials, to make a 6-word story. The Participants: Charlotte, Lena, Georgia, Lena, Sadie, Angela, Anna, Anya, Ava, Charlotte, Elbert, Emma, Enni, Helen, Janani, Jonathan, Juniper, Keyang, Liam, Lina, Lucy, Ma’ayan, Madeline, Margaret, Olivia, Peri, Rithesh, Samantha, Nova, Teagan, Tilly, Ever. Anya Geist, 14Worcester, MA Ruins Crumble Anya Geist, 14 Original The wind softly blew, just a puff of breath. But it was a breath, it was alive, unlike the ruins over which it looked. The walls were crumbled and decayed, nearly churned to dust on the ground; the largest structure remaining was an archway where a door once stood. The trees all around the ruins were slumped and hunched, their long delicate fingers bent toward the ground in a perpetual state of mourning. Because in all honesty, this was a funeral. A funeral that had been going on for decades, as the coffin—the house—was slowly lowered into the ground; and the wind was its family, leaving it one last kiss as it departed from the world of the living. Six word version Ruins crumble in a gentle wind. Peri Gordon, 11Sherman Oaks, CA The Near-Doom Incident Peri Gordon, 11 Original We were hiking. I didn’t want to stroll. I stretched my legs and launched ahead of my parents, feet flying freely over the sandy trail. The foliage glittered around me like green and brown angels, but I paid no notice. I arrived at a place where a family was, positioned as if struggling to see something, but all I saw was rough, brown ground. They called for me to stop. My parents caught up. “Peri, they were taking a picture!” But no, they were not. The family pointed at a small, slithering thing snaking its way up the path. A rattlesnake. We showed our gratitude to the family that had saved me from doom, and we were on our way. No more running. Six word version Dashing ahead. Snake. Could’ve been doomed. Liam Hancock, 13Danville, CA Demons Liam Hancock, 13 Original Quaking fingers trace the deepest curves of the cup. A glass half full to me, half empty to her. Memories play out in her mind—memories of a battlefield where shells litter the ground alongside fighters. Fighter. She’s a fighter with no weapon. Enemy. She’s an enemy whose hands are clean of sin. Haunted. She is haunted, but those of us who have seen the worst are those of us whose lips are sealed the tightest. Six word version Today’s demons will haunt us tomorrow. Lina Kim, 10Weston, FL Too ManyOriginal Lina Kim, 10 Original A wolf. Two wolves, three wolves. Emerging from the pack. I stand before them. Too many. I am alone; they are too many to count. Will no one come to my aid? The alpha growls. I flinch. What to do? There are too many. Too many to befriend them all, to bend them towards trusting me. Too many to fight. Too many to ignore. Oh, how I wish they could be ignored. I do not wish to be torn apart. I would not wish that upon my worst enemy. Actually, I did once wish that upon my worst enemy. Too many. I cannot run for my life. I cannot fight back. I cannot do anything but stand, stand, stand, waiting to be rescued or torn apart. A rustle. Two, three, four rustles. Several more rustles of the leaves. Is someone coming to save me? More rustles. My pack rushes towards me. To fight against the others. I join them in the fight. I am the Zeta1. I am the general. I will help my family fight. Tonight, We will win. 1the Zeta is the lead warrior in a wolf pack. Six word version I lead my pack into battle. Elbert Park, 8Palo Alta, CA Untitled Elbert Park, 8 Original The rain was pouring. I had no protection. I had maximum adrenaline. I had to run, but I had nowhere to go soon. The coast was nearing, and that meant that either I was trapped and came out dead, or I was trapped and came out alive. I made a berserk run to the coast and soon washed up against it. . . I took for cover in a nearby house. It only took seconds, but for me it felt like an eternity. . . Six word version Rain pours No mercy I’m trapped Lucy Rados, 13Buffalo, NY Untitled Lucy Rados, 13 Original Lola stared wistfully outside the green glass window, waiting for her father, secretly knowing that he wouldn’t show up. It was like this every day, her absent father, her mother lying in bed of a sickness that never seemed to fade. Lola just wanted a normal happy, family. Instead she was stuck in this cycle of being the odd girl, the one left out of the rest of the
Jane Levi
Writing Workshop #23: Objects and Stories
An update from our twenty-third Writing Workshop! A summary of the workshop held on Saturday October 3, plus some of the output published below This week, Stone Soup team member Jane Levi led a discussion about objects and their important role in building stories. We talked about useful, functional objects that might carry the action forward (referring to Chekhov’s famous comment that if you put a gun on the wall in the first scene, someone needs to fire it in the second) and symbolic objects that add additional layers of meaning for the reader which goes beyond their basic function as props. Starting with John Keats’ Ode on a Grecian Urn, where his detailed description of an ancient Greek vase becomes an opportunity for the poet to muse on time, beauty and truth, we discussed tokens from the Foundling Hospital as examples of simple things weighted with emotional significance that have inspired storytellers from Jacqueline Wilson to Charles Dickens. We moved on to think about writers like Philip Pullman and J.K. Rowling who have invented new objects or transformed the characteristics of existing ones (e.g. the alethiometer and the Mirror of Erised) to add interest and additional layers of meaning to their work, emphasising how helpful research can be. Sometimes, even a close look at the definition of words in a major source like the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) can uncover new possibilities in objects we think we already know. Finally, after a quick look at a real object (a police box) transformed into a fantastical one which almost becomes a character in its own right (Dr Who’s TARDIS), we moved into our half an hour of writing. This week, James, Madeline, Gia, Liam, Georgia, Ma’ayan and Nova read their work to the group for feedback from William and Jane. With stories involving no fewer than three different creepy dolls (!), we enjoyed some dramatic readings and a few moments of real horror, as well as some strong, evocative writing that really made us see, smell, feel and hear a range of meaningful objects from pencils to phone booths, and blankets to bracelets. Thank you everyone for another great class, and read on below to sample some of the great work produced during our workshop. The Writing Challenge: Write about an object in great detail. Make your readers able to see, hear, touch, smell it! You may choose to describe a real object, transform an existing object into a different version of itself, or invent a completely new one. The Participants: Nova, Rithesh, Katie, Charlotte, Georgia, Peri, Lucy, 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, Georgia. Lena Aloise, 11Harvard, MA The Pearl Earring Lena Aloise, 11 The house was empty, beds stripped of their linens, closet shelves bare. But in the midst of this desolate place, there was a pair of pearl earrings sitting on the windowsill. Mere pinpricks against a large expanse of rotting wood. It was very easy to miss them, if you were not looking carefully. But there they were, a fine layer of dust coating the perfect white orbs. Smooth to the touch, solid in one’s palm. A glistening surface mirrored its surroundings. He imagined a woman, dressed in her most elegant gown, putting the pearls through her ears, holding a hand mirror up to her face with the utmost satisfaction. Taking the arm of her husband and dancing, twirling, skirts billowing around her narrow frame. What had happened to the girl who had once worn something so beautiful? He shoved them deep into his jacket pocket and headed for home, boots making deep marks amongst the thick layer of white snow. The Bell Lena D., 12 It rings for a long time It dings The sound of it Makes me feel happy The essence made out of metal Touches my heart with joy Even if I am lonely It will bring cheer to the air I loved that sound Ever since I can remember I can feel its power Within the joy I sigh in happiness Forever I say that it is Not like any bell I know It’s ding Is like a great joy alarm Fire in my heart Like a burst of ember Scarly missing me Darkness collides But no I say This is not the great joy That I see everyday No It is not The great joy that I see Everyday I think deep Thoughts of the world And the darkness Is now gone From here Forever Peri Gordon, 11Sherman Oaks, CA The Chandelier Peri Gordon, 11 Nothing has been the same since I found a mysterious chandelier hanging above the spot where my regular lamp should be. It was swinging as if placed there recently, with stars, stripes, and spirals engraved into the sterling silver. Stranger still, all of the small golden flames in the little silver candle holder were all connected to a center flame, blazing blue, with sparks flying everywhere. Then I remembered my colleague was scheduled to come over. I attempted to extinguish the candles with water, which seemed to be the source of the trouble, but new flames would appear, seeming to burst out of the engravings. My dining room was a mess, with water on the floor and the chandelier more dangerous than ever. It occurred to me that the fire was not spreading or burning me or acting like fire at all. Maybe, I thought, it’s not that dangerous? Well, it was dangerous. My colleague arrived. When I didn’t let her in, she started pounding on the door, demanding I tell her what was going on. That’s when the chandelier started moving through the dining room, through the hall, and—this couldn’t be real—moving right through the door. I felt the responsibility to follow, so, even though I was scared to death, I did.
Weekly Writing Workshop #18, Friday July 31: Writing About Food
An update from our eighteenth Weekly Writing Workshop! A summary of the workshop, plus some of the output published below The Stone Soup Weekly Writing Workshop is open to all Stone Soup contributors and subscribers. Every Friday, we meet for an hour-and-a-half 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. Our conversation on July 31 was joined by writers from across the US, and in Canada, as well. Our topic was “writing about food,” and using food to display character traits in our writing. We started our session with an excerpt from Winnie the Pooh, and an excerpt from Alice in Wonderland. In both of those, we discussed how the food mentioned in the excerpt gave us a better sense of what the character in the scene was like. Next, we moved on to an excerpt from Voyage of the Dawn Treader (the fifth book in the Narnia series), where magical elements were combined with the presence of a dinner in order to give us, the readers, a better sense of the setting and the uncanny mix of strange (the place and the creatures) and ordinary (the food and the mealtime). Our fourth excerpt was from Heidi, which is about a girl who lives in the Alps with her grandparents, and is taken away to the city to live with a wealthy family where she is very unhappy. In Heidi, we examined the chapter in which Heidi is sent back to the mountains to be reunited with her grandparents, and the way that food is woven through it to contrast rich and poor, city and country–Heidis brings her grandmother soft white rolls in contrast to her usual hard dark bread–and the joy of tasting and smelling home (for Heidi, goat milk). Finally, we looked at an excerpt from the diary of Samuel Pepys, in which Pepys describes the Great Fire of London, and how he and his friend decided to save some cheeses and wine; and also at an excerpt from writing by Mary Frances Kennedy Fisher, where she uses food to tell a family story, and reflect on her childhood. After this, we set to writing our own piece using food as a core component of the narrative. Read on to experience some of the powerful writing we were given a glimpse of in our workshop! The Writing Challenge: Write a story where food plays a key role. The Participants: Shreya, Simran, Janani, Ever, Liam, Heather, Peri, Madeline, Vishnu, Suman, Aditi, James, Charlotte, Maddie, Shel, Ma’ayan, Sasha, Lena, Kanav, Hera, and more… Peri Gordon, 10Sherman Oaks, CA The Unfair Meal Peri Gordon, 10 When Chester reported to dinner, he found Ana already eating with their host, Mrs. Ray, and not thinking twice about it. When Mrs. Ray spotted him, she seemed to give him a slight scowl. She served him noticeably smaller portions than Ana was getting, and his soup was cold. Chester knew that his sister was always the favored guest over him, being more charismatic than he was and creating no sort of trouble for the host, but Mrs. Ray was taking this too far. He couldn’t wait to get back to his parents, who loved both their children and gave them equal and equally good portions of food. Liam Hancock, 12Danville, CA The Highlander and the Hunt Liam Hancock, 12 “I’m sorry.” His whisper comes from immediately behind me yet from a thousand miles away. As far as I’m concerned, all there is in the world are these caves, these spirits, and my leather boots that hike up to my knees. Worn, leather boots. The kind that I’ve casually slipped into since I could first walk and lift them from the ground and into the air and shoot an arrow and bring home a fattened ox so that we could finally have dinner after a long dust bowl in the summer. I feel his hand on my shoulder. I’ve never before noticed how strong, how heavy his hands are when they’re holding something other than a spear or a hide. Because when they’re holding my two shoulders, it’s easy to forget where he came from. It’s much too easy. To forget he’s a Highlander, and that Highlanders hurt and they slaughter and they throw rocks into our sticks until they feel satisfied with the kill count for the day. Hesitantly, I look up to him. He’s turned away from the cliffside, from the caves. Behind his own build, there’s the Seamstress, gilded with ancient chiseled boulders and carved by time. Never mind what I’ve thought before. Now, the world is back with me. I can’t hold it in my fingers or watch it slip away with the cruel whisper of mountain air. I’m alive. He’s alive. We’re both alive. It’s all I’ve ever needed. The two of us, best friends forever, up on the cliffside hunting for the oxen and hawk that our starving families need. “It’s okay,” I whisper back, afraid that a raised voice will shatter this valley after all it’s years of work. “Let’s move on.” I press on forward, keeping my eyes drawn to the loose trail we’ve treaded since the fall brought us hunger. Gripping hunger. Even as a midlander, I was left grasping for something, anything that could fit into my throat. And even as a highlander, he knew that the cities couldn’t provide for him anymore. For us. “The oxen will probably be up on the Splat,” he warns, pointing in the general direction of the cliff’s edge. “I’ve heard the grass is growing rather fruitfully up there this season.” I nod silently and slice cleanly through a thicket of oasis brush. I’ve never much liked the Splat, especially for hunting, but it’s a necessary evil if we have a hankering for oxen. They can’t get enough of the place. As we wade through Forgery Pond, a frigid little pocket of
