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
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.
How Stories Work—Writing Workshop #18: Monster Poetry
An update from our eighteenth Writing Workshop with Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday October 23, plus some of the output published below In anticipation for Halloween next week, and in conjunction with last week’s partial focus on the “monstrous body,” this week we focused on the neglected art form of short poems about monsters. Thus, we looked at exclusively literary examples, beginning with “Monsters” by Dorothea Lasky, which offered a change in the typical point of view. We then read a host of other poems ranging from “A Boat” by Richard Brautigan to “A Monster Owl” by Lorine Niedecker to “Theme in Yellow” by Carl Sandberg to “All Hallows” by Louise Glück to “And the Ghosts” by Graham Foust—a haunting one line poem. We finished with a close reading of William Blake’s famous poem, “The Tyger”. The Challenge: Two Parts. Part one: in fifteen minutes, write a monster poem. Part two: change the poem line by line by writing each line’s exact opposite. The Participants: Emma, Clara, Josh, Simran, Nova, Lina, Ellie, Audrey, Alice, Olivia, Shilla, Svitra Emma Hoff, 9(Bronx, NY) Monsters (original) Emma Hoff, 9 Some things crawl, asking for the mirror, something to break, smiling at us, rosy pink cheeks. Little cherubs are us, winged creatures, flying through the air, we flap our wings and kiss the other wings. Other things are obstacles, they braided my hair, I braided theirs, walking and walking along, tiredly, as if we had just risen. Along the path are scissors, so many combs and brushes, they rip my hair like a rope, like a cord. I took a step away, eyes blank, never colored in a book. Little children haunt me always, little birds, flitting around with wings of steel and iron, we call them machines. Ten days later you wake, asking others where you were, they tell you that they were in Hawaii and did not creep into your space. I begin to get wet, other forces are getting together, drying themselves, while I, I am under a mushroom, bigger than myself (I am an ant) and I wished I was sleeping like you. I dream of deserts, you dream of snow, everyone has a rainbow entering through a special door. Nobody ever actually becomes an actor. They have to wait for others to come, to say their words, I talked to them and they invaded me. Monsters (flipped) Things don’t crawl, they don’t want the mirror, they do not shatter, do not smile, their faces are pale with no color. We know nothing about cherubs, falling, wingless creatures, we have no wings to flap, we do not find the other wings. No obstacles in our way, and we never braid each other’s hair, we are lazy, we never walk, we always sleep. No scissors along our path, no combs, no brushes, my hair remains pristine, never ripped or pulled. I never had to take a step away, eyes were always full, colored, perfectly colored. I love little children, birds are gigantic, they do not flit around on wings, they do not work mechanically. You never wake, you never ask where you have gone, the others never go anywhere either. I am dry, I am alone, and everything is normal, I was sleeping, wished I was running. We do not dream of anything, no light, no color, can enter through our special doors. Everyone can act. We do not have to wait, do not have to talk, or listen, I left unscathed and healthy.
