An update from our thirty-ninth Writing Workshop A summary of the workshop held on Saturday May 1, plus some of the output published below In his second class in the spring 2021 series, William took us on a journey to the spirit world, looking at mysterious manifestations in fiction and popular culture, from Caspar the Ghost to the ghost of Hamlet’s father. We considered the different language used to describe ghosts and spirits, and the tricks used by writers and movie-makers to show us ghosts and spirits of people who aren’t really there. We saw excerpts of two versions of Hamlet, one in which his ghost father appears through a (somewhat traditional) mist, and anther more contemporary version where the ghost appears through the glass on an apartment balcony. We discussed some of the reasons fictional ghosts might appear, in particular (like Hamlet’s father), restless spirits who have unfinished business. The Challenge: Write a story where a spirit manifests itself in non-corporeal form (a mist, a vision through glass, a wind, a scent) and/or has unfinished business. The Participants: Julia, Leo, Sierra, Mia, Lina, Lena A, Lena DN, Margaret, Maddie, Jaya, Peri, Sage, Delight, Hanbei, Helen, Gia, Pranjoli, Reese, Rachael, Mahika, Jonathan, Angela, Anna, Audrey, Charlotte, Grace, Tilly, Peter. Peri Gordon, 11Sherman Oaks, CA Andrew’s Will Peri Gordon, 11 Samuel had made a pact with his wealthy brother, Andrew. When Andrew died, he would leave half his fortune to Samuel in his will. But when Andrew passed, no will of his could be found. It left Samuel tremendously angry. At the same time, he mourned the loss of his brother. With his mind toggling between the two emotions, Samuel felt as if he were in a cage of steel, the robust metal reinforced by layers of grief and fury. He skipped work, skipped sleeping, skipped eating. He just sat in silence. But it only took two days for him to receive the shock of his life. He was sitting rigidly, the only movement on his body coming from the tears that would race each other down the man’s face, made even faster by the incoming wind. The moment this last concept was absorbed into his brain, Samuel sat up straighter, his eyebrows raised. All doors and windows were closed; the air should not have been swirling as quickly as it was. The air was heavy, too; it billowed, bounced, and seemed to breathe. And then. . . it spoke. “I’m sure this will come as a shock to you, but I see no way to soften it. I have not been peacefully at rest for the past two days.” The voice was silky-smooth and deep. In fact, it sounded like a less self-assured Andrew. Samuel shuddered, wondering whether he had gone mad. He looked up, where the unexpected wind had formed and where the voice was coming from, and felt a warm, comforting sensation, as if he could sense Andrew’s body heat returning. Samuel knew this was ridiculous, as the hand of Andrew’s body had been cold. But after pinching himself, Samuel knew that this could not be a dream. “Andrew. What are you doing here? How can you be alive–” the moment he finished the word “alive,” Andrew spoke up again. “Of course I am not,” said his disembodied voice. “I am obviously dead.” Samuel protested, “But how can you be here?” The voice answered, “I am a voice and a mist. You might call me a ghost, or a spirit. And I have good reason to be here. An unfulfilled promise, specifically.” Samuel started to ask what that was, but then he remembered. “The pact. Andrew, why didn’t you create a will?” Andrew explained, “I died suddenly in the night. I hadn’t expected it or prepared for it. My brother, you know I’ve never been prepared. But now, I will provide you with what I always said I would. Half my fortune will go to you, and then I will be gone.” Delight Kim, 11Glendale, CA The Spirit of the Muffin Girl Delight Kim, 11 Muma always said, “No ghosts, Zeline. If you ever meet one, turn away and run.” before I went to sleep. And even though I knew the stories of ghosts were rubbish, it kept me awake. The soft rustling of the velvet curtains, the whispers outside my window and the small creaks in the old wooden stairs were always there. I always got a tense feeling that someone was in our house. The sounds frightening me, chilling my bones, holding my eyes awake. So I decided I would find the culprit. If there was one, anyway. Getting up at 1:37, known as the ghost’s minute, I crept down the hall to our praise room, the room where my family honored the dead. Amazingly, the candles were still lit and the bread and goodies that were from last week were mostly fresh. Then I noticed suspicious activity. There was no wind, but the smoke from the candles was curling and bending in an odd way, like hands molding tack putty. The bread was rolling around the table and I had to steady them a countless amount of times to keep them from falling. A munching and a “Mmmm,” came from behind me. I whirled around, grabbing a cross that Muma told me that would fend off unwanted spirits and I thrust it in front of me. There, a spirit, a girl no older or younger than me, was licking the dulce de leche frosting off a triple chocolate muffin. My eyes widened. She screamed and fell off the chair she was sitting on into a large bucket, but I didn’t. I was too frightened, anyway. The muffin flew in the air but was miraculously caught by some invisible force and led to an empty plate. “Who are you?” The spirit licked her lips. “What are you doing in my house?” She tried to get up but the bucket held still. “Y-your house?” I asked.
writing workshop
How Stories Work-Writing Workshop #2: Plot Vs. Narrative
An update from our second Writing Workshop with Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday April 24, plus some of the output published below In the second Writing Workshop of the Spring/Summer Session led by Conner Bassett, we discussed the differences between plot and narrative. Firstly, we considered the fact that while all plots are narratives, not all narratives are plots. Following this, we distinguished narrative as a general term that encompasses all stories, and whose events are incidental as well as connected by the conjunction “and.” Plot, however, was how a story is told, meaning that events follow “and so,” leading to a deliberate beginning, middle and end. We then discussed the significance of plot, how it provides a narrative with inevitability, connectivity, and consequence through its ability to imbue every individual action with meaning. Next, we moved into a musical exercise as a means of further distinguishing plot vs. narrative, listening to an excerpt from “So What,” by Miles Davis, and an excerpt from the third movement of Beethoven’s Fifth, coming to the conclusion that the meandering, roaming tune from Miles Davis better represented narrative, while the building, crescendoing nature of Beethoven’s Fifth represented plot. To wrap things up, we discussed the sequential narrative of Don Quixote, and the taught, precise plot of the story of Moses. The Challenge: Choose one of three paintings between Starry Night by Van Gogh, The Scream by Edvard Munch, or Nighthawks by Edward Hopper. Once you’ve chosen a painting, write a story or poem that progresses towards a conclusion, the conclusion being the image of the painting. Nighthawks The Scream Starry Night The Participants: Helen, Jackson, Olivia, Sena, Isolde, Harine, Emma, Svitra, Josh, Aditi, Audrey, Emizzi, Noa, Sasha Sasha D, 10Moseley, VA One Starry Night Sasha D, 10 “Shake a leg Gabby, we are going to be late!” Papa yelled at me. “I’m tryin I’m tryin!” I yelled back. We ran, ducking under people, trying to get to the bank. Mama and Papa forgot to pay the bills because we are moving out of our house. Papa is desperate to get money out of the bank so he can use it to pay bills. Mama has a night shift, so I have to come along. Papa can be mean when he gets stressed out. That’s why I tried not to say a word while we were walking. Mama and Papa are also going on a date in 2 hours. We don’t have enough money to hire a babysitter, which means that I must come along. They say that when I am 15 I will be allowed to stay home all by myself. But that feels like forever! “We are almost there, Gabby!” Papa exclaimed. I did not say a word. I knew Papa would’ve cut me off. Papa burst into the town’s bank, Country Side’s Coins. Everybody stopped and stared. I tried to act like I didn’t know him, but everybody in town knows who we are. “Welcome Mr. Collins.” Mr. Merryson said with a smile. I gasped. “Mr. Merryson!” I yelled. I ran around the desk to give him a BIG hug! “Long time no see, Troy.” Papa said, shaking his hand. “Will you be able to watch me tonight while Mama and Papa go out on their date?” I asked Mr. Merryson with puppy dog eyes. “I am afraid not my little Gabby.. Mrs. Merryson is very ill. I must make sure she will be okay.” Mr. Merryson said with depression. “Oh. Alright. I hope Mrs. Merryson feels better!” I said, sounding gloomy. I stood over by the front entrance, waiting for Papa. Mr. Merryson and Papa talked most of the time until Papa realized it was 8:30 at night. Mr. Merryson gave Papa the money, and we rushed to Mama’s job. Mama works at an Appliance Store. Folks around here mostly call it Amazing Appliances. “Papa? We should take a carriage there. It’ll be faster.” I suggested. “No, Gabby. You don’t understand-” “But I do! I do understand, Papa!” “No! You do not!” Papa said. I could feel a tear slowly slide down my cheek. We kept on walking in silence. We had arrived at Mama’s job. “Oh, Gabby!” Mama yelled. Mama ran to me and picked me up. “Mama!” I said as we hugged. On our way to their date spot, Papa let me ride on his back. “Look, Mama, Papa!” I said as I pointed up to the sky. One little dot had appeared. Several appeared after. Papa looked at the sky too. “You know what? We don’t need a fancy restaurant…..” Papa said. “Huh?” Mama and I both said. Papa put me down and crumbled up the reservation paper and threw it in the garbage can. “Why would you do that?” I asked. Papa just smiled as he held my hand, as well as Mama. As we walked all the way home, Mama and Papa were talking about things I did not understand. Once we got home, Mama and Papa got warm blankets from inside. “ I wonder.. ” I thought to myself. Mama and Papa came out with 3 blankets. Papa lay down the 3 blankets on the soft, newly cut, green grass. He laid on his blanket, put his hands behind his head, and sighed. “What are you looking at, Papa?” I asked. “The stars!” Papa said, still looking at the stars. “Oh!” I said. “May I do that as well, Papa?” I asked, looking at Papa. “Of course, Gabby!!” Papa said. I got in the same position as Papa. I smiled as I gazed up into the sky that was lit up by these little dots that go by the name, Stars. “Mama?” I said. “Yes, Gabriela?” Mama replied. “Can I name the stars?” I asked. “Well… if you would like…” Mama said, confused. I squealed silently. “That one is Sarah, this one Sam, Sadie, Samuel, Rachel, Brady, Briley, Ryan, and Katy!” I only named a few.
How Stories Work-Writing Workshop #1: And
An update from our first Writing Workshop with new teacher, Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday, April 17, plus some of the output published below In his first class under the official title of Stone Soup Creative Writing Instructor, Conner Bassett “called an audible,” and delivered a scintillating lecture on the use of “and” in literature as well as visual art. As he reminded us, although this was our first official workshop together, all of us, students and staff alike, are in the midst of our writing journeys, making this Writing Workshop less of a beginning, and more of an “and.” Over the course of the workshop, we learned about the uniquely conjoining, relational, and aggregational nature of the swiss army knife contraction, noting specifically its different uses within the titles Crime and Punishment and Being and Nothingness. We also looked at Marcel Duchamp’s conversion of a urinal into a “fountain” in his famous museum exhibition, noticing how this subversion of meaning connoted the effect of the word “and.” Moving through the expression of “and” in works by Magritte, Warhol, the general nature of Islamic art, and in the effect of the comic panel, we read an excerpt from Cormac McCarthy’s All the Pretty Horses in order to see the “speed” of and. Finally, we considered “and’s” ability to transcend time and conjoin the present with the past in Ezra Pound’s poetic masterwork The Cantos, and Dylan Thomas’ poem “And Death Shall Have No Dominion.” And, of course, at the end of the workshop we wrote! The Challenge: In 30 minutes, write one of three types of pieces; one, write a story or poem where you replace every period with the word “and”; two, write a story or poem that begins “in the middle,” beginning with the word “and”; or, three, start a new story or poem at the end of an old one, beginning with the word “and.” The Participants: Emma, Harine, Georgia, Helen, Aditi, Olivia, Simran, Liam, Svitra, Noa, Anya, Audrey, Isolde, Alice, Samantha, Maddy, Sena, Sasha, Sinan, Emizzi, Jackson, Sophia. Anya Geist, 14Worcester, MA The House That Didn’t Fit In Anya Geist, 14 And the whole house seemed to not quite fit in, always a bit out-of-place. The floors were old and scuffed but regal nevertheless, so whenever I saw them I was reminded of the days when a creaky old house with rusty nails leaching through the peeling white paint was fresh and new, not a relic of a bygone era by the side of a road where motorcycles revved their engines late into the night. The windows, too, gave off this odd sense, with their dust-caked panes and sagging sashes and musty curtains. Not so much windows they were, as rippled, dirty pieces of glass shoved into the wall. And there was one window I recalled, in the living room above the stiff old couch with a stained glass drawing, again so hopelessly out of place—both out of place in this out-of-time mass of a house and out of place at the junction of two rural New Hampshire highways—where the sun would stream in, alighting the whole place, the rugs, the armchairs, the old wedding photos decaying on side tables in little ornate frames with a glow that perhaps belonged more in a cathedral; not, like I said, at a rural highway junction, nor in a house with a tiny first-floor bathroom painted with peeling wallpaper and smothered by this old, rundown smell, maybe which had something to do with the horrible squeaks that came out of the faucets—two faucets, one hot, one cold; that’s how old it was!—and washed your hands with slimy soap. Yes, even the soap didn’t fit in—or maybe it did, since it was all weird and felt gross on your hands when you thrust them under the frigid iron-filled water—but it didn’t really fit with the whole modern world; it didn’t leave you feeling clean. And then up the stairs—the stairs were steep, sharp, and one could imagine them in an old colonial town, and I do believe the house was from the 1800s—you would find the bedrooms. The bedrooms above the kitchen with the terribly old stove that I don’t believe could be used anymore and instead took up space and held different jars of jam which I always thought could be sold at the local farmer’s market, and we’d use the jam to make sandwiches with bread from that same farmer’s market on that little fold-out table that always seemed as if it might fall apart. At any rate, the bedrooms were stuffed with pillows and such because no one ever really used them except for the master bedroom, stuffed with Cabbage Patch dolls and little plastic toys from when we were toddlers—how out of place, 21st century manufacturing was in this house! Truly most things were out of place. This house, old and falling apart only ten feet from the highway—quite literally ten feet—and so near to that corner store which also was a gas station, and doesn’t even have heating for the winter. But then—when I walked around the side of the house—it didn’t even have a back door, except in the basement, and I daren’t go down to the basement—I saw the backyard, which was unkempt and wild and disturbed by those pesky motorcycles screeching down the road at ten at night, and maybe the house wasn’t so out of place after all. Emma Hoff, 9Bronx, NY Sensibility Emma Hoff, 9 And when she was picked, she had long hair. Long, flowing hair, dark as the night sky, which never seemed to be blue, and dark as the colors of the witches cloaks, which were always pulled so tightly around themselves, like how tight the buns on top of their heads were. We had a visit from the most important witches recently, they were here to choose. I had always been a promising child. “Lots of potential, just needs to speak up more.”
