Join one sentence with another
For about eight months now, I've been taking
a course at The Writing
Salon called the
Round
Robin. Once a week the
instructor, Jane Underwood, sends a class
email with that week's writing prompts and
partner assignments. Every day, for no
more than twelve minutes, my partner and I
each write on that day's prompt, sending
the resulting "writes" to each other by
email. Occasionally, the prompt is a
photograph. Usually it is a phrase
(yesterday's was "I feel exasperation
tensing my face"), sometimes just a word.
The point is to just do it,
to see what happens when we let our words
flow without forethought or editing. Each
partner responds to the other's work,
pointing out the things that they like,
encouraging the good. The process is
exhilarating and a little scary. I read the
prompt, gnash my teeth, and then start
typing, not knowing where I'll end up.
And where I end up often surprises me. Mainly
I divert my thoughts from real life, bored
with the worn roads of me,
well-traveled and devoid of wildlife. The
words don't tumble, exactly, they waltz,
softshoe onto the page, join me at a
leisurely pace. I start with one sentence,
join it with another, and before you know
it, I have a story. A vignette.
Like this one, so different from what I write
here.
Writing
prompt: The test
It’s nothing. Just a blank sheet of paper,
8.5 x 11 inches. The doctor passes it to me.
I stare at one of the desk legs, slit my eyes
until the carpet and wood blend together, a
fuzzy field of sand and tree.
Did she mention what I am supposed to do with
the paper? Is that the whole point of this
test, to see how I react? Origami isn’t my
thing, doc. I can’t even fold a paper
airplane. And I am not up to folding a cootie
catcher. The idea makes me smile, though, a
cootie catcher with various diagnoses hidden
underneath the flaps, with pictures of clowns
and crazies decorating the outside. Pick a
number, say the riddle, figure out the
problem.
The sheet of paper sits there, like a
command: Do something. So I do. I grab it and
growl, start ripping, take what I’ve ripped
and rip through that as well, doubling,
tripling the thickness of the paper until I
can’t rip anymore. By now I’m stomping around
her desk, going in circles. I take what
remains of the paper and toss it into the
air, cackling as the confetti drops around
us.
I sigh, sit down. “I feel so
much
better. Thanks, Dr. Krapinski.”
She offers me a cigarette.
Image from here by way of I Am the Cheese.
More on cootie
catchers.
