I have three new assignments here...
Really?
You are to create three short shorts for this new assignment. You will be writing memoirs: nonfiction stories from your own life. You should come up with one title for all three stories as one piece, and they should have a theme or motif which strings them together. This can be anything: a person (little brother, mom), place (playground, supermarket), or thing (trains, teddy bear). Make sure you put them all together in a way that makes sense. Be creative. Oh, and the catch: each of the three pieces must be EXACTLY 150 words long. You must number them in a different color of ink above the double-spaced words.Points:
#1 Plot & Character /10
#2 Plot & Character /10
#3 Plot & Character /10
Description /15
Presentation & Order /10
Theme/Motif /10
Usage /5
Total /70
*You will lose 2 points for each word you are over or under 150 words for each of the three pieces. There is also room for up to 15 points of extra credit for creative presentation and formats.
Oh You Think So, Do You?
Hooray for essays! This isn’t your standard five-paragraph essay, though. You are to write a 2-4 page essay on any topic you like. It helps to choose something you actually know a lot about. You can be serious, but you need to show your personality in this one. Many of you will be happy to take the opportunity to be a little silly, though. Humor is a great way to do that. You can rant, you can rave, you can satirize to your heart’s content. Want to argue about cloning? How about an op ed. on a school rule? Do you have thoughts on those people who go to Roswell every year to greet the aliens? Or how about making fun of those crazy people in government? This can basically be any nonfiction piece besides a narrative. This is NOT your fifth grade report on giraffes or the argument you wrote for civics class. This is your voice, your opinion, your thoughts. This should be fun. I want to know what you think about something and see that you can do it in an organized way.
Points:
Clear objective and backing points /15
Personal Voice, Style, Description /20
Organization /10
Usage /5
Total /50
Slam Dunk!
On Friday, you will be presenting your poem to the class (be ready Monday, January 11 if we don’t get to everyone). Your presentation must take at least TWO MINUTES. The sky’s the limit. Make it about anything you want—any topic, any story, any mood, tone, or feeling, whatever. The important part in this assignment is getting a little outside your comfort zone and really putting yourself out there. How you speak and hold yourself is part of the deal. Also, you must turn in a hard copy to me. You are required to do at least three of the following:Pun/play on words
Alliteration
Allusion
Rhyming
Repetition (word or phrase)
Points:
Presentation /10
Min. 3 elements above /15
Two minutes /5
Hard copy /5
Total /35
Monday, April 26, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
Fiction Parts 6-8
Exercise 48
Internal Obsession with an Imagined Simultaneous Event…
If Sasha left a message, it would his fifth over seven calls after six rings each in the last nine minutes. He couldn’t fathom what Angela would be doing which wouldn’t allow her the luxury to pick up her phone. She always had it turned on. Class? Not on Sunday. With friends? They wouldn’t care. Another man? His past girlfriends maybe, but not Angela. They unquestioningly, unabashedly, unequivocally loved one another. Driving? No. She dangerously answered calls swerving through ice-covered highways. Oh god. There had been a snowstorm in Poughkeepsie the night before. Here he was ice fishing with buddies in Vancouver, and she was frozen in a ditch somewhere. Her car was white! No one would find her. No one would know she was missing. No one else would sensibly be on the road. He loved her nonchalance, her devil-may-care attitude, and now it finally caught up with her. She had probably been on her cell. Why did he ever let her pick up the phone behind the wheel?
Exercise 56
What If…
I wrote a story a couple months ago that I really like, but it’s definitely stuck. I’m very happy with the barebones, but it’s very rough, and I can’t decide what to do with it. The basic gist of it so far is that it takes place in a vaguely different time and place from our modern America, and some women are meeting for coffee. They are all pregnant, and their leader is helping everyone decide the specifics of their daughters’ births when we find out that one woman is pregnant with a boy. It goes from there.
What if…
1. the leader wound up having a boy?
2. some of the women stood up for themselves?
3. one of the women killed herself?
4. the woman who was having a boy actually had a girl?
5. one of the husbands intervened?
I’m still not sure. I think this is one of those stories where I just have to let it sit a while longer.
Exercise 66
A Short (short) story of one-syllable words...
Dirk caught the dog at last. It had been two full days since Dot had made haste out the back gate like a croc whose eggs get et. Dirk was none to kind in the way he leashed her neck, tight and with force. They both knew the walk home would be swift, sans stops to sniff and pee at shrubs. What Dot knew, and Dirk did not, though, was the trick clasp on the leash. One jerk just so, and she could be free. But no need. She had missed this Dirk, dumb as a rock, but rich as could be with a home full of food, warmth, and love.
Internal Obsession with an Imagined Simultaneous Event…
If Sasha left a message, it would his fifth over seven calls after six rings each in the last nine minutes. He couldn’t fathom what Angela would be doing which wouldn’t allow her the luxury to pick up her phone. She always had it turned on. Class? Not on Sunday. With friends? They wouldn’t care. Another man? His past girlfriends maybe, but not Angela. They unquestioningly, unabashedly, unequivocally loved one another. Driving? No. She dangerously answered calls swerving through ice-covered highways. Oh god. There had been a snowstorm in Poughkeepsie the night before. Here he was ice fishing with buddies in Vancouver, and she was frozen in a ditch somewhere. Her car was white! No one would find her. No one would know she was missing. No one else would sensibly be on the road. He loved her nonchalance, her devil-may-care attitude, and now it finally caught up with her. She had probably been on her cell. Why did he ever let her pick up the phone behind the wheel?
Exercise 56
What If…
I wrote a story a couple months ago that I really like, but it’s definitely stuck. I’m very happy with the barebones, but it’s very rough, and I can’t decide what to do with it. The basic gist of it so far is that it takes place in a vaguely different time and place from our modern America, and some women are meeting for coffee. They are all pregnant, and their leader is helping everyone decide the specifics of their daughters’ births when we find out that one woman is pregnant with a boy. It goes from there.
What if…
1. the leader wound up having a boy?
2. some of the women stood up for themselves?
3. one of the women killed herself?
4. the woman who was having a boy actually had a girl?
5. one of the husbands intervened?
I’m still not sure. I think this is one of those stories where I just have to let it sit a while longer.
Exercise 66
A Short (short) story of one-syllable words...
Dirk caught the dog at last. It had been two full days since Dot had made haste out the back gate like a croc whose eggs get et. Dirk was none to kind in the way he leashed her neck, tight and with force. They both knew the walk home would be swift, sans stops to sniff and pee at shrubs. What Dot knew, and Dirk did not, though, was the trick clasp on the leash. One jerk just so, and she could be free. But no need. She had missed this Dirk, dumb as a rock, but rich as could be with a home full of food, warmth, and love.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Fiction Week 2
Exercise 35
Third person to first:
3rd
She wandered in and out of streets, allowing the dog to decide which turns to take, which roads to cross. At one point, we went around the same block three times, but it didn’t matter where, as long as she wasn’t at home. Just as she was ready to head home, the dog squatted in front of an immaculate white house with crimson shutters. She hesitated, brought a plastic bag out of her pocket, and picked it up, searching for the nearest trash can.
1st
Bear wouldn’t mind walking for an hour. She wouldn’t mind walking for days. My left pinky toe, however, might. With every footfall pounding on the uneven sidewalk below, the throb reminded me of that door slam, the attempt to prove my point through childish anger, but I couldn’t go back first. No, he’d have to come looking for me. Bear would walk all night, tugging me from one curb to the next, bravely leading our crusade into unfamiliar territory. Every minute or so, there’d be a tug of my right arm. Cross this road, turn left here, circle this block one more time. All his training undone with one furious escapade. My arm jerked back behind me, Bear squatting in some pristine yard on…49th Ave. We weren’t as far as I’d like, but I’d never been here before. This garish green grass and brushed nickel mailbox with “Stinson” engraved on the side. Once Bear finished, I almost walked away, those damn Stinsons with their perfect crimson shutters and French door balconies. But I couldn’t. I had stuffed some baggies in the pocket of my bath robe while exiting my house.
First person to third:
1st
I needed those shoes. Clarabelle Tucker was going to buy them in rose red she said in school today, but I had to have them in cerulean. They would go pretty well with the shirt I bought last week, but most importantly, if I showed up in them at school tomorrow, Clarabelle wouldn’t know what to do.
3rd
“I’m getting those shoes. I think the cerulean will match the new top I bought last week,” said Delila on her way into Mason’s Department store, Franny trailing behind by a few paces.
“Didn’t Clarabelle Tucker say she was buying those in rose red today during algebra?” Franny asked.
“That’s exactly why I’ve got to buy them today. Rose red it is.”
Exercise 38
“Wanna play Slap Jack?” I ask Jimmy, not sure if this is a real game, or if I made it up.
“Okay,” he responds, sure that he will win some of my candy this year. He won’t. I take the chair at the end of the dining room table, where Grandpa gets to sit for Thanksgiving, and Jimmy kneels on the chair next to me, at a regular seat. He shuffles better than I do even though he’s three and a half years younger, because I hate card games. At the age of six, Jimmy can probably count cards like my dad, and he can certainly multiply them faster than I can, but when it comes to Snickers and Reese’s, I just want it more. I deal the cards until the stack is gone and we alternate putting the cards down. With each Jack that shows up, my hand is under his every time.
My bowl fills as his empties, my mouth and his eyes watering. It’s only a matter of time before Mom catches on, but I hoard what I can.
Exercise 41
“Well, I don’t think the neighbor’s got a goddamn thing to say ‘bout how late I mow the lawn.”
“Let’s split a pie over at Deluca’s on the boardwalk tonight. We’re only a few blocks from the shore out there, and I hear the skinny dipping’s fine.”
“Sisters aren’t supposed to fight, so gimme back my earrings right now, Tilda. Bobby Sheldon thinks you’re ugly anyway.”
“How much do you care about the environment? Could I interest you in a pamphlet on the dangers of global warming this sunny summer day?”
“Mrs. O’Reardon’s ready to tan your hide. You’re lucky teachers aren’t allowed to hit anymore.”
Exercise 44
“You’re doing that wrong.”
“It’s fine, Mom. The dishwasher will get the rest. Otherwise, what’s the point of that thing?” Joey points to the used Maytag, still working well despite a loose hinge and the drab olive exterior.
“I just want to see you doing things right. I know you can.” Mrs. Daniels leans against the refrigerator, shuffling through mail. “They waste so much paper these days. I thought it was the digital age.”
“Yeah, and you have to wash dishes before you wash dishes, too.”
“You didn’t tell me it was report card time already.”
“Not that you’d know,” Joey says, staring into the suds. He makes sure not to make eye contact, to concentrate on the frying pan.
“You said you were doing better in math.”
“I am.”
“A D-minus?”
“It’s better than an F, isn’t it?”
“How are you supposed to get into college with that?” Mrs. Daniels takes the plate from Joey’s hand as he’s about to place it in the dishwasher. She scrubs relentless circles at imaginary egg yolk or spaghetti sauce. “Like this. Can’t you do anything the way I showed you? Your father was never even this bad.”
“You want bad?” Joey takes the plate back and smashes it on the floor. Then another. He turns to the shelf above the coffee maker, takes the teapot of his mother’s—her mother’s—china set and sends it to the floor. They stare at one another. Joey bolts barefooted, a red dab on the linoleum leading out the front door, every place his right foot touched the ground.
Third person to first:
3rd
She wandered in and out of streets, allowing the dog to decide which turns to take, which roads to cross. At one point, we went around the same block three times, but it didn’t matter where, as long as she wasn’t at home. Just as she was ready to head home, the dog squatted in front of an immaculate white house with crimson shutters. She hesitated, brought a plastic bag out of her pocket, and picked it up, searching for the nearest trash can.
1st
Bear wouldn’t mind walking for an hour. She wouldn’t mind walking for days. My left pinky toe, however, might. With every footfall pounding on the uneven sidewalk below, the throb reminded me of that door slam, the attempt to prove my point through childish anger, but I couldn’t go back first. No, he’d have to come looking for me. Bear would walk all night, tugging me from one curb to the next, bravely leading our crusade into unfamiliar territory. Every minute or so, there’d be a tug of my right arm. Cross this road, turn left here, circle this block one more time. All his training undone with one furious escapade. My arm jerked back behind me, Bear squatting in some pristine yard on…49th Ave. We weren’t as far as I’d like, but I’d never been here before. This garish green grass and brushed nickel mailbox with “Stinson” engraved on the side. Once Bear finished, I almost walked away, those damn Stinsons with their perfect crimson shutters and French door balconies. But I couldn’t. I had stuffed some baggies in the pocket of my bath robe while exiting my house.
First person to third:
1st
I needed those shoes. Clarabelle Tucker was going to buy them in rose red she said in school today, but I had to have them in cerulean. They would go pretty well with the shirt I bought last week, but most importantly, if I showed up in them at school tomorrow, Clarabelle wouldn’t know what to do.
3rd
“I’m getting those shoes. I think the cerulean will match the new top I bought last week,” said Delila on her way into Mason’s Department store, Franny trailing behind by a few paces.
“Didn’t Clarabelle Tucker say she was buying those in rose red today during algebra?” Franny asked.
“That’s exactly why I’ve got to buy them today. Rose red it is.”
Exercise 38
“Wanna play Slap Jack?” I ask Jimmy, not sure if this is a real game, or if I made it up.
“Okay,” he responds, sure that he will win some of my candy this year. He won’t. I take the chair at the end of the dining room table, where Grandpa gets to sit for Thanksgiving, and Jimmy kneels on the chair next to me, at a regular seat. He shuffles better than I do even though he’s three and a half years younger, because I hate card games. At the age of six, Jimmy can probably count cards like my dad, and he can certainly multiply them faster than I can, but when it comes to Snickers and Reese’s, I just want it more. I deal the cards until the stack is gone and we alternate putting the cards down. With each Jack that shows up, my hand is under his every time.
My bowl fills as his empties, my mouth and his eyes watering. It’s only a matter of time before Mom catches on, but I hoard what I can.
Exercise 41
“Well, I don’t think the neighbor’s got a goddamn thing to say ‘bout how late I mow the lawn.”
“Let’s split a pie over at Deluca’s on the boardwalk tonight. We’re only a few blocks from the shore out there, and I hear the skinny dipping’s fine.”
“Sisters aren’t supposed to fight, so gimme back my earrings right now, Tilda. Bobby Sheldon thinks you’re ugly anyway.”
“How much do you care about the environment? Could I interest you in a pamphlet on the dangers of global warming this sunny summer day?”
“Mrs. O’Reardon’s ready to tan your hide. You’re lucky teachers aren’t allowed to hit anymore.”
Exercise 44
“You’re doing that wrong.”
“It’s fine, Mom. The dishwasher will get the rest. Otherwise, what’s the point of that thing?” Joey points to the used Maytag, still working well despite a loose hinge and the drab olive exterior.
“I just want to see you doing things right. I know you can.” Mrs. Daniels leans against the refrigerator, shuffling through mail. “They waste so much paper these days. I thought it was the digital age.”
“Yeah, and you have to wash dishes before you wash dishes, too.”
“You didn’t tell me it was report card time already.”
“Not that you’d know,” Joey says, staring into the suds. He makes sure not to make eye contact, to concentrate on the frying pan.
“You said you were doing better in math.”
“I am.”
“A D-minus?”
“It’s better than an F, isn’t it?”
“How are you supposed to get into college with that?” Mrs. Daniels takes the plate from Joey’s hand as he’s about to place it in the dishwasher. She scrubs relentless circles at imaginary egg yolk or spaghetti sauce. “Like this. Can’t you do anything the way I showed you? Your father was never even this bad.”
“You want bad?” Joey takes the plate back and smashes it on the floor. Then another. He turns to the shelf above the coffee maker, takes the teapot of his mother’s—her mother’s—china set and sends it to the floor. They stare at one another. Joey bolts barefooted, a red dab on the linoleum leading out the front door, every place his right foot touched the ground.
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