My mind has been pretty blank as to another story idea. I have been thinking about it off and on for the past week.
I have in mind a character that works in a veterinary hospital. She is young, and has no immediate family nearby. She feels bad for animals so often, that she has a houseful of pets at home. As the story progresses, there will be a malnourished horse that needs a caretaker. After taking care of the horse at a stable, she decides to move to the country where she can live with her pets including the horse.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
week 3 charcter introduction
As Rose sat in her old, comfortable chair watching another one of those commercials selling machines that turn fruit into juice on the shopping channel, she realized she hadn’t gotten the paper off of the porch yet. She pushed the pink and red afghan from her lap to the broad arm of the chair and slowly pushed herself to her slippered feet. She sat the remote control she held in her hand on the tidy little lamp table next to her chair. She stretched her aching back and shoulders and walked toward the front door slowly. Had she fallen asleep watching infomercials? It was later in the evening than she had realized, and she was so glad to have her slippers on to keep her feet warm. The days were getting warmer, but the evenings and nights were still cold enough to make her joints ache. The light from the television and the lamp next to her chair lit the area she sat in, but that small circle of light seemed to make the rest of her home seem even darker. As she walked through the dining room toward the front door, she paused to turn on the light. She turned toward the door, and saw the empty dining table. She considered how long it had been since she served a meal to her family at this table. Surely fifteen years had passed since the children insisted on serving their own holiday meals at their own homes. Then she wondered if she had eaten dinner yet. Oh, she thought, the paper would be there in the morning. She turned to the kitchen to make herself a can of soup.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Story Idea
So, I had a thought. Since my real blog is attached to my profile on this blog, if you clicked on my name in a comment I made to come here, you probably saw the link to my other blog. Anyways, the last few posts I've done on there are concerning the garden my husband and I just planted. So, gardening has been on my mind a lot lately. Especially the last few really warm days we had. All I did those days was work outside. So, I feel kind of like an old lady when I talk to people about my garden. I was in bed last night, knowing that I need to come up with a story idea, and trying to think about what I would like to write about. Well, the one thing on my mind so often lately is gardening. So, I though I should write about gardening, specifically a little old lady gardening. I liked the surprise ending in the frog story that I wrote so much, that of course I have to have a surprise ending. I've decided to write about this little old lady, mid-seventies, early eighties, who gardens in the spring time. I will write about what she does and how she feels, and probably about how it makes her think about the past. For the conflict, I will have someone younger, most likely one of her children, trying to tell her that she is too old to live alone. I'll write everything that she does to illustrate how she is right to argue that she is just fine on her own. Then at the end I will describe her giving in to living elsewhere, and when they drive away she will see her unkempt yard (with no garden) that hasn't been weeded in years. This of course, will imply to the readers that she is senile and imagined everything that happened in the story and really should not be alone.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Exercises 53, 56, and 57
Exercise 53 pg. 142
The Frog
There once was a frog who wanted nothing more in life than to be able to speak. He was a thoughtful frog and had a lot on his mind; he just couldn't convey any of it with the ribbit sound he produced. There were people who came and sat near the pond on occasion, and the frog listened intently to the conversations. He watched how the humans moved their mouths and even noticed that the voice of a man was similar to the coughing noise that came from his throat. He had decided that speaking came from the throat. Well, so did the ribbit sound that he made, so he knew he could learn to talk.
He practiced during the late afternoon hours when he was alone. Always "Ribbit." He did learn to ribbit in different tones, but he could never make a different sound. He noticed a lone cormorant perched in a tree across the pond watching him curiously between occasional dives for dinner. After a few evenings of seeing the cormorant while he practiced, he became used to the bird and considered that the bird had guessed what he was doing. One evening, as the sun was setting, the frog finally had a breakthrough! This time, he did not ribbit, he made a different sound. Tribbit! After practicing more, he could also leave off the ending syllable and say "Trib". How exciting for the frog! He was on his way to learning to speak. He was really doing it! As the sky darkened, the more tired the frog became. Soon he was asleep.
The next evening, it was time for him to practice again. He learned how to make more consonant sounds. He could produce the sounds of v, d, w, even s. He was getting it! He looked up to see his new friend fly away. He thought that one evening, he would be able to speak to the cormorant. He would tell the bird all of his thoughts, even if he got no reply. He practiced late into the night, learning more and more sounds.
The next evening, he was so excited to see the cormorant perched in the tree on the other side of the pond. He was about to speak to the bird. He had spoke the night before; said whole words, whole sentences. He spoke to himself and had no audience, nobody to listen to him or respond.
He jumped into the pond and swam with his long legs to the other side of the pond to speak to the cormorant. He pulled himself up on a log just under the perch of the cormorant. He looked up at the bird and cleared his throat. "Hello, friend cormorant. I have practiced and practiced and learned to speak. I was wondering if you would like to hear my thoughts about this wonderful pond."
The cormorant tilted his head, and seemed to look more closely at the frog, scrutinizing him. The frog was so proud that he had spoke to the cormorant and seemed to intrigue him. Then the bird straightened up and dove straight down and ate the interesting frog.
______________________________________________________________________________________
Exercise 56 pg 148
I decided to pick alternate endings for the frog story I just wrote. I had the thought to have him be eaten before I even knew what I wanted the frog's passion to be. It just struck me. These alternatives would take place after he has taught himself to talk, but before him swimming across the pond to the cormorant.
So, a few alternate endings, or what if's..
*What if... he finds a person to talk to, and he develops a relationship with the person? The person could then make this talking frog famous. He could sing on the radio or do voice-acting for cartoons. He could even have his own talk show!
*What if... he decides to teach other frogs to talk? There could be a pond full of talking frogs.
*What if... he wakes up the next morning not being able to ribbit or speak? There would be a lot of frog inner turmoil here.
*What if... he goes over to speak to the cormorant, and the cormorant responds? It could be as though all animals could talk, but the frog never knew.
*What if... he was so afraid that people would make his life hell by wanting to interview him all the time or do constant testing, that he learned to type and took online creative writing classes to make use of his thoughtfulness?
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Exercise 57 pg.150
After reading the opening of my story, I find the occasion to be a frog wanting to learn to speak because he feels he has a lot on his mind to share. After reading the rest of the story, this remains unchanged. He did learn to speak, although he never got to tell his thoughts to anyone.
The Frog
There once was a frog who wanted nothing more in life than to be able to speak. He was a thoughtful frog and had a lot on his mind; he just couldn't convey any of it with the ribbit sound he produced. There were people who came and sat near the pond on occasion, and the frog listened intently to the conversations. He watched how the humans moved their mouths and even noticed that the voice of a man was similar to the coughing noise that came from his throat. He had decided that speaking came from the throat. Well, so did the ribbit sound that he made, so he knew he could learn to talk.
He practiced during the late afternoon hours when he was alone. Always "Ribbit." He did learn to ribbit in different tones, but he could never make a different sound. He noticed a lone cormorant perched in a tree across the pond watching him curiously between occasional dives for dinner. After a few evenings of seeing the cormorant while he practiced, he became used to the bird and considered that the bird had guessed what he was doing. One evening, as the sun was setting, the frog finally had a breakthrough! This time, he did not ribbit, he made a different sound. Tribbit! After practicing more, he could also leave off the ending syllable and say "Trib". How exciting for the frog! He was on his way to learning to speak. He was really doing it! As the sky darkened, the more tired the frog became. Soon he was asleep.
The next evening, it was time for him to practice again. He learned how to make more consonant sounds. He could produce the sounds of v, d, w, even s. He was getting it! He looked up to see his new friend fly away. He thought that one evening, he would be able to speak to the cormorant. He would tell the bird all of his thoughts, even if he got no reply. He practiced late into the night, learning more and more sounds.
The next evening, he was so excited to see the cormorant perched in the tree on the other side of the pond. He was about to speak to the bird. He had spoke the night before; said whole words, whole sentences. He spoke to himself and had no audience, nobody to listen to him or respond.
He jumped into the pond and swam with his long legs to the other side of the pond to speak to the cormorant. He pulled himself up on a log just under the perch of the cormorant. He looked up at the bird and cleared his throat. "Hello, friend cormorant. I have practiced and practiced and learned to speak. I was wondering if you would like to hear my thoughts about this wonderful pond."
The cormorant tilted his head, and seemed to look more closely at the frog, scrutinizing him. The frog was so proud that he had spoke to the cormorant and seemed to intrigue him. Then the bird straightened up and dove straight down and ate the interesting frog.
______________________________________________________________________________________
Exercise 56 pg 148
I decided to pick alternate endings for the frog story I just wrote. I had the thought to have him be eaten before I even knew what I wanted the frog's passion to be. It just struck me. These alternatives would take place after he has taught himself to talk, but before him swimming across the pond to the cormorant.
So, a few alternate endings, or what if's..
*What if... he finds a person to talk to, and he develops a relationship with the person? The person could then make this talking frog famous. He could sing on the radio or do voice-acting for cartoons. He could even have his own talk show!
*What if... he decides to teach other frogs to talk? There could be a pond full of talking frogs.
*What if... he wakes up the next morning not being able to ribbit or speak? There would be a lot of frog inner turmoil here.
*What if... he goes over to speak to the cormorant, and the cormorant responds? It could be as though all animals could talk, but the frog never knew.
*What if... he was so afraid that people would make his life hell by wanting to interview him all the time or do constant testing, that he learned to type and took online creative writing classes to make use of his thoughtfulness?
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Exercise 57 pg.150
After reading the opening of my story, I find the occasion to be a frog wanting to learn to speak because he feels he has a lot on his mind to share. After reading the rest of the story, this remains unchanged. He did learn to speak, although he never got to tell his thoughts to anyone.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Exercise 14 pg. 40
It’s kind of odd that I don’t remember his name, but I do remember that he had a sister named Tasha. I remember what he looked like, and even what their house looked like. I was 11, and he was 16 or 17. We rode the bus to and from school together. He always swore and was just generally mean and grumpy, especially in the mornings. He wore dirty jeans and grungy flannel shirts. He smelled like cigarettes and like a mechanic. He had dirty fingernails like he was always working on a car. He had dark, messy hair that always seemed to need to be cut, or combed, or something.
When he got on the bus, he would bump into kids that were sitting down or drag his backpack over the tops of the seats intending to hit people in their heads. I was scared of him. He was almost an adult, and he was certainly the size of an adult. I’m sure it made him happy to be intimidating to others even if we were only kids. One morning, in the winter, as he was making his way to the back of the bus, he bumped my little brother. He bumped him hard. He stumbled because of it, and it made him angry. Then, he shoved my brother down into the seat because he was mad. My brother wasn’t specifically hurt, but he was scared. It made me really mad. I was sick of him always bumping into people and making kids feel like they had to sit as close to the window as possible to stay out of his way. So, I got out of my seat and I shoved him. He only moved a little, and then of course he became even more angry. He had his gloves in his hand; the kind of tan gloves that people use for working. He pulled his hand with the gloves way up in the air and slapped me across the face with his gloves. They were dirty and smelly, and they scraped right across my eye. It really hurt and I wanted to cry, and he just laughed as he went to his seat and sat down.
I picture him the same way as an adult. I know he didn’t graduate from high school. He is probably a mechanic; one of the really dirty ones who work at a junk yard. He probably drives a rusty S-10 truck with the little cartoon guy peeing on the Ford logo on his back window, and crumpled McDonald’s bags and cigarette butts on the floor. He got fat, and has sweat-stained shirts that are covered with oil stains from work. He never got married, but has two kids he pays child support for and never sees.
Exercise 27 pg. 69
He drives a rusty S-10 truck with the little cartoon guy peeing on the Ford logo on his back window, and crumpled McDonald’s bags and cigarette butts on the floor.
He wears dirty jeans with a bulge from his wallet on the back pocket, sweat-stained shirts that are covered with oil stains from work, and steel-toed boots that used to be tan, but are oily and grimy with mud caked on the bottoms. He doesn’t wear a watch or a ring or a hat. His hair is still messy, but thinner now. He always looks like he hasn’t shaved in a few days.
His one-story house has no siding, just that pink and green Styrofoam type stuff. His porch is a mess of trash and boxes. He only has patches of grass in his yard; the rest is dirt and weeds. He has a couple of long-haired, dirty dogs. They don’t have collars or leashes; they just run in and out of his open front door. They are happy dogs who run out to see new people.
He has no curtains, just sheets stapled up around the bigger windows in his house. All the walls are the same, used to be white, but have yellowed over the years. It’s not clean, but not really messy either. Pizza boxes on a table. Dirty clothes are thrown over the backs of chairs and the tops of doors. A lamp sits on a table with the shade tilted to one side. Dog bowls are on the floor with food spilled around them. He has one of those old console televisions that sit on the floor. No pictures or clocks on the walls; just a calendar with women in bikinis posing on or near cars.
My conclusions
I am surprised that I can’t remember this guy’s name. I feel like he was raised to be the way he is by his family. Some families are like that, but by the time he was a teenager, he could be his own person and decide not to be a bully.
I am also surprised by how clearly I formed his new life in my mind. I can see his house and yard. I can picture him sitting on his couch watching a Nascar race. I find it odd that I picture him as the kind of guy that I can’t help myself to just detest. I feel like I am somehow prejudiced against people who are like how I’ve described him; which is surprising to learn about myself since a lot of my extended family (and my father) are just like this.
It’s kind of odd that I don’t remember his name, but I do remember that he had a sister named Tasha. I remember what he looked like, and even what their house looked like. I was 11, and he was 16 or 17. We rode the bus to and from school together. He always swore and was just generally mean and grumpy, especially in the mornings. He wore dirty jeans and grungy flannel shirts. He smelled like cigarettes and like a mechanic. He had dirty fingernails like he was always working on a car. He had dark, messy hair that always seemed to need to be cut, or combed, or something.
When he got on the bus, he would bump into kids that were sitting down or drag his backpack over the tops of the seats intending to hit people in their heads. I was scared of him. He was almost an adult, and he was certainly the size of an adult. I’m sure it made him happy to be intimidating to others even if we were only kids. One morning, in the winter, as he was making his way to the back of the bus, he bumped my little brother. He bumped him hard. He stumbled because of it, and it made him angry. Then, he shoved my brother down into the seat because he was mad. My brother wasn’t specifically hurt, but he was scared. It made me really mad. I was sick of him always bumping into people and making kids feel like they had to sit as close to the window as possible to stay out of his way. So, I got out of my seat and I shoved him. He only moved a little, and then of course he became even more angry. He had his gloves in his hand; the kind of tan gloves that people use for working. He pulled his hand with the gloves way up in the air and slapped me across the face with his gloves. They were dirty and smelly, and they scraped right across my eye. It really hurt and I wanted to cry, and he just laughed as he went to his seat and sat down.
I picture him the same way as an adult. I know he didn’t graduate from high school. He is probably a mechanic; one of the really dirty ones who work at a junk yard. He probably drives a rusty S-10 truck with the little cartoon guy peeing on the Ford logo on his back window, and crumpled McDonald’s bags and cigarette butts on the floor. He got fat, and has sweat-stained shirts that are covered with oil stains from work. He never got married, but has two kids he pays child support for and never sees.
Exercise 27 pg. 69
He drives a rusty S-10 truck with the little cartoon guy peeing on the Ford logo on his back window, and crumpled McDonald’s bags and cigarette butts on the floor.
He wears dirty jeans with a bulge from his wallet on the back pocket, sweat-stained shirts that are covered with oil stains from work, and steel-toed boots that used to be tan, but are oily and grimy with mud caked on the bottoms. He doesn’t wear a watch or a ring or a hat. His hair is still messy, but thinner now. He always looks like he hasn’t shaved in a few days.
His one-story house has no siding, just that pink and green Styrofoam type stuff. His porch is a mess of trash and boxes. He only has patches of grass in his yard; the rest is dirt and weeds. He has a couple of long-haired, dirty dogs. They don’t have collars or leashes; they just run in and out of his open front door. They are happy dogs who run out to see new people.
He has no curtains, just sheets stapled up around the bigger windows in his house. All the walls are the same, used to be white, but have yellowed over the years. It’s not clean, but not really messy either. Pizza boxes on a table. Dirty clothes are thrown over the backs of chairs and the tops of doors. A lamp sits on a table with the shade tilted to one side. Dog bowls are on the floor with food spilled around them. He has one of those old console televisions that sit on the floor. No pictures or clocks on the walls; just a calendar with women in bikinis posing on or near cars.
My conclusions
I am surprised that I can’t remember this guy’s name. I feel like he was raised to be the way he is by his family. Some families are like that, but by the time he was a teenager, he could be his own person and decide not to be a bully.
I am also surprised by how clearly I formed his new life in my mind. I can see his house and yard. I can picture him sitting on his couch watching a Nascar race. I find it odd that I picture him as the kind of guy that I can’t help myself to just detest. I feel like I am somehow prejudiced against people who are like how I’ve described him; which is surprising to learn about myself since a lot of my extended family (and my father) are just like this.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
