Chapter One: Sources of Fiction -- EXERCISE 7

(From writer-teacher Jim Magnuson) Two to three pages.  Write "My mother never..." at the top of a page, then complete the sentence and keep going.  Read what you've written only after you are finished with the draft.

As you write, begin to fictionalize.  Construct scenes.  Take out sentimentality (statements like "My mother is my truest friend"), and forget it's your mother.  Take yourself out, too.

Objective: To probe your background beyond the usual limits.  No harm - it'll be fiction.  If you think of what your mother does, you may not write fiction; but if you write what she doesn't do (what your mother never did) and imagine her doing it, you create an interesting match of character and action.

Check: You should find something surprising and outrageous in what you've written.  If you don't, perhaps you did not loosen up enough.

"My Mother Never..."

My mother never visited Tokyo.  My mother never visited the Whitehouse.  My mother never wrote a novel.  She never skydived or scuba dived.

Helen loved the water.  For too long had she lived surrounded by water, a fourth of a mile to the west, a half-mile to the east, and a mile to the north of this residential peninusla populated by households of boating families, and not owned a boat and dock space and membership one of the five near yacht clubs.  The club she could wait for or neglect wholly, and she would probably seek a private launch unattached to the pomp and drunken congregations.  But in one month she would glide past down town's no-wake area and throttle into the wide lake for the first time.

Bah, boring.

My mother never slept.  My mother never cared.  My mother never killed anyone.  Or did she?

She woke up and perched on one elbow, grimmacing to hold her balance there for sleeplessness held her from sitting upright while instinct told her something was wrong.  A noise roused her, she was certain, but now that she attuned to the darkness it refused to reveal itself.  Go back to sleep, she scolded.  She lingered on her elbow, swaying toward the edge of the bed.  She gripped the covers with a decision, and chose to fling them open rather than pull them over herself when curiosity would keep her awake.  Something had woken her, whether it was an outside noise or one of her sons up far past his bedtime.  She slid into her slippers, drew her robe, and padded to the bedroom door to pause with her hand on the latch.

"Sometimes I thrive on melodrama," the thought.  She guided the bolt from its hole as silently as she could and waited again.  The doorknob creaked between pauses when she felt is creaking mechanics threatened to betray her.  The hall was cooler, and she welcomed the air where she could track the entire house by sound.  Josh's bedroom door was closed and, by way of mother's intuition, she knew it was undisturbed.  The linen closet, the bathroom, the shower stall, she knew, were clear.  Whatever had roused her had come from downstairs.

Jerod's room was off the kitchen.  To reach it, she moved down the steps in a secret pattern designed to minimize their telltale creaking.  The kids were better at it then she, but they'd taught her a few of their tricks.  She hesitated fully for the first time to peer into the dark recess of the living room's corner closet, but her instinct told her the area was clear.  Past the couch and recliner through the small dining room, she peered into the kitchen toward Jerod's door.

The kitchen was long and tight, and no one stood in the darkness.  She expected to find her 10-year-old standing in the refrigerator's light as he was fond of doing.  Instead, his door looked blank and restful.  She crossed the kitchen to check that it was closed and caught her breath when a flashlight threw a circle of light past her on the wall above the microwave.  Someone was in the house, and they were on the basement steps  coming up toward her.

To be continued...

Editor's Note: I transcribe each of the instruction entries in this workshop from the Fiction Writer's Workshop book, so the dying father here is the author's, not mine.

Chapter One: Sources of Fiction -- EXERCISE 6

Two or three pages.  Think about an incident that you avoid remembering -- or can't clearly remember -- and write about it.  Write about a moment of terror you experienced, or about a defeat that hurts your pride.  You can choose a terrible incident that, though crucial to you, you could not witness.  For example, when my father was dying, I came to his bedside late, when he was probably unconscious, bloody foam on his lips.  My brother witnessed all of the stages of my father's death and heard his last words, yet it was I who wrote a sotry of the death -- probably because I missed it.  For years I could not write about it, but when the event was sufficiently removed from me, it easily became a story, hundreds of made-up details.

Objective: To help you deal with what matters.  Even if you are afraid to think about something -- or especially if you are -- muster the courage to plunge right into the middle of your frightful memory.  You will come up with something that matters to you, and if you evoke it clearly, it should matter to the reader, too.

Check: Don't.  Keep going for a long while before you look back.  This should be an uncensored outpouring.  Save it, and revise months later.

"Two Phonecalls"

I yelled.  I stood and shouted so my words would be heard.  I wanted their volume to break through denials.  I wanted their violence to be so shocking that they would be remembered and taken seriously.  It was shocking.  It was shocking to me as I floated above to watch it happen.  This is me, I thought as the words exploded from me.  I've never been this way.  I've never felt this kind of anger or injustice pour freely from me.  I understood fully the word catharidic now, an absolute purging of pent-up emotions.  My words were perfect, strong, and true.  They knew before I did what was right.  They flew like arrows and stuck where I intended before I knew to take aim.  I was harsh.  I was unleashed.  I understood tirade, I wanted to feel the cool flow of vengence.  That was the most exhilerating part, the feeling of justice, that the outpouring was overdue and inalienable.

Afterward, I stood with the phone in my hand, breathing heavily in repose.  I had momentum, so I went with it.  One more to go, one more person who had wronged me and cut so deeply that I can feel the emotions as fresh today as I did then.  I dialed.  He wasn't expecting my strength.  The overconfident villain sat naked in his camp, unprepared for my charge.  I was deliciously merciless.  Every punch, every slap, every nugget of dirt I had kept inside launched with controled salvos to destroy him and let my final words be those that would ring in his ears any time he dared to think of me in the future.  Because our relationship was finished.  I had done so resolutely.

I feel the emptiness.  I feel no regret.  I can tighten up and clench my fists when I revive the memories.  Any thought of reconciliation or forgiveness is trampled by truth and recall.  Reconciliation is to welcome all that was wrong with him back into my life.  We chose what to bring into our lives.  We chose not to do drugs.  We chose the programming we watch and literature we read.  When an individual's defining characteristics include egomaniac, unbalanced, and tempermental, then it is my wise choice not to bring it near me again.  Forgiveness has evolved for me.  It's accepting an apology, yes, but it's in grace with knowing that the person would not repeat the offense given the same circumstance.  It's acknowledging that we are flawed beings and that some offenses deserve a second chance.  I know that given the chance, he would repeat and that he puts upon a face of remorse when he is incapable of feeling it.

The proof played out.  My life without him has been peaceful, the fruit of the second phonecall.  Those of the first rotted slowly and from within, so the results from that day have been mixed.  Still, it will be a day long remembered.

Chapter One: Sources of Fiction -- EXERCISE 5

Recall a physical or verbal fight, and construct it as one scene.

Objective: To see that some kinds of stories come pretty easily, as this one will.  When I use it in class, students' pens keep moving even after the class is over.  Stuggle, war, quarrel, or any kind of conflict is an energetic source of stories.

Check:  Is the writing dynamic?  Are the words appropriately quick and strong?  Cross out excess adjectives and adverbs and long Latinate words; use short ones.

"The Bite"

I hadn't been to many college parties; it was a part of the experience I missed out of misplacement of priorities and out of ignorance.  So, I approached the house slowly, peering through windows to catch sight of my friends among the strangers.  I emerged from the driveway into the back yard where many people mingled in the grass near the fire and on the patio leading into the kitchen.  Touring the house and nodding my head to salute "what's up" to strangers, I found my friends.  At a party where no one was drinking, Scott and his new girlfriend Jenny were drunk in the family room, Jenny nearly passed out on the floor and Scott dancing uninhibited and alone.  I wasn't good at striking up conversation with strangers in college, as though they weren't my peers, so I resigned to sitting on the couch and watching Scott make a fool of himself.

I learned from snippets of conversation that Scott had already lost favor with the group by climbing to the roof prior to my arrival.  I shrunk into the upholstery and wondered how quickly I could leave.  I was too uncomfortable to be angry with my friends.  Meanwhile, I decided, I would make the best of it.  I sat in the kitchen with the party host, a pretty graduate named Julie.  I'm not a fratboy, I thought, why is she paying any attention to me?  Maybe this night wouldn't end badly.

Scott was on the patio.  I could see his head and shoulders through the kitchen window, though I tried to ignore him.  I missed part of Julie's last comment because I caught wind of events; my idiot friend was drunkenly hitting on girls in the yard, girls with large, agitated boyfriends.  How long could I pretend to not know him?

"You better get your friend out of here, or he's going to get his ass kicked," said some guy poking his head through the sliding glass doorway.  They linked us, somehow, and my happy ending dissipated.  Julie looked at me expectantly because it had become my job to ensure her party wasn't ruined.  I walked out to the patio and found Scott, who posessed stature but was dwarfed by six angry men who grew inches every moment.

I parted them and touched Scott's arm to say, "Hey, bud, let's go for a walk.  Brian's house is right down the street.  Let's walk to Brian's house."

Scott stood firm.  "I'm staying here."  I hooked under his arm and leaned to whisper, "You're going to get your ass kicked if we don't leave now," and he jerked toward the back yard, toward the wolves.

"No.  I'm not going for a walk.  I'm staying."

I pushed.  From my hands I chucked to my shoulders, bracing to remove him, dragging against his heels dug in down the drive way.  "Don't do this.  Don't you do this!" he hollered.  I was going to do this, fight him if necessary, instead of him being beaten by strangers.

His shoulder launched into me.  Our feet ground into the concrete, niether of us willing to quit.  I was ready.  For his violence, for his jerk, I countered.  He was not getting back into that yard.  I was ready; for fists, for blood.  I wasn't ready for teeth, hard biting teeth shocking my cheek.  The tender apple of my cheek pulsed under his bite, and I lost my will.  I surrendered and rolled my eyes as if to say, "What the fuck?"  He afixed there for a long moment, testing me.  Don't rip away; don't punch him; let him release the bite slowly -- please let go -- and let him slink to the ground into a fetal position.  The guys had pulled us apart.  In a wide stance I looked down at him, felt the swell of my cheek, and saw the blood on my fingers.  I looked down and scowled at how pathetic he looked, nearly passed out at my feet.  I grimaced and entertained the thought, "I could kick the shit out of you right now, and you wouldn't even remember it."

I didn't hurt him.  I scooped him up and walked him down the driveway freely, the party guests relieved to see us go.  "Jenny... Get Jenny," he mumbled, but they wouldn't have it. She would stay there that night, and I would take him home.  He would wake to see the tooth marks, bruised and bloody on my face.  He'd cry a tear and regain his pride, the bastard, never able to fully concede to his sins.  For now, I let it ride.

Chapter One: Sources of Fiction -- EXERCISE 4

Two or three pages.  Write down the first dreams you remember.  Don't mention that they are dreams.

Objective:  Similar to Exercise 3.  Remember that in dreams you can't be held accountable for making everything plausible.  Strange things happen, and not everything is explained.  Don't punctuate, just drift words and images together into a dreamlike stream of consciousness.  You can't remember all of the details of your early dreams -- maybe you can? -- but dont' let that deter you from writing at least two pages.  If you manage to get into a primative dreamlike state of mind, you'll create strange connections and images.  This approach could be productive for helping you develop unique moments in stories.

Check:  Read what you've written.  Do you have something bizarre?  If not, distort things.  For example, bring in wolves to create an expressionistic painting, because that's what dreams do.  They express your hidden fears.  And fears should mobilize you into a fight-or-flight alertness; use that energy for flights of fancy.

Chad:  Okay, I'm not crazy about some of this guy's writing. 

dreamstate long ago,  i'm on my bed in a warm safe favorite place, my room, bright, friendly, plaid, plaid, plaid...  i wonder if anyone else can fly like this laying here on my bed with my hands at my sides or on my tummy i begin to drift and wait for it, every night wait for it that sensation that tingling starting at the top of my spine and expanding out like a cushion of air that takes my whole bed and lifts it I control when it lifts and how it tilts  I control how high if goes, how it spins, how fast, how far, how deep, and then I'm asleep and see them on a dark street corner near a phone booth near a store I see the three of them walking very close to each other, curled and bent into each other talking and plotting talkin about me they're coming to get me one with his cape and fangs and slick hair one with green skin and tall and monstrous and one smaller, hunched over and furry like a wolf these three... the three of them are giants in my mind everyone knows about them and somehow they know about me and they're getting closer every night Dracula, Frankenstein's monster, and the wolfman are coming to get me raise my feet dont let them reach out from under the bed to get me but he's here already, the wolfman is in the house where are my parents?  the kids are alone me jeff jennifer and laura in the house by ourselves at night bedtime ready for bed in my pajamas jennifer and laura in their long night shirts flowing pretty jeff is gone I didn't see him killed I just know that the wolfman got him and now jennifer and laura take me upstairs to be safe locked in the bathroom but hes there outside the door clawing at it I can see his claws coming through and the door opens so I run out and past him while he gets them I dont' see him get them but I know that they're dead now too and that leaves only me so I run through the living room and don't want to go to the basement so I hide under the dining room table thankful there's a table cloth hanging to help hide me  I hear the wolfman coming down the stairs, through the living room, and I can see his feet, stepping past, no no no they stop by the table so close to me and I know that he knows that I'm under here, and he quickly drops down on his haunches and looks at me, he's angry and mad and growls and i know that he'll kill me and he lunges at me and he kills me

And I wake up.

two or three pages???  Geesh.  I just don't have that much dream material.

Chapter One: Sources of Fiction -- EXERCISE 3-3

Write down your first three memories.  Can you make a story out of any of them?

3. "The Landspeeder"

Josh was five years old when Star Wars was released.  A five-year-old hasn't the capacity for understanding much about the release of a film, let alone a surprise cinema juggernaut that altered filmmaking and moviegoing, subverted an audience into culthood, and single-handedly invent the movie-tie in marketing extravaganza.  A child hasn't the historical context of popular culture to realize the span of his childhood is coupled with entertainments by the same cosmic lottery that paired his parents with playing cowboys and indians and let them grow into Elvis or would have his children adore Sponge Bob Squarepants and listen to Avril Lavigne.  Films present windows into other realities for even the most practical, and often their new realities were in the '70s a mere dark shade away from the real world.  Star Wars was pure escapism, and it was to become an unparalleled universe of imagination that allowed a new generation to grow up believing in optimism and the Force, something their parents hadn't intended to happen through just a movie.

Josh was five years old when Star Wars was released, but he didn't see it that year. 

Late that summer, he sat in the back seat of his parents' Impala.  They normally didn't leave him in the car more than a few moments, so they must have been caught up inside the house they were visiting.  It was a sunny day in an unknown neighborhood, not a place Josh  was familiar with, and the sounds of lawnmowers, children playing, and music wafted on the breeze as light and heavy as the scents of waning summer.  He was beginning to connect the favorite songs with certain performers, a novelty to children who are also learning that the people on television and in the movies are actors, not crime fighters and villains.  He turned to the radio at the sound of a piano flourish, and he smiled because he liked this song and the female vocalists.  Their harmonies made him daydream.

Two boys crashed out of the house next door to where his parents disappeared.  With toys in their hands they jumped down to the sidewalk from the elevated front yard; a short stone wall with a concrete ledge trimmed the front.  Josh slipped up to his knees and sniffed out the window.  They boys were older, maybe nine or ten, and they laughed and shouted.  He watched them squat by the stone wall and put their toys down, small action figures and something that looked like a car without wheels.  Josh recognized it from a commercial.  Some boys were playing with it just like these boys, on a concrete ledge where it glided along on hidden springy wheels so it looked like it was floating.

The taller of the two boys held it and talked with his figure.  "Come on, Ben!" he said.  It wasn't the other boy's name, Josh discovered, but the name of his figure.  "Hop in my landspeeder!"  Yes, that was the name from the commercial, Josh remembered.  That was a landspeeder.  He peered out further -- he wanted to see if it really could float like that.  The boys put it down, and it rested flat on the ledge without floating.  They sat the figures, and the taller boy picked it up and moved something, something cool, so that when he set it down it bobbed up and down.

The boy pushed the landspeeder and let it go, and it traveled, aparrently floating, just like in the commercial.  Josh would tell his parents about this.  Christmas was several months away, but he would plant the seed now.  He, like millions more, had no preparation for how generous the seed would be.