Tag Archives: #steeringthecraft

“Old Ghosts” / Practice with Steering the Craft #4

EXERCISE TWO: Am I Saramago (Part 2)

Last week, I offered up a new paragraph for my short story “Old Ghosts” sans punctuation. Here it is:

“The crack rent the morning sent a flock of geese skyward their honking cacophony carrying away all other sound silence slipped in behind them and I noticed the old Lenape woman with a basket of plants on the opposite bank another one fetched water in a clay bowl a column of revolutionaries stopped to drink before the dusty forward march muskets perched on slumping shoulders weary faced a grandfather joined the man and the waif a teenager in a saggy black drape and smudged eyes sat on a log a pistol in his hand at once the woman rose up the soldiers marched on grandfather, man, and son disappeared the boy blew his head off I dropped to my knees clutched my chest sweat tickled my nose I hoisted up with my walking stick but they were gone all of them gone from my stream so quiet it didn’t even burble and the wind had blown out a calm before a storm a chill raced through me and I swore to write it down just had to go back to my cottage up by the road I staggered with the shock I’m sure it was shock yes it was”

LeGuin’s instructions were to punctuate the passage after letting it sit for a week. Remember, if you’re part of the #WriteLGBTQ and #WritingCommunity groups on Twitter, maybe you’ll join me on this excursion by sharing your response to this post on Twitter! Use the hashtag #steeringthecraft. 

Oh my god I overuse commas. 

Just looking at the paragraph, I can see where I had expectations of pauses. She allows word changes as need, so I may need some of that. First though, what would it look like with minimal punctuation?

“The crack rent the morning sent a flock of geese skyward their honking cacophony carrying away all other sound. Silence slipped in behind them and I noticed the old Lenape woman with a basket of plants on the opposite bank. Another one fetched water in a clay bowl. A column of revolutionaries stopped to drink before the dusty forward march muskets perched on slumping shoulders weary faced. A grandfather joined the man and the waif. A teenager in a saggy black drape and smudged eyes sat on a log a pistol in his hand. At once the woman rose up the soldiers marched on grandfather, man, and son disappeared. The boy blew his head off. I dropped to my knees clutched my chest sweat tickled my nose I hoisted up with my walking stick but they were gone all of them gone from my stream. So quiet it didn’t even burble and the wind had blown out a calm before a storm a chill raced through me. And I swore to write it down just had to go back to my cottage up by the road I staggered with the shock I’m sure it was shock yes it was.”

Ok, that still feels gross. Fully punctuated then…

“The crack rent the morning, sent a flock of geese skyward, their honking cacophony carrying away all other sound. Silence slipped in behind them and I noticed the old Lenape woman with a basket of plants on the opposite bank. Another one fetched water in a clay bowl. A column of revolutionaries stopped to drink before the dusty forward march, muskets perched on slumping shoulders, weary-faced. A grandfather joined the man and the waif. A teenager in a saggy black drape and smudged eyes sat on a log, a pistol in his hand. At once the woman rose up; the soldiers marched on; grandfather, man, and son disappeared; the boy blew his head off. I dropped to my knees. Clutched my chest. Sweat tickled my nose. I hoisted myself up with my walking stick, but they were gone—all of them gone—from my stream. So quiet. It didn’t even burble. The wind had blown out—a calm before a storm. A chill raced through me and I swore to write what I had seen down, just had to go back to my cottage. I staggered with the shock—I’m sure it was—yes it was shock.”

A couple of word changes that that time as well. Getting better. Wonder if I can cut down he punctuation but cutting down and rearranging the sentences?

“The shotgun crack sent a flock of geese honking skyward. Silence slipped behind them. Suddenly I saw two Lenape women on the opposite bank: one bore a basket of plants, the other filled a clay bowl with water. A column of revolutionaries drank before marching on, muskets perched on their slumping shoulders. A weary-faced grandfather joined the man and boy. A teenager draped in a saggy black clothes sat on a log, a pistol in his hand. 

Everything converged. The women retreated into the wild. The soldiers marched onward. Grandfather, son, and grandson cast their lines as one. The boy blew his head off. 

I dropped to my knees. Clutched my chest. Sweat tickled my nose. I hoisted myself up with my walking stick. They were gone—all of them. The stream dribbled along without a burble. The wind had calmed. No birdcalls. No rustling leaves. Scared, I swore to write down my experience. Just had to get home. I staggered. Shock—I’m sure it was. Yes. It was shock.”

I’m starting to like it more, but it really is an eye opener to practice punctuation by ripping it out and putting it back in. It really is neat—the tempo changes in the unpunctuated passage vs. the others. Not just the punctuation, but the separation of the block into smaller paragraphs transforms the way the words are read.

Funny, years ago, I had a writing tutor do the same thing with a student who had been poorly taught about what punctuation does. The wheel keeps turning, doesn’t it?

“Old Ghosts” / Practice with Steering the Craft #3

EXERCISE TWO: Am I Saramago

LeGuin reminds her readers that punctuation is an essential tool of good writing, and so wants us to try this activity that includes a seven day interval.

First, we should “Write a paragraph to a page (150–350 words) of narrative with no punctuation (and no paragraphs or other breaking devices).” A week later, we should punctuate the passage.

Remember, if you’re part of the #WriteLGBTQ and #WritingCommunity groups on Twitter, maybe you’ll join me on this excursion by sharing your response to this post on Twitter! Use the hashtag #steeringthecraft. 

I am still working on “Old Ghosts”, but the assignment has forced me to move to an uptempo section, similar to the prompts suggested in Steering the Craft. But while I have a high tempo section, it’s not a part that I especially like. I think I can push this idea further if I add it in as a whole new idea. It’s noted in the text below.

Old Ghosts

A spring wind whipped the woods to life. Daffodils lifted yellow faces to the sun, and blossoms blown from the trees speckled the stream in pinks and whites. Mountain ridge snowmelt strengthened the headwaters. The stream swelled; muddy banks submerged, lost until summer. The peepers chirped away the sun each night. Bullfrogs croaked. Little furry things scuttled beyond the rushes. Snakes slithered over bent logs and wound their way across the surface. Shad and trout returned. And with them came the people.

I happened upon a pair the other day, just after dawn. They set up camp on a fallen oak, a beaten metal pail between them. The older man was scruffy; his hat brim frayed from weather.  His trousers were patched in one knee, the waistband taut around his girth.

“Like this,” he said, and cast his line again.

The waif was a scrawnier version of his teacher. From the muddy, waterlogged state of his overalls and the dirt on his face and hands, it seemed the natural lack of grace in boys that age had already taken its toll that morning.

The fishing rods seemed antique, perhaps forced back into service? Bamboo rods had gone out of style even before I was a boy, and their lines were too visible, too thick to be modern.

I waved. My right, of course. They were on my property.

“You there!” I called. “How’s the fishin’?”

They nodded. The fat man doffed his hat.

“I said, ‘how’s the fishin’?'”

They ignored me. The wind blew gently. The stream burbled. A woodpecker pecked a poplar. I could think of no earthly reason they should ignore me, so I called out.

“You’re on private property, you know.”

It was true. I hunted the woods and still cleaned the carcasses in the shed behind the stone cottage. Fished the stream and scaled and cooked that fish on red coals. Cut down the trees to keep the cottage warm in winter, to say nothing of cooking my meals. Cleared the dead wood, picked wild raspberries, planted the garden. Drove the stakes tied with white cloth to mark the corners. I worked it; it was mine.

“It’s disrespectful of you—”

Tee-and-Flannel got a bite. A little tug, a stronger tug, and a trout popped out of the stream. It flailed in the air. The big man punched his shoulder. They continued to act as if I wasn’t there.

“Now, look here,” I called. “I don’t mind you–“

The younger fella released his catch, and the pair sat down on the bank again.

I picked up a stone and skipped it across the water toward them.

“–I don’t mind you–“

“Hey,” Straw Hat called out. “Who are you?” He stood up and pointed at me with a sausage finger.

“I might ask you the same question,” I said. “Since you’re on my property.”

“Excuse me?” he said. “This is my property.” He motioned to his fishin’ buddy. “Get me the rifle, son,” he said. the younger one dropped his makeshift pole and ran up the path.

“You’re gonna get violent?” I asked.

“When you try to steal my land from me, damn right I will,” he said.

“But it’s not your land,” I insisted.

“Like hell,” he said.

I reached down into the water and pulled up a skipping stone. I played a bit of shortstop in high school. I thought I could peg him in the thigh. He was a big target anyway.

Several seconds of glaring silence passed. His boy reappeared with the gun.

“Mister,” I called out. “You touch that gun and I’ll break your hand with this stone.” I palmed it like a baseball.

He grabbed the gun. I chucked the ball at his hand. It hit him square. Then it passed through his hand, his gun, and his son on the other side.

Well, shit.

He raised it and fired. Then he stared. His boy turned white.

“Son–“

“Right through him, Pop, I swear to God.”

NEW MATERIAL HERE

The crack rent the morning sent a flock of geese skyward their honking cacophony carrying away all other sound silence slipped in behind them and I noticed the old Lenape woman with a basket of plants on the opposite bank another one fetched water in a clay bowl a column of revolutionaries stopped to drink before the dusty forward march muskets perched on slumping shoulders weary faced a grandfather joined the man and the waif a teenager in a saggy black drape and smudged eyes sat on a log a pistol in his hand at once the woman rose up the soldiers marched on grandfather, man, and son disappeared the boy blew his head off I dropped to my knees clutched my chest sweat tickled my nose I hoisted up with my walking stick but they were gone all of them gone from my stream so quiet it didn’t even burble and the wind had blown out a calm before a storm a chill raced through me and I swore to write it down just had to go back to my cottage up by the road I staggered with the shock I’m sure it was shock yes it was 

END NEW MATERIAL

I kept walking toward them. They turned and ran. I chased after them, but they disappeared up the path. Somewhere beyond the trees I heard an engine turn over. I dropped into the big guy’s seat on the log. The wood had been worn; it was well used. I looked into the pail. It was empty. Rusted through.

So this is where I sit, waiting for the guy and his kid to come back. Seems like it’s been a while. I should probably head home soon. It’s my property after all.

*****

Works Cited

Le Guin, Ursula  K.. Steering the Craft: A Twenty-First-Century Guide to Sailing the Sea of Story (p. 18). HMH Books. Kindle Edition.

“Old Ghosts” / Practice with Steering the Craft #2

Week Two, and I’m going to continue with part two of lesson one. The use of writing for sound is not just for description, but for action and emotion as well. Below is the complete short piece integrating the revised passage from last week.

Remember, if you’re part of the #WriteLGBTQ and #WritingCommunity groups on Twitter, maybe you’ll join me on this excursion by sharing your response to this post on Twitter! Use the hashtag #steeringthecraft

Old Ghosts

A spring wind whipped the woods to life. Daffodils lifted yellow faces to the sun, and blossoms blown from the trees speckled the stream in pinks and whites. Mountain ridge snowmelt strengthened the headwaters. The stream swelled; muddy banks submerged, lost until summer. The peepers chirped away the sun each night. Bullfrogs croaked. Little furry things scuttled beyond the rushes. Snakes slithered over bent logs and wound their way across the surface. Shad and trout returned. And with them came the people.

I happened upon a pair the other day, just after dawn. They set up camp on a fallen oak, a beaten metal pail between them. The older man was scruffy; his hat brim frayed from weather.  His trousers were patched in one knee, the waistband taut around his girth.

“Like this,” he said, and cast his line again.

The waif was a scrawnier version of his teacher. From the muddy, waterlogged state of his overalls and the dirt on his face and hands, it seemed the natural lack of grace in boys that age had already taken its toll that morning.

The fishing rods seemed antique, perhaps forced back into service? Bamboo rods had gone out of style even before I was a boy, and their lines were too visible, too thick to be modern.

I waved. My right, of course. They were on my property.

“You there!” I called. “How’s the fishin’?”

They nodded. The fat man doffed his hat.

“I said, ‘how’s the fishin’?'”

They ignored me.

“You’re on private property, you know.”

Tee-and-Flannel got a bite. A little tug, a stronger tug, and a trout popped out of the stream. It flailed in the air. The big man punched his shoulder. They continued to act as if I wasn’t there.

“Now, look here,” I called. “I don’t mind you–“

The younger fella released his catch, and the pair sat down on the bank again.

I picked up a stone and skipped it across the water toward them.

“–I don’t mind you–“

“Hey,” Straw Hat called out. “Who are you?” He stood up and pointed at me with a sausage finger.

“I might ask you the same question,” I said. “Since you’re on my property.”

“Excuse me?” he said. “This is my property.” He motioned to his fishin’ buddy. “Get me the rifle, son,” he said. the younger one dropped his makeshift pole and ran up the path.

“You’re gonna get violent?” I asked.

“When you try to steal my land from me, damn right I will,” he said.

“But it’s not your land,” I insisted.

“Like hell,” he said.

I reached down into the water and pulled up a skipping stone. I played a bit of shortstop in high school. I thought I could peg him in the thigh. He was a big target anyway.

Several seconds of glaring silence passed. His boy reappeared with the gun.

“Mister,” I called out. “You touch that gun and I’ll break your hand with this stone.” I palmed it like a baseball.

He grabbed the gun. I chucked the ball at his hand. It hit him square. Then it passed through his hand, his gun, and his son on the other side.

Well, shit.

He raised it and fired. Then he stared. His boy turned white.

“Son–“

“Right through him, Pop, I swear to God.”

I kept walking toward them. They turned and ran. I chased after them, but they disappeared up the path. Somewhere beyond the trees I heard an engine turn over. I dropped into the big guy’s seat on the log. The wood had been worn; it was well used. I looked into the pail. It was empty. Rusted through.

So this is where I sit, waiting for the guy and his kid to come back. Seems like it’s been a while. I should probably head home soon. It’s my property after all.

*****

Lesson #1, Part 2. Being Gorgeous

LeGuin Writes “Part Two: In a paragraph or so, describe an action, or a person feeling strong emotion—joy, fear, grief. Try to make the rhythm and movement of the sentences embody or represent the physical reality you’re writing about.”

So here are the lines I’m working with from draft one:

They ignored me.

“You’re on private property, you know.”

And here’s my revision:

The wind blew gently. The stream burbled. A woodpecker pecked in a poplar. I could think of no earthly reason they should ignore me, so I called out.

“You’re on private property, you know.”

It was true. I hunted the woods and still cleaned the carcasses in the shed behind the stone cottage. Fished the stream and scaled and cooked that fish on red coals. Cut down the trees to keep the cottage warm in winter, to say nothing of cooking my meals. Cleared the dead wood, picked wild raspberries, planted the garden. Drove the stakes tied with white cloth to mark the corners. I worked it; it was mine.

“It’s disrespectful of you—”

Works Cited

Le Guin, Ursula K. Steering the Craft: A Twenty-First-Century Guide to Sailing the Sea of Story (p. 9). HMH Books. Kindle Edition. 

“Old Ghosts” / Practice with Steering the Craft #1

With the change in circumstances that accompany the end of the semester, I find myself at a place where I can try a little different approach to this blog. I want to put more time into a book length project, but I don’t want to post too much from it here. 

However, it’s important to practice writing, and not just by throwing words on a page and seeing what sticks. To that end, I’ve picked up Ursula K. LeGuin’s Steering the Craft: A 21st-Century Guide to Sailing the Sea of Story. LeGuin is one of my favorite authors, her stories are forward thinking, and her prose is beautiful. Just look at the opening description in The Telling.

My goal is to work my way through LeGuin’s guide while revising (or really finishing) a single short story. I want to see how much the story is transformed when I tend to her suggestions for practice. The story I have chosen to work with is a piece—really a badly assembled skeleton with a lot of loose, flappy, flaking dialogue—called “Old Ghosts”. Here it is:

Old Ghosts

They sat on the log across the stream, each clutching a slender branch with a line tied to the end. I had never seen them before.

The first, a large, greasy man, wore overalls and no shirt. His head covered with a straw hat. The second, hungrier-looking fella wore a white tee with a flannel tied around his waist. A bucket of worms sat between them.

I waved. My right, of course. They were on my property.

“You there!” I called. “How’s the fishin’?”

They nodded. The fat man doffed his hat.

“I said, ‘how’s the fishin’?'”

They ignored me.

“You’re on private property, you know.”

Tee-and-Flannel got a bite. A little tug, a stronger tug, and a trout popped out of the stream. It flailed in the air. The big man punched his shoulder. They continued to act as if I wasn’t there.

“Now, look here,” I called. “I don’t mind you–“

The younger fella released his catch, and the pair sat down on the bank again.

I picked up a stone and skipped it across the water toward them.

“–I don’t mind you–“

“Hey,” Straw Hat called out. “Who are you?” He stood up and pointed at me with a sausage finger.

“I might ask you the same question,” I said. “Since you’re on my property.”

“Excuse me?” he said. “This is my property.” He motioned to his fishin’ buddy. “Get me the rifle, son,” he said. the younger one dropped his makeshift pole and ran up the path.

“You’re gonna get violent?” I asked.

“When you try to steal my land from me, damn right I will,” he said.

“But it’s not your land,” I insisted.

“Like hell,” he said.

I reached down into the water and pulled up a skipping stone. I played a bit of shortstop in high school. I thought I could peg him in the thigh. He was a big target anyway.

Several seconds of glaring silence passed. His boy reappeared with the gun.

“Mister,” I called out. “You touch that gun and I’ll break your hand with this stone.” I palmed it like a baseball.

He grabbed the gun. I chucked the ball at his hand. It hit him square. Then it passed through his hand, his gun, and his son on the other side.

Well, shit.

He raised it and fired. Then he stared. His boy turned white.

“Son–“

“Right through him, Pop, I swear to God.”

I kept walking toward them. They turned and ran. I chased after them, but they disappeared up the path. Somewhere beyond the trees I heard an engine turn over. I dropped into the big guy’s seat on the log. The wood had been worn; it was well used. I looked into the pail. It was empty. Rusted through.

So this is where I sit, waiting for the guy and his kid to come back. Seems like it’s been a while. I should probably head home soon. It’s my property after all.

*****

I’m not sure that the piece has much value—I’m not sure yet what it’s trying to say, but I have a few ideas. It’s part of a collection of gothic tales set in Pennsylvania, USA, but it still needs work.

Before I roll out lesson one, if you’re part of the #WriteLGBTQ and #WritingCommunity groups on Twitter, maybe you’ll join me on this excursion. If you have something you’d like to practice with, let’s practice together! Share your ideas as a response to this post on Twitter! Use the hashtag #steeringthecraft

Lesson #1. Being Gorgeous

LeGuin writes “Part One: Write a paragraph to a page of narrative that’s meant to be read aloud. Use onomatopoeia, alliteration, repetition, rhythmic effects, made-up words or names, dialect—any kind of sound effect you like—but NOT rhyme or meter.

I want you to write for pleasure—to play. Just listen to the sounds and rhythms of the sentences you write and play with them, like a kid with a kazoo. This isn’t “free writing,” but it’s similar in that you’re relaxing control: you’re encouraging the words themselves—the sounds of them, the beats and echoes—to lead you on. For the moment, forget all the good advice that says good style is invisible, good art conceals art. Show off! Use the whole orchestra our wonderful language offers us!”

So here’s the line I’m working with from draft one:

They sat on the log across the stream, each clutching a slender branch with a line tied to the end. I had never seen them before.

And here’s my first stab at “being gorgeous”:

A spring wind whipped the woods to life. Daffodils lifted yellow faces to the sun, and blossoms blown from the trees speckled the stream in pinks and whites. Mountain ridge snowmelt strengthened the headwaters. The stream swelled; muddy banks submerged, lost until summer. The peepers chirped away the sun each night. Bullfrogs croaked. Little furry things scuttled beyond the rushes. Snakes slithered over bent logs and wound their way across the surface. Shad and trout returned. And with them came the people.

I happened upon a pair the other day, just after dawn. They set up camp on a fallen oak, a beaten metal pail between them. The older man was scruffy; his hat brim frayed from weather.  His trousers were patched in one knee, the waistband taut around his girth.

“Like this,” he said, and cast his line again.

The waif was a scrawnier, smaller version of his teacher. From the muddy, waterlogged state of his overalls and the dirt on his face and hands, it seemed the natural lack of grace in boys that age had already taken its toll that morning.

The fishing rods seemed antique, perhaps forced back into service? Bamboo rods had gone out of style even before I was a boy, and their lines were too visible, too thick to be modern.

Works Cited

Le Guin, Ursula K. Steering the Craft: A Twenty-First-Century Guide to Sailing the Sea of Story (p. 8). HMH Books. Kindle Edition.