The following explanation accompanies the first in-class writing exercise that you did on day one. Check it out. Now compare what you have done to the following from others who have done this:
1. I'm tired, a little anxious. I want to get on with it and am impatient to begin.
2. I'm skeptical and fascinated. I want to be here but wonder what's going to happen next.
3. I feel happy. I'm confused, eager and excited.
Now look at what others have written after taking more time to get in touch with the images, much like images in dreams, that came to their awareness while they were experiencing the same emotions that you had:
1. A door opening.
2. A racehorse nervously stomping at the starting gate.
3. A small stream with rapids.
4. A volcano.
5. The last abandoned car in an empty railroad yard.
6. A mass of fresh dough.
7. A child's pinwheel, spinning.
I think you would agree that what is illustrated here are two very different way of communicating. Both are valid. The first is general and abstract, also not very threatening! General words are safe, which is why we are inclined to use them. However, I think you would also agree that the second list is more interesting, more revealing, promising more excitement in the writing that will follow. Images work, they are alive. Images bypass the reader's censoring mechanisms, bypass resistance based on politics, cultural differences, religious upbringing. Images are, in my opinion, the ONLY way you convince someone to actively read your writing. General language works, too; general language, though, is dead or nearly so.
When you dream, do you dream in generalities or images?
Read the following student theme. Notice the impact of the image the writer uses to end her paper with. It is powerful. Unforgettable. Long after you forget the writer's name, you will recall the image. The second writer offers us another lasting image, not a horrific one but one equally compelling, both memorable.
Over And Over
It is a warm, sunny spring day unusual at this time of the year in Kentucky. I am sitting on my back porch swing, enjoying the day. My daughter, Beth, and her cousins are playing a rowdy game of freeze tag. Their gales of laughter and childish squeals make the day all the more enjoyable. As I sit on the aged swing, with its peeling white paint, I sip my coffee. I allow my mind to wander back in time to another back porch and another spring day.
The early morning sun was bright in the sky. It was one of the first warm days of spring. My children and I were in the backyard of our North Carolina home, basically goofing off and enjoying our morning. We were waiting for my soon to be ex-husband to arrive for his court ordered visit. I prepared my son as best I could for his visit. The only thing that seemed to help was my promise that he would be back in two days. I never broke promises to my children. So here we were, waiting. I played with my son as if I might never again have the chance. We played horsey, and tag, all the games we could think of. Then everything froze, like a V.C.R. when you hit "pause." Steve, my husband, pulled into the yard. My daughter ran in the back door, letting it slam behind her. My son, Stevie, held onto my pants leg with his two year old hands, peering around my body like you would peer around a door.
Steve parked his black 300ZX and got out. He looked as he always had, gentle and handsome. Unfortunately, I had to learn the hard way that looks are sometimes deceiving. Looking at him was like looking at an older version of my son. They had the same dark hair and eyes and someday would no doubt have the same muscular build. As Steve walked around the front of the car towards us, my son bolted for the house.
Just as he was reaching the back door, I caught him. I grabbed him up into my arms and said, "Stevie. Daddy's here to take you for a visit. He has missed you so much, and it's only for two days!" His pudgy face reddened; tears poured from his eyes.
"No, Me-Me, No!" he cried, holding my neck.
By now Steve was standing near and said,"Come on boy. We will have lots of fun."
He took Stevie from my arms and walked across the yard to his car.
"No! My Me-Me! Kisses Me-Me! Me-Me No! No go! Me-Me!" he cried holding his arms out to me.
"It's only for two days baby, I love you!" I called, as I waved and tried to smile
When they pulled out of the yard, I could see little baby hands pressed to the window glass, and little blonde baby curls shining in the sun. As I watched the car move out of sight, my heart felt empty.
The emptiness grew with the passage of time. Two days, a week, a month turned into years, Steve left the state with my son. No forwarding address, no telephone number, no leads for me to follow. Since there were no formal custody papers yet, the police could not help me.
Three years. Does he remember me, or am I just a vague dream he sometimes has?
The sudden pain this thought brings, thrusts me back to the present. As if waking from a reverie, I look around. Beth and her cousins are still playing tag. They're fighting over who's "it." Watching her play like this, I wonder if she ever thinks of her brother. It must be hard for her. I know she has questions, but we never talk about Stevie.
The swing, still rocking gently, is soothing. I take a sip of coffee only to discover that it has grown cold. Setting it down, I notice the sun shining in Beth's hair. This causes me to realize that for the rest of my life, on days such as this when the sun shines and the children's laughter fills the air, in my mind I will see little baby hands pressed to the glass and blonde baby curls shining in the sun, over and over.
—Joanne Gall , Spring 1994
A Caring Hand
The house crouches alongside the winding country road. Nestled among an army of pine trees, it looks to be a peaceful and quiet place to live. The drive curls around the house, disappearing toward the back in the tall weeds that seem to be overtaking the once well-cared-for lawn. A crumbling walk ends at the foot of well-worn steps leading to the porch. The wooden porch wraps around the front and along one side of the house, like a mother's arms holding a child. The front door hangs slightly ajar, as if waiting to be gently closed by a caring hand.
Inside, dust gently dances in the gray light filtering in through the dirty, broken windows. There is an eerie feeling about this place, as though it is waiting, watching. Through the French doors that open into what was once an elegant dining room, can be seen a broken chair, sitting alone in a corner, as if it had been forgotten or maybe it was waiting for its mates to come home where they belong.
On the dingy walls, along the shadowy hall, can be seen the outlines where pictures had once hung. The carpet was well traveled in this part of the house. Several door stands open along the way. Looking into the first room, faint pictures of trucks and trains can be seen on the dirty paper covering the walls. A child's room; a boy child.
Continuing down the hall, a faint scratching can be heard. Peering in the next room, what must have been the master bedroom, a ragged blanket can be seen, kicked in the corner by an unknown foot. Sliding doors, the glass long gone, reveled a large closet. A lone jacket, torn and dirty hangs on a rusty nail in the back. Continuing the exploration of the house leads to the bathroom. Fixtures long gone, ripped out, mutilate the once pristine bathroom. The rusty pipes, reaching out, were like severed limbs, their life's blood drained long ago.
Going back along the hall toward the dimming light from the living room, a closed door, missed in the dim light, is seen. Opening the door reveals a kitchen. Faded yellow curtains still hang at the window over the sink. Cabinet doors stand open, faded, dirty enamel peeling from the wood. A spot along one wall shows evidence of where the stove and refrigerator once sat.
Walking once again through the front room of the house and out the front, a caring hand reaches out and gently closes the door.
—Barbara Lester, Spring 1994
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