Hi everyone,
We had our first meeting last friday, yay! There were 7 of us there and we did two 30 minute chunks of writing plus had some discussion about how to structure future meetings.
Here's an update on what we discussed about logistics and on how to structure future meetings (those present, please feel free to correct me or add something that I may have forgotten to mention here):
1. Most people were comfortable with an evening time slot - looking at the schedules of everyone present we found that wednesdays from 4:30 to 7:00 would work for most people. People can, of course, stop by after 4:30 or leave early as per your convenience.
2. We thought it would be neat to have one short story from our anthology to read and critique as well and to may be sandwich it between two writing sessions. We randomly picked "The Management of Grief'" by Bharati Mukherji for August 20.
3. It would be convenient to move this to a yahoo group so everybody can post and its way easier to facilitate. Future meeting times and dates will be announced on the blog website as well for those that still check in there. I manage another yahoo group for work so can set one up for us so we can get that going soon.
And finally - we decided to meet twice a month on wednesdays - Dana Street Coffee co. in Mountain View seemd to work well for everyone so the next meeting is on:
August 20, Wednesday from 4:30 - 7:00 PM at Dana St. Coffee Co. in Mountain View.
It was great to see everyone - we actually ended up getting a good table and a good spot that day - hope that continues at Dana St. Coffee co...hope to see all of you at the next meeting!
-Humaira
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
First "Jumpstart 08" Peninsula/South Bay Coffeehouse Writing Group Meeting
Hi all,
So here's the date and time for the first meeting:
Date: August 08, 2008
Time: 1:00 PM - 4:00 PM (people can leave early if they need to or come in later as well - it does help though to have some people show up on time even if people leave early afterwards).
Where: Dana Street Roasting Company
http://www.danastreetroasting.com/
94041
http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&hl=en&q=744+W.+Dana+St.+Mountain+View+CA&sll=37.402619,-122.083941&sspn=0.03225,0.10231&ie=UTF8&om=0&ll=37.39263,-122.078598&spn=0.007876,0.020084&z=16
The expectation is that we'll do chunks of our own individual writing - with chat/snack breaks in between. So may be 30 to 45 minute writing times with 15 - 20 minute breaks. Also, right now we've got three hours scheduled but I dont expect that we'll use all of it efficiently - so please don't be intimidated by the three hour chunk - we can also, of course, finish early but I thought it would help to commit to a certain amount of time to begin with. We can tinker with that once we get this going and get somewhat regular with it.
Hope to see some of you there!
So here's the date and time for the first meeting:
Date: August 08, 2008
Time: 1:00 PM - 4:00 PM (people can leave early if they need to or come in later as well - it does help though to have some people show up on time even if people leave early afterwards).
Where: Dana Street Roasting Company
http://www.danastreetroasting.com/
744 W. Dana Street
Mountain View, CA94041
http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&hl=en&q=744+W.+Dana+St.+Mountain+View+CA&sll=37.402619,-122.083941&sspn=0.03225,0.10231&ie=UTF8&om=0&ll=37.39263,-122.078598&spn=0.007876,0.020084&z=16
The expectation is that we'll do chunks of our own individual writing - with chat/snack breaks in between. So may be 30 to 45 minute writing times with 15 - 20 minute breaks. Also, right now we've got three hours scheduled but I dont expect that we'll use all of it efficiently - so please don't be intimidated by the three hour chunk - we can also, of course, finish early but I thought it would help to commit to a certain amount of time to begin with. We can tinker with that once we get this going and get somewhat regular with it.
Hope to see some of you there!
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Monday July 14 on KQED's Forum: The Future of the Short Story
FYI:
The Future of the Short Story
The short story is a powerful and beloved medium -- but there are very few mainstream outlets that publish short fiction. We discuss the future of the short story with a panel of writers and editors.
Host: Michael Krasny
Guests:
| Mon, Jul 14, 2008 -- 10:00 AM |  |   email reminder |
The short story is a powerful and beloved medium -- but there are very few mainstream outlets that publish short fiction. We discuss the future of the short story with a panel of writers and editors.
Host: Michael Krasny
Guests:
 | Molly Giles, short story writer and professor of fiction writing at the University of Arkansas |
| Pamela Feinsilber, literary and arts editor for San Francisco Magazine |
| Tobias Wolff, author and creative writing professor at Stanford University |
| Tom Jenks, co-editor of Narrative Magazine.com, a free online literature magazine |
Friday, July 11, 2008
Collage
I liked this exercise. My mind went places I wasn't expecting it to-though I wish I'd been more prolific...
She looked out the window, trying to focus on something that wasn't morphing like Gumby on acid. She needed to be near a tree, or a fire hydrant-a mailbox, anything solid and static. The complete opposite way she was feeling. Joe offered his hand-it was too hot and clammy-which made it worse. Monica thought of the fresh scent of Jasmine, of cool, pristine waters in the South Pacific, and of root beer popsicle. She could eat close to five in a single sitting. The car took a sudden right hand turn and knocked Monica into the hot window. It seared her cheek like a piece of Ahi tuna. Strands of brown hair stuck to her lip gloss. Ahi tuna. Rotting fish that beetles and worms slipped through and ate ravenously before voiding their little bug bowels. That was the image she needed. "I'm sorry," she squeaked and threw up all over Joe's lap and shoes.
"Ha!" He says to himself. "The finally caught the son of a bitch." Chelsea would be relieved. Not that he didn't like walking her to her dorm-that was the gentlemanly thing to do, but sometimes, after many beers and a couple of go's with Chelsea, her pink breasts bouncing wildly on the top bunk bed, he was pretty beat. Randy turns up the TV. The reporter says that not only did they catch the purse snatcher, but they actually found his stash. Then the reporter, who is pretty hot, starts to snicker, her tight blue suit coat creeping up toward her small, perky breasts. She says that this guy, Elmer Shrader, has particular taste in fashion. He only stole purses of the highest quality, the trendiest colors, the best shapes, the finest leathers. "Apparently Mr. Shrader likes to wear them," the reporter, Maria Valez says. "He's matches them up with all his dresses and high heel shoes."
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Thank you, katharine and lovely classmates
Hi, I will have to leave class quite early tomorrow, so I just wanted to say thank you so much for this wonderful experience. Katharine, I'm so amazed by the quality of your teaching and feel very fortunate to have been a student in your class even for a short time. And what a fascinating group of people you all are, with such engaging and varied ways with language and so many wonderful stories to tell.
Suzanne, I will try to find out when exactly Z.Z. Packer will be speaking on campus and let you and the rest of the class know.
All best,
Phaedra
I remember Simla
I remember the first visit to Simla, a city, in the Himalayan mountains. It was winter. I was four years old and my brother was three. In winter there was snow all around and the majestic peaks were snow capped. My mother said, “Do you know the word Himalaya is a Sanskrit word. Him means snow and Alaya means home. Those peaks we saw in the distance are covered with snow all year round.”
This dream trip to Simla from Delhi began when, at night, we boarded a fast train to Kalka called, naturally, Kalka mail. We went to sleep in the compartments on the train that were furnished with sleeping berths. Our servant spread our bedding that we carried with us. In winter it consisted of a cotton stuffed mattress and quilt that we brought from home all rolled into a khaki canvass hold-all that was tied together with leather straps and had thick leather handle to carry it with. when we woke up we arrived at Kalka, a city, in the foothills of Himalayas.
We then had to walk to the other side of the station over the foot bridge where the railcar waited for us. This was a cross between an old fashioned fifteen seat automobile and a train. It had a gasoline engine, but wheels that went over the narrow gauge train tracks. There was no room for any bags except carry-on and the first class passengers. This was one of the perks my father got as an Indian railway officer. Hence our baggage came separately on a passenger steam train with our servants and other staff that worked for my father.
The trip was spectacular as we steadily climbed from about five hundred feet to 7000 feet through some of the most spectacular country. In the higher mountains the farms were in the form of terraces in which villagers planted rice, wheat, and other grains. We loved to see apple, orange, and peach trees which were so different from the mango, tamrind, guava, and neem trees in the plains.
The temperature got steadily colder as we reached snow level, my mother would bring out our sweaters and coats. But for the life of me I cannot remember either the color or the texture of my coat. Although I am sure it was of pure wool as there were no synthetics available then. My mother had knitted us sweaters, woolen caps, and scarves that were called mufflers in British English. She had a black woolen coat on which she had embroidered beautiful red and gold mirror work on the pockets and around the neck and the front lapel. It had big black buttons on the front that went through the loop on the other side.
I remember so clearly there were 99 tunnels through which we went. My brother and I counted them with my mother while my father stayed busy with the paper work from his office. Half way to Simla we stopped at a rest house where we ate hot lunch and used the rest rooms.
The Simla station was a small one that curved around. The place we stayed was the railway guest house just above the station. My mother supervised the caretaker giving him money to go to the store and get provisions. There were no automobiles allowed in the city. We had to walk everywhere.
One day we went for a long walk. My mother had bought a wooden board with a curved bottom that she pulled as a sled on the snow. When we got tired she would let us ride on it. However as it was heavy and she had to be sure she didn’t slip on the ice underfoot, she only let us ride if she was convinced we couldn’t hack it. My brother, being younger, was luckier in this respect.
This dream trip to Simla from Delhi began when, at night, we boarded a fast train to Kalka called, naturally, Kalka mail. We went to sleep in the compartments on the train that were furnished with sleeping berths. Our servant spread our bedding that we carried with us. In winter it consisted of a cotton stuffed mattress and quilt that we brought from home all rolled into a khaki canvass hold-all that was tied together with leather straps and had thick leather handle to carry it with. when we woke up we arrived at Kalka, a city, in the foothills of Himalayas.
We then had to walk to the other side of the station over the foot bridge where the railcar waited for us. This was a cross between an old fashioned fifteen seat automobile and a train. It had a gasoline engine, but wheels that went over the narrow gauge train tracks. There was no room for any bags except carry-on and the first class passengers. This was one of the perks my father got as an Indian railway officer. Hence our baggage came separately on a passenger steam train with our servants and other staff that worked for my father.
The trip was spectacular as we steadily climbed from about five hundred feet to 7000 feet through some of the most spectacular country. In the higher mountains the farms were in the form of terraces in which villagers planted rice, wheat, and other grains. We loved to see apple, orange, and peach trees which were so different from the mango, tamrind, guava, and neem trees in the plains.
The temperature got steadily colder as we reached snow level, my mother would bring out our sweaters and coats. But for the life of me I cannot remember either the color or the texture of my coat. Although I am sure it was of pure wool as there were no synthetics available then. My mother had knitted us sweaters, woolen caps, and scarves that were called mufflers in British English. She had a black woolen coat on which she had embroidered beautiful red and gold mirror work on the pockets and around the neck and the front lapel. It had big black buttons on the front that went through the loop on the other side.
I remember so clearly there were 99 tunnels through which we went. My brother and I counted them with my mother while my father stayed busy with the paper work from his office. Half way to Simla we stopped at a rest house where we ate hot lunch and used the rest rooms.
The Simla station was a small one that curved around. The place we stayed was the railway guest house just above the station. My mother supervised the caretaker giving him money to go to the store and get provisions. There were no automobiles allowed in the city. We had to walk everywhere.
One day we went for a long walk. My mother had bought a wooden board with a curved bottom that she pulled as a sled on the snow. When we got tired she would let us ride on it. However as it was heavy and she had to be sure she didn’t slip on the ice underfoot, she only let us ride if she was convinced we couldn’t hack it. My brother, being younger, was luckier in this respect.
Layering Exercise
I found this to be a challenging exercise and am not even sure I did it correctly. I took a scene from a story I'm writing which just had a dialogue b/w two men and find that it is much richer with the layering, so I'm fairly happy with the results:
After we'd been dating for a few months, one night Hector told me he was bored. I was in the kitchen making chicken with mole sauce, one of his favorite dishes. The garlic, onions and chocolate were sizzling in the pan and I turned on the fan so the smoke wouldn't set the alarm off. I held a glass of chardonnay in one hand and a spatula in the other.
Hector was on the futon in front of me watching the game, a beer in one hand and the remote in the other. Any minute, I expected the neighbors to bang on the wall complaining about the noise. Maybe they were out of town.
"I'm bored," Hector yelled over the TV. The commercial with the frogs saying, "Bud Light" was on.
"Bored?" I asked, not quite sure if I heard him correctly.
"Yeah, bored!" he repeated, but louder. I noticed he didn't turn the volume down. "I want to do something exciting."
I stopped mixing the mole sauce. "We can go out if you want - there's this new place in the city that I've wanted to check out." I suggested this even though I'd spent over an hour yesterday looking up recipes for chicken with mole sauce, had gone to three grocery stores for supplies and had even done a trial run last night with my sister. She had loved it and thought Hector would love it, too.
"Not that. That's boring," he said. He turned off the TV so now the only sound in the room was the fan and the sizzling pan, which now sounded louder than ever. The chocolate sauce was starting to smell like it was burning, so I added a little water. "I want to do something exciting." He gave me this look like I should know what he was talking about. But, I didn't. Was he talking about bungee jumping? Sky diving? Going to Infineon and driving a race car? Before I could answer the phone rang. It was my sister.
"Soooo?" This was her way of saying, "How's it going?"
Hector turned the TV back on at the same volume as before. I had no choice but to leave the kitchen, dooming the mole sauce to the trash can, and put my finger in my ear in order to hear Maria. Guess we would be going out after all.
"We haven't eaten yet and actually I don't think we will," I said. "He says he's bored."
"What? You think he wants to break up?" My sister was my relationship counselor. She's always been a sounding board for me. I remember when I first questioned my sexuality. I was a freshman in college and found myself attracted to my male lab partner. She was also there for me when my parents threw me out.
"I don't know. Maybe."
"You deserve better, Jorge."
"I don't want to lose him, Maria. I think I'm in love."
"Hey Jorge!" Hector yelled from the living room. "When's dinner going to be ready?"
To be continued...
What if?
Mr. Strange and Madame X shared a common wall with Rex and me. Usually I slept with earplugs on and a portable fan at full blast for white noise. Rex simply dozed with Larry King on volume level eight. We were both determined to negate the sound of pots, frying pans and various unidentified glassware hitting the wall that separated us, the sane tenants from, well-the ones next door.
I found the soothing sound of a babbling brook coming from my alarm clock to be anything but this morning, and I trudged over and slapped it off. My usual ritual of stretching, plucking the plugs out and diving back into bed was interrupted by the sound of someone singing. A baritone maybe, singing in some language I knew was familiar, but that I didn't understand.
I eased on my robe and sequined flip-flops, which scratched my toes up but were cute anyway, and surreptitiously opened the front door. There was Mr. Strange, bear-like in his stature and hair volume, smiling at the newspaper. Then he noticed me and smiled down with those discolored, yellow tusks of his. "Your paper-is-yes-here-it's-you," he strained, in that accent I could never quite place. He pushed my paper toward me with his furry hand. "Goodbye," he said simply and disappeared around the corner to his lair. He was kind of an over sized version of Ladka from "Taxi."
Had I missed something here? Mr. Strange-smiling? At me? Was this some sort of bizarro world dream I was having? As neighbors, we've had strained international relations for some time now. The sun was warm on my robe and made me squint. I retreated to the relative safety of my dark apartment.
Standing at the kitchen counter, I unfolded the paper and my heart sank. There had been another murder. This time it was in SOMA, down off of 3rd, in an area I was quite fond of. Same stats and scenario. The victim was in his late thirties-early forties, he'd been beaten to death, face all pulpy like plum jam, his teeth had been removed and the tips of his fingers had been burned off. The police called this charming menace to society the "Identity Killer." I guess that was a working title. Sometimes he would leave i.d. on the victims to taunt their loved ones. Oftentimes it wasn't the same person, but it took the police a while to figure that out. I tasted bile in my throat. Why were there so many sickos in the world? And why did they have to descend on my city?
And then I had a thought. (It happens from time to time.) Mr. Strange. Who had a night job. Who always seemed to be teetering on the brink of-what-madness? Who could conceivably be violence incarnate? Yes-he was smiling. At the newspaper. And singing, like he was in a Disney movie. I scanned the rest of the front page for any sign of a lighter story he might have perused. Orphans saving money for their own ice cream store? A cure for cancer? City hall giving out free cash on Tuesdays? But no. There was only the usual bad news. More suicide bombings, no end to the Darfur crisis-the economy going to hell in a big ol' hand basket. The normal stuff.
Was I actually living next door to the I.K.? As early as it was, no matter which MBA bimbo was sharing his bed, Rex was getting up now. Mr. Strange had turned into Mr. Serial Killer-we needed to-to-I wasn't sure what we needed to do. Despite the sounds coming from his room, I knocked loudly on Rex's door.
After all, this was an emergency.
layered dialogue - 2nd scene, loud music coming from teenage son's room
All of a sudden the house went silent, the music had stopped. Jack came out of his room. “What’s for dinner?”
“Homemade mushroom ravioli in a light tomato-basil sauce”. I brushed the edges of one more ravioli with water, folded it over and edged it with a fork.
“That looks really good.” He hovered on the threshold, hesitating before he entered the kitchen.
“I hope so.” I could hear the sauce on stove cooking too quickly, big splotches of it jumping over the edge of the pot and splattering onto the stove. I turned around quickly and lowered the heat.
“Can I help with anything?” He had moved closer to me.
I looked up, looked over to the dinner table in the corner. “You can always set the table.”
“Which plates should I use?”
“It doesn’t matter. Pick whichever you like.”
Jack stopped in the middle of the room, not knowing whether to grab the plates in the cabinet next to me or use the big pasta-plates that were stored in the cabinet next to the dining table. He went for the pasta plates.
“We had a math test today. I think I did pretty good.”
“That’s great. Get some fresh napkins, the old ones need to go in the wash.”
He disappeared with the dirty napkins. I folded the last ravioli. The pasta water was boiling, I lowered a few of the raviolis into the water and watched them carefully. They held together. It’s a tricky thing boiling fresh ravioli. Keep the water boiling too quickly and they break into pieces, get water-logged, beyond rescue. Not hot enough and it takes forever to get them all cooked. Before the last batch is ready the first batches are already cold.
I looked up from the steaming pot. Where had he disappeared to? I took the last batch of raviolis out of the water. Dinner was going to be perfect. I looked around the kitchen again. Where HAD he gone?
With a sigh I wiped my hands on the dishtowel I had tied around my waist and took it off.I opened the door to the garage. In a corner, next to the washer Jack was standing still, staring into the wall.
I hesitated. Just for a second. “Come on, dinner’s ready”.
He turned around. “I’m not hungry.”
I stared in disbelief at him. The silence hung in the air. I quickly turned around.
Back in the kitchen I served myself a big helping of ravioli, carefully poured some tomato-basil sauce over it. Not too much, not too little, just right. Three quick shavings of parmesan. Done. Perfect.
I sat down at the table set for two, poured myself a large glass of wine, took the first bite of the ravioli, chewed, swallowed. A second bite. I put down the fork
I walked over to the sink, poured the ravioli into the garbage disposal. I looked out the window, the almost-barren tree branches stood silently outside. It looked like rain. I shivered, it was going to be a long winter.
“Homemade mushroom ravioli in a light tomato-basil sauce”. I brushed the edges of one more ravioli with water, folded it over and edged it with a fork.
“That looks really good.” He hovered on the threshold, hesitating before he entered the kitchen.
“I hope so.” I could hear the sauce on stove cooking too quickly, big splotches of it jumping over the edge of the pot and splattering onto the stove. I turned around quickly and lowered the heat.
“Can I help with anything?” He had moved closer to me.
I looked up, looked over to the dinner table in the corner. “You can always set the table.”
“Which plates should I use?”
“It doesn’t matter. Pick whichever you like.”
Jack stopped in the middle of the room, not knowing whether to grab the plates in the cabinet next to me or use the big pasta-plates that were stored in the cabinet next to the dining table. He went for the pasta plates.
“We had a math test today. I think I did pretty good.”
“That’s great. Get some fresh napkins, the old ones need to go in the wash.”
He disappeared with the dirty napkins. I folded the last ravioli. The pasta water was boiling, I lowered a few of the raviolis into the water and watched them carefully. They held together. It’s a tricky thing boiling fresh ravioli. Keep the water boiling too quickly and they break into pieces, get water-logged, beyond rescue. Not hot enough and it takes forever to get them all cooked. Before the last batch is ready the first batches are already cold.
I looked up from the steaming pot. Where had he disappeared to? I took the last batch of raviolis out of the water. Dinner was going to be perfect. I looked around the kitchen again. Where HAD he gone?
With a sigh I wiped my hands on the dishtowel I had tied around my waist and took it off.I opened the door to the garage. In a corner, next to the washer Jack was standing still, staring into the wall.
I hesitated. Just for a second. “Come on, dinner’s ready”.
He turned around. “I’m not hungry.”
I stared in disbelief at him. The silence hung in the air. I quickly turned around.
Back in the kitchen I served myself a big helping of ravioli, carefully poured some tomato-basil sauce over it. Not too much, not too little, just right. Three quick shavings of parmesan. Done. Perfect.
I sat down at the table set for two, poured myself a large glass of wine, took the first bite of the ravioli, chewed, swallowed. A second bite. I put down the fork
I walked over to the sink, poured the ravioli into the garbage disposal. I looked out the window, the almost-barren tree branches stood silently outside. It looked like rain. I shivered, it was going to be a long winter.
Bitter Taste of a Humble Pie
Bitter Taste of a Humble Pie
By Manjula Waldron
In the distance Mina can see the majestic Himalayan peaks. The tall mountains with their snow clad peaks that gives these mountains their name. She decides she want to take a bike ride from Simla hill station to a nearby Maninder peak. She runs to her brother’s room. “Wake up! Wake up! Bro, want to go bike riding?” Then she wakes up her two cousins who are visiting them over the summer break. They all get out. Put on their shoes and run to the kitchen. Grab a few pieces of bread each and head out the door before the grown ups are out of bed.
It is June and the weather is beautiful. The sun is rising above the mountain peaks. Mina who is sixteen years of age is full of whim and vigor. She loves to explore these mountains on foot or bike. They walk two miles to Lakkur Bazaar to rent bikes.
Once on the bikes they feel free as birds. Mina has her long black hair flowing behind her. Soon it is time to turn around and come back. They are in the built up area. They read the sign. No riding on vehicles. Her brothers and cousins get off the bicycle. Mina on the other hand gets off but has one foot on the pedal and one on the ground. Technically, not riding, so she thinks.
A police man, dressed smartly, in khaki shorts and shirt with a khaki turban and a belt with bullets and a rifle in his hands stands in front of her bicycle. Mina looks up.
“Miss please get off the bicycle. The sign reads no riding on wheels.”
“I am not riding the bicycle.” Mina replies
“Do you have your foot on the pedal?” Policeman says.
“Yes, only one, see, I have the other one on the ground.”
“Sorry miss that is called riding.”
“No it’s not. Ask anyone.” She looks around at her companions. They have walked on and are avoiding her.
“Miss, do you know who I am?”
“Yes a policeman.”
“Please come in to the station with me.”
“No I don’t have to. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You were breaking the law.”
She looks around many bystanders are looking on. Her ego kicks in. She feels her honor is on line now. “No I wasn’t.” She rejoins in a haughty voice.
“OK Miss, you have your choice.” She starts to walk past him with her bike.
He grips the handle bars and pulls the bike towards the station.
“You can’t do this to me. I haven’t broken any law. Just because you’re a policeman doesn’t mean that you have the power to accuse me wrongly.” She’s near tears out of frustration, but she’s not going to give him the satisfaction of winning. So she swallows them. She digs her heels in. Her head is splitting.
He takes her bike. “Miss I can impound your bike. But I won’t.” He goes to his desk and writes her a ticket. “Here is your order to summoning you to the court a month from now.” He hands her a piece of paper.
“I can’t come to the court on this day. I will be in Delhi.”
He doesn’t say anything and goes in. She mutters as she walks to the bike shop. Feeling embarrassed as she walks pass all the onlookers. Trying to save her face she says loudly to her brothers. “What does he think he is? He can’t make me wrong just because he is a policeman. I didn’t do anything wrong! The damn fool! Incompetent idiot!” She is mad.
Finally she gets home and relates her story to her family. Her Uncle Ash, who is an attorney, hears what she her story.
“Mina are you an imbecile? It is an offense to argue with a policeman and obstruct him in his duty.” She looks up hurt.
“Can you go to court on that day?” He asks
“No. I will be in Delhi. I told him.”
“That ticket gives you no option. You have to appear in court on that day. If you don’t then they will jail you for contempt of court.”
“They can’t. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“That’s for the court to decide. I think it’s best if you we go back to the police station and apologize and see if the policeman will be willing to negotiate this ticket.”
“I’m not going to go back. I’d rather go to jail than apologize to that lowly uncouth human.” Derision pours out of her veins.
“Are you an idiot Mina?”
“I’m not walking two miles back to that station.”
“Yes you are young lady!” Mina’s father thunders as he shakes her and drags her out. Reluctantly Mina follows her father and uncle. Mortified, she can feel her brother’s sniggers up and down her back
It is a long and resentful walk back for Mina. Once they get to the station. Mina cannot look up at the policeman. Uncle Ash is the first one to speak. In a dispassionate voice as if he is making his case in court, he talks policeman.
“Sir I’m sorry for the insolent behavior of my niece. She is young and foolish and didn’t understand the law. If she apologizes to you will you forgive her mistaken ways? We’ll be much obliged by your kindness. I’m sure you have children of your own. It’ll be extreme hardship for her to stay here until the court hearing date. You see she is a very good science student at the University in Delhi. It will affect her academically to miss her classes. We’ll be happy to pay the fine. Mina, please apologize the officer.”
“I’m sorry sir.” Mina mumbles in an inaudible voice.
The policeman relents and Uncle Ash brings out his wallet. He pays the money and together they walk out of the station. Mina never looks up. She doesn’t want to see the look of triumph on the policeman’s face that she is sure he has and hates the bitter taste of the humble pie she has just eaten.
By Manjula Waldron
In the distance Mina can see the majestic Himalayan peaks. The tall mountains with their snow clad peaks that gives these mountains their name. She decides she want to take a bike ride from Simla hill station to a nearby Maninder peak. She runs to her brother’s room. “Wake up! Wake up! Bro, want to go bike riding?” Then she wakes up her two cousins who are visiting them over the summer break. They all get out. Put on their shoes and run to the kitchen. Grab a few pieces of bread each and head out the door before the grown ups are out of bed.
It is June and the weather is beautiful. The sun is rising above the mountain peaks. Mina who is sixteen years of age is full of whim and vigor. She loves to explore these mountains on foot or bike. They walk two miles to Lakkur Bazaar to rent bikes.
Once on the bikes they feel free as birds. Mina has her long black hair flowing behind her. Soon it is time to turn around and come back. They are in the built up area. They read the sign. No riding on vehicles. Her brothers and cousins get off the bicycle. Mina on the other hand gets off but has one foot on the pedal and one on the ground. Technically, not riding, so she thinks.
A police man, dressed smartly, in khaki shorts and shirt with a khaki turban and a belt with bullets and a rifle in his hands stands in front of her bicycle. Mina looks up.
“Miss please get off the bicycle. The sign reads no riding on wheels.”
“I am not riding the bicycle.” Mina replies
“Do you have your foot on the pedal?” Policeman says.
“Yes, only one, see, I have the other one on the ground.”
“Sorry miss that is called riding.”
“No it’s not. Ask anyone.” She looks around at her companions. They have walked on and are avoiding her.
“Miss, do you know who I am?”
“Yes a policeman.”
“Please come in to the station with me.”
“No I don’t have to. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You were breaking the law.”
She looks around many bystanders are looking on. Her ego kicks in. She feels her honor is on line now. “No I wasn’t.” She rejoins in a haughty voice.
“OK Miss, you have your choice.” She starts to walk past him with her bike.
He grips the handle bars and pulls the bike towards the station.
“You can’t do this to me. I haven’t broken any law. Just because you’re a policeman doesn’t mean that you have the power to accuse me wrongly.” She’s near tears out of frustration, but she’s not going to give him the satisfaction of winning. So she swallows them. She digs her heels in. Her head is splitting.
He takes her bike. “Miss I can impound your bike. But I won’t.” He goes to his desk and writes her a ticket. “Here is your order to summoning you to the court a month from now.” He hands her a piece of paper.
“I can’t come to the court on this day. I will be in Delhi.”
He doesn’t say anything and goes in. She mutters as she walks to the bike shop. Feeling embarrassed as she walks pass all the onlookers. Trying to save her face she says loudly to her brothers. “What does he think he is? He can’t make me wrong just because he is a policeman. I didn’t do anything wrong! The damn fool! Incompetent idiot!” She is mad.
Finally she gets home and relates her story to her family. Her Uncle Ash, who is an attorney, hears what she her story.
“Mina are you an imbecile? It is an offense to argue with a policeman and obstruct him in his duty.” She looks up hurt.
“Can you go to court on that day?” He asks
“No. I will be in Delhi. I told him.”
“That ticket gives you no option. You have to appear in court on that day. If you don’t then they will jail you for contempt of court.”
“They can’t. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“That’s for the court to decide. I think it’s best if you we go back to the police station and apologize and see if the policeman will be willing to negotiate this ticket.”
“I’m not going to go back. I’d rather go to jail than apologize to that lowly uncouth human.” Derision pours out of her veins.
“Are you an idiot Mina?”
“I’m not walking two miles back to that station.”
“Yes you are young lady!” Mina’s father thunders as he shakes her and drags her out. Reluctantly Mina follows her father and uncle. Mortified, she can feel her brother’s sniggers up and down her back
It is a long and resentful walk back for Mina. Once they get to the station. Mina cannot look up at the policeman. Uncle Ash is the first one to speak. In a dispassionate voice as if he is making his case in court, he talks policeman.
“Sir I’m sorry for the insolent behavior of my niece. She is young and foolish and didn’t understand the law. If she apologizes to you will you forgive her mistaken ways? We’ll be much obliged by your kindness. I’m sure you have children of your own. It’ll be extreme hardship for her to stay here until the court hearing date. You see she is a very good science student at the University in Delhi. It will affect her academically to miss her classes. We’ll be happy to pay the fine. Mina, please apologize the officer.”
“I’m sorry sir.” Mina mumbles in an inaudible voice.
The policeman relents and Uncle Ash brings out his wallet. He pays the money and together they walk out of the station. Mina never looks up. She doesn’t want to see the look of triumph on the policeman’s face that she is sure he has and hates the bitter taste of the humble pie she has just eaten.
Writing exercise on Layering
Betty wanted to talk to Eleanor alone to pay her condolences about Margo, but when she arrived at the house there was a small crowd of people waiting to enter. Staff members were helping the guests with their coats and brushing snow off their boots.
Betty had been to the McKenna Family Estate many times when she and Margo were in college, but she still was in awe. The house and grounds were immense and meticulously maintained. Since Eleanor made sure everything appeared camera-ready on a regular day, Betty expected nothing less on the day of her daughter’s memorial service.
As the people started to file through the front door, Betty followed behind. Looking down to the foyer from the top of the landing, she saw clusters of silver-haired people, all dressed appropriately in black. Unable to blend in, not only by her age but in her dingy, beige jacket, Betty moved cautiously. Many of the people looked familiar, but she wasn’t sure if she recognized them from a previous introduction or from the TV news.
Since Eleanor had practically summoned Betty to Grosse Pointe that morning, and paid for her plane ticket from Chicago, Betty was sure Eleanor wanted to see her. She didn’t know why she doubted this. Even though she did not see Margo very often during the ten years since they graduated, they were best friends in school.
Scanning the room, Betty quickly located Eleanor. A widow, well into her seventies, whose daughter just died, Eleanor showed few visible signs of her age or anguish. She was a statuesque woman who rarely displayed any emotion more than mildly fitting any given situation.
There seemed to be an informal receiving line leading to Eleanor. Betty drifted into the line and started rehearsing what she would say. The noise level in the room was an amplified whisper. It was hard for Betty to make out what any one person was saying. As she was drawn closer to Eleanor, she began to hear Eleanor’s slow, methodical speech with just a hint of a drawl. Even though she lived in Michigan for most of her life, Eleanor’s Alabama roots were evident.
“Thank you so much for coming. You are so kind.” Betty heard Eleanor repeat to each guest she greeted. With those more familiar, Eleanor had a bit longer exchange, but the tone and sentiment remained the same.
Just after the next couple, it would be Betty’s turn. She hadn’t yet decided if she should embrace Eleanor or just shake her hand. Tired of listing the pros and cons to either option, Betty decided to leave it up to Eleanor. But, then again, she wanted Betty there because she was Margo’s friend. Maybe she would like a warm hug.
As the couple moved away from Eleanor, Betty smiled sympathetically and began her approach. Seeing Betty from the corner of her eye, Eleanor turned and walked away. Betty’s smile drooped and she stood in place trying to quickly figure out what just happened. From behind, Betty heard a man ask for everyone to kindly move into the great room and take their seats for the memorial service was about to begin.
Betty had been to the McKenna Family Estate many times when she and Margo were in college, but she still was in awe. The house and grounds were immense and meticulously maintained. Since Eleanor made sure everything appeared camera-ready on a regular day, Betty expected nothing less on the day of her daughter’s memorial service.
As the people started to file through the front door, Betty followed behind. Looking down to the foyer from the top of the landing, she saw clusters of silver-haired people, all dressed appropriately in black. Unable to blend in, not only by her age but in her dingy, beige jacket, Betty moved cautiously. Many of the people looked familiar, but she wasn’t sure if she recognized them from a previous introduction or from the TV news.
Since Eleanor had practically summoned Betty to Grosse Pointe that morning, and paid for her plane ticket from Chicago, Betty was sure Eleanor wanted to see her. She didn’t know why she doubted this. Even though she did not see Margo very often during the ten years since they graduated, they were best friends in school.
Scanning the room, Betty quickly located Eleanor. A widow, well into her seventies, whose daughter just died, Eleanor showed few visible signs of her age or anguish. She was a statuesque woman who rarely displayed any emotion more than mildly fitting any given situation.
There seemed to be an informal receiving line leading to Eleanor. Betty drifted into the line and started rehearsing what she would say. The noise level in the room was an amplified whisper. It was hard for Betty to make out what any one person was saying. As she was drawn closer to Eleanor, she began to hear Eleanor’s slow, methodical speech with just a hint of a drawl. Even though she lived in Michigan for most of her life, Eleanor’s Alabama roots were evident.
“Thank you so much for coming. You are so kind.” Betty heard Eleanor repeat to each guest she greeted. With those more familiar, Eleanor had a bit longer exchange, but the tone and sentiment remained the same.
Just after the next couple, it would be Betty’s turn. She hadn’t yet decided if she should embrace Eleanor or just shake her hand. Tired of listing the pros and cons to either option, Betty decided to leave it up to Eleanor. But, then again, she wanted Betty there because she was Margo’s friend. Maybe she would like a warm hug.
As the couple moved away from Eleanor, Betty smiled sympathetically and began her approach. Seeing Betty from the corner of her eye, Eleanor turned and walked away. Betty’s smile drooped and she stood in place trying to quickly figure out what just happened. From behind, Betty heard a man ask for everyone to kindly move into the great room and take their seats for the memorial service was about to begin.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Pepperoni Paradise-Subtext/dialogue exercise
"Man, I am baked." Rex sat back on the kitchen chair, satisfied, his small gut hanging out of his jeans. I wished he'd put a shirt on. "That pizza's never tasted so good!"
I looked up from my plate for the first time in several minutes. Rex had devoured all but one piece of the pesto and pepperoni-our two favorite flavors crashing together in some sense of roommate harmony and compromise. It was good. The man spoke the truth. I studied the hazy light surrounding his less than perfectly coiffed hair. Normally I treat pepperoni like the second coming of the black plague, but tonight, after all that Mexicali gold, it was four greasy slices of pure heaven. There was only one slice left; that was the crux of the situation. I had to tread lightly.
"Really?" I asked, finally acknowledging Rex wobbling on his chair across from me. "I didn't think this was their best creation."
"What?" Rex was staring at a stain on the curtains, chair leaned against the wall. Abruptly he swooped back to the table, eyeballs on the piece of pizza that would be mine. I had to act fast.
"And-wow-now I'm feeling kinda like-God-kinda sick or something. Little gurgly." I pointed to my stomach and managed a half-convincing frown. If only I could sweat on cue. "It's like a burning thing in my stomach, you know?" My seed was planted. If there was one thing I knew about Rex, he was a clean freak. A paranoid clean freak. Especially when it came to any kind of food delivered in a box to the door. And especially when he'd been smoking dope.
"What?" He repeated. "Dev-you feeling sick? You mean like nauseas sick or somethin'?" I was warm inside, ready to taste success, but instead I faked a cough.
"Yeah, kinda I guess. Oh shit-total stomach cramp. God-" I doubled over on my chair and snuck a peek in his direction. He just sat there, like a squirrel that doesn't know which side of the road it wants to be on.
"You feelin' ok?" I shot him a concerned friend look. "I mean, you ate way more than me," then I doubled over again. "God. That hurts-the burning. What the hell they put in there?"
"Dev, stop it! All of it's sittin' right here now." Rex hand was on his chest. He winced. "Stop talkin' about it."
He was taking the bait. "You feel fine, huh? Weird. It's all the same pie-maybe you have a stronger stomach. I thought I tasted something strange-like fish or something, but then I thought-I dunno, I was imagining it-who knows. Oh God-I need like a paper bag or something." Rex stared at me, wide eyed.
"Shit-I tasted somethin' weird too. Totally like fish or dirt-Christ Dev!" Rex held his stomach. His eyes turned into pieces of coal. "You wanted to order from them-"
"Sorry Rex," I said, still holding my stomach. I unbuttoned the top of my jeans. "They're the only place that delivers late-God, I am so regretting-maybe I should just puke-I'll feel better. Get all the gnarly stuff up, you know?" Rex was getting paler by the second. I knew from experience, if Rex heard or saw someone get sick, that it was only a matter of time till he followed suit. Now for the nail in the coffin.
"Did you see that delivery guy's hands? His nails? I could hardly look. It was like he just finished cleanin' his clogged toilet or something." That was it. Rex jumped from the table and ran to the safety of the bathroom. I heard him rummaging through the cabinets, looking for Pepto. He flushed twice.
I stretched my arm out to the offending box and grabbed hold of the pizza, oozing with cheese and oily pesto yumminess. And it didn't taste of fish or dirt.
It tasted of victory.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Lying, barely revised
"What a lovely spot, Abe."
"I know it doesn't look like much now, Joel, but I think you'll be pleased with what we do with it."
"No, no. That is...of course. I'm sure."
"We've decided to landscape it a little differently from your typical cemetery -- well, your typical American cemetery, you know. Ephram has some big ideas. Some great ideas."
Mildred had been a saint, really. Looking after that motley bundle of barely functional offspring and this odd door prize of a husband all those years. And Joel had no idea about Abraham's mental situation. A saint. The injustice of her dying first escaped no one at the grave side service except the four people she'd lived with for forty plus years.
Stunned, yes. The children were certainly stunned anyway. Too stunned to feel anything else about her death, the unusual burial site, or even about their immediate futures. Russell, the eldest, would leave on Monday for his fourth sex tour of Southeast Asia. Sei would meet the bailiffs that same day to begin serving his four-year sentence for growing pot. Rachel, Sei's twin, will go home after the funeral to live alone with her father, too weak from all her surgeries to work or do much more than nap or watch t.v.
Joel worried that Rachel wouldn't be able to take care of her father if he really was deranged enough to dump Mildred's body in a deserted lot like this. Not that he was so concerned either about his brother-in-law or about his niece. He just didn't want to get roped into helping them.
They all went back to Joel's house afterwards. There was a lot of food and wine and not many tears.
[my reading partner had great feedback that I haven't been able to implement quite yet -- most grateful for other ideas as well]
What didn't get crossed off from first exercise on Monday
Ephram wiped his muddy boots on the bristles of the welcome mat four, five times; almost rang the bell; and thought he'd better scrape them off one more time. He looked down at the mat and thought about the origins of all that mud -- what proportion came from his own land and what proportion came from others'.
[with many thanks to my reading partner, Nancy]
dialogex#2
“You go ahead and find a room darling. I am fine with whatever you find.” She said.
“You always say that but then are unhappy with what I get. No you do it. I am fine with whatever you do.” He said
“I got upset? I made the bookings for travel and you were bent out of shape.” She said.
“I wasn’t!”
“Yes you were! Your voice was so testy.” She said.
“It’s no point talking to you.” He walked out of the house.
She looked after him seething. He always did that! She felt so rejected by him. Fine see if she cares. She started to clean the dishes. She banged the pot down hard. The dog raised his ears. Looked up nonchalantly and then put his head down. He was used to her pout when the master left the house.
“You always say that but then are unhappy with what I get. No you do it. I am fine with whatever you do.” He said
“I got upset? I made the bookings for travel and you were bent out of shape.” She said.
“I wasn’t!”
“Yes you were! Your voice was so testy.” She said.
“It’s no point talking to you.” He walked out of the house.
She looked after him seething. He always did that! She felt so rejected by him. Fine see if she cares. She started to clean the dishes. She banged the pot down hard. The dog raised his ears. Looked up nonchalantly and then put his head down. He was used to her pout when the master left the house.
Lying Exercise
It was well after 2 am when Hector finished telling me about his plans for the robbery. We were sitting on the futon and Hector was flipping channels.
"So, what do you think Jorge?"
"I... I don't know, Hector." I straightened the magazines strewn on the coffee table into two equal piles. "It sounds risky."
Hector put his arm around me and drew me close to him. "It will be fine, hombre."
"How do you know? Have you done something like this before?"
"Hell yeah!" He slapped me on the back and then picked up his gun again. "See this baby here? It's been in fifteen robberies and has never gotten caught."
"Fifteen?"
"Yeah, fifteen." He held up one left finger and five right fingers. He was grinning from ear to ear.
"Have you ever, you know - " I swallowed hard. Did I even want to know the answer?
Hector finished the thought for me: "Killed someone?"
"Well, um, yeah."
Hector chuckled. Twirling the gun in his hands, he said, "Only once. I broke into this nigger's house one night. I was walking down the hall and was just about to go into the master bedroom when I heard a door open behind me." He paused and pointed the gun at the television set. "This gringo comes walking up behind me holding an AK-47. I thought he was gonna blow my fuckin' head off, so I blew his off first! It was righteous!"
"Jesus, Hector. You could've been killed." Of course, he had been killed, we never would've met and I wouldn't be considering the idea of robbing a store.
Hector was rolling on the couch laughing hysterically.
"What?" I asked.
He managed to get out "Nothing" between fits of laughter.
"What?"
"Oh Jorge," he sighed. "That's why I love you." He pulled me to him, but I turned my head and he ended up kissing my cheek instead of my lips.
"What the fuck Hector?" Something was nagging at me, like Hector was mocking me. Like he thought I was stupid or something even though I'm the one with the college degree. Or was I just being paranoid? I turned my body away from Hector.
"Geez Jorge. Lighten up." I stood up and walked to the window, not saying anything. "It was just a joke Jorge." His tone softened. "I never killed no one, I swear."
"How do I know that? How do I know you're not lying right now?"
"C'mon man. An AK-47 versus a pistol?" I stared out the window into the darkness. When I didn't say anything for a few minutes, Hector got off the couch and stood next to me. He put his arm around me and I let my head fall against his shoulder. "I love you, Jorge. You love me too, right?"
"Yeah."
"So, you still up for robbing the gun store with me?"
"Sure Hector," I said. "Whatever you want. Right now, I'm tired and just want to go to bed."
finally got on
Hi,
Finaly got on the blog-- it seems to think I already have an acount-- so needed to reset th password.
Anyway-- all is well that ends well. I will post my writing later-- for now just hello to eveyone and see you in class. I enjoyed class yesterday am just learning about blogging
Finaly got on the blog-- it seems to think I already have an acount-- so needed to reset th password.
Anyway-- all is well that ends well. I will post my writing later-- for now just hello to eveyone and see you in class. I enjoyed class yesterday am just learning about blogging
Someone falls asleep on the train
It had been a long day. A really long day. Now I know that sounds cliche, so let me try again. The day was like grape taffy on one of those machines at the amusement park, folding over and over on itself with no sign of where it would end. Only my day was a lot less tasty.
Mr. Griner complained again that the coffee I made was too weak. "Sludge water" was the scientific name he used. Then the tennis lady, whose name I've willed myself to forget, slammed her cup on my desk and asked if I was trying to intentionally give her acid reflux disease. She felt that the coffee was way too "coffee-like". Then Mr. Bumbleton informed me that three of my faxes to London didn't go through-urgent wiring instructions-and it was way past the deadline. It was a small miracle that I didn't swan-dive to my desperate end, and equally fortunate that my office was on the ground floor.
Deep breaths. Deep, cleansing breaths. I was using Jill's remedy for on the job stress reduction. I tried to be a believer in the whole Zen thing, I really did. But I didn't have it in me today. Everything had turned out just too disgustingly awful. I ran a hand through my sticky hair and sighed. I used too much defrizzing product this morning; my blond hair looked like the Exxon Valdez crashed into it. I couldn't even console myself with a good hair day.
At 4:59pm and 43 seconds I boldly packed up my bag and left my desk, cluttered with post-it's, paper clips and messages I didn't have time to return because I was too busy playing Barista. I looked down at my teal blouse, still freckled with coffee from the tennis lady's outburst. Whew, good thing I don't have a date tonight, I kidded myself and made my way out to the noisy, bright street. I thought about walking part way home and then splurging on a cab ride, but then I remembered the blister on my pinkie toe from an ill-fated adult ballet class and the high cab fare and I took a sharp left, past the gorgeous red roses and optimistic sunflowers the old guy sells on the corner, down to the Muni dungeon.
Lately I was feeling like a mole. Not the greenish kind on the Wicked Witch of the West's face, but the cute kind that burrowed underground and ruined people's garden's and golf games. I was constantly scurrying from one artificially lighted place to the next. I bought my ticket and ran to the train, just squeezing through the doors following a large man who was sweating profusely. People gave him a wide berth and I was able to sneak by him to a seat by the coveted window, across from some very loud (and greasy) skate rats.
Clutching my bag, I leaned against the cold, dirty window and before I knew it, the train had rocked its way to the end of the line, Ocean beach. Eight stops past my house.
I guess I was taking a taxi after all.
Monday, July 7, 2008
First excercise 7/7
This is what I wrote in response to the prompt "Teenage son's music is too loud".
I'd love to get some comments.
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Damn. I slammed down the knife on the cutting board. The booming base of the music welling out from my son’s room made the whole house vibrate. It poured out through the keyhole, through the gaps between the door and the doorframe, through the all too wide gap between the door and the hardwood floor. I instantly regretted removing the carpeting. The old carpet had acquired a color that made it look dirty, no matter how recently it had been shampood or vacuumed. But it had muted the constant noise called music from his room.
The frantic rhythm made my heart race. How was I supposed to think or act rationally under these circumstances? I knew my son was hurting. I wanted to talk to him desperately. But I didn’t know what to say. How do you explain something or provide comfort when you don’t even understand what’s going on yourself?
I went back to my slicing and dicing. I had never been a particularly good cook before. When all this happened I dove into the cooking thing, as a way to distract myself. Then it just took off on its own. The recipes got more and more complicated, I started scouring the ethnic stores for exotic ingredients. Dinner took longer and longer to prepare. And, as I always came home the same time at night, we ate later and later. Jack isolated himself in his music, I in my cooking.
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I actually don't know what happened to them yet. It might be the death/leaving of the father/husband. Or it could be some kind of betrayal that one of them did against the other.
The story is about how the one of them finally finds the inner strength to face what's happened and how they both grow from it.
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ps. this is the first time I'm posting to a blog (and I'm supposed to be a techie).
Hooray, I've entered the 21st century!!
I'd love to get some comments.
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Damn. I slammed down the knife on the cutting board. The booming base of the music welling out from my son’s room made the whole house vibrate. It poured out through the keyhole, through the gaps between the door and the doorframe, through the all too wide gap between the door and the hardwood floor. I instantly regretted removing the carpeting. The old carpet had acquired a color that made it look dirty, no matter how recently it had been shampood or vacuumed. But it had muted the constant noise called music from his room.
The frantic rhythm made my heart race. How was I supposed to think or act rationally under these circumstances? I knew my son was hurting. I wanted to talk to him desperately. But I didn’t know what to say. How do you explain something or provide comfort when you don’t even understand what’s going on yourself?
I went back to my slicing and dicing. I had never been a particularly good cook before. When all this happened I dove into the cooking thing, as a way to distract myself. Then it just took off on its own. The recipes got more and more complicated, I started scouring the ethnic stores for exotic ingredients. Dinner took longer and longer to prepare. And, as I always came home the same time at night, we ate later and later. Jack isolated himself in his music, I in my cooking.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I actually don't know what happened to them yet. It might be the death/leaving of the father/husband. Or it could be some kind of betrayal that one of them did against the other.
The story is about how the one of them finally finds the inner strength to face what's happened and how they both grow from it.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
ps. this is the first time I'm posting to a blog (and I'm supposed to be a techie).
Hooray, I've entered the 21st century!!
Welcome!
Dear Class,
I hope that you'll want to post some of your writing--and respond to some of the work of your classmates--on this blog. Thanks for a great class today, and I'm looking forward to Tuesday!
Katharine
I hope that you'll want to post some of your writing--and respond to some of the work of your classmates--on this blog. Thanks for a great class today, and I'm looking forward to Tuesday!
Katharine
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