Songwriting Without Boundaries

by Pat Pattison

  After you’ve finished yours, go back to these and pick out the phrases you like best. Try answering the question, “Why do you like those best?” It will help you discover tools for your own writing.

  90 seconds: Feather

  KAZ MITCHELL: Seagull feather blowing through the breeze brushes against my skin. Breathing in the salty sea breeze. The greasy smell of fish and chips. Smudges on my fingers from the newspaper wrappings.

  DEBORAH QUILTER: Tickled under the chin by a matted pearl and slate feather from a farmyard duck.

  Bumbling over a pail of eggs by the henhouse and sliding into a trickle of yolks…

  I like that both Kaz and Deborah move freely from feather into fish and chips, and broken eggs, respectively. The only rule here is to stay sense-bound, so keeping to a single focus isn’t necessary. Practicing this kind of sensual free-association will help you brainstorm more effectively.

  Your turn.

  DAY #4

  “WHAT” WRITING

  Three days down. You’re almost becoming a veteran. As you’re discovering, there are no rules here. You can stay focused on an event or experience, or you can float from place to place, rolling off one idea onto the next. Just stay with your senses.

  Set your timer and respond to the following prompts for exactly the time allotted. Stop IMMEDIATELY when the timer goes off.

  Sight Sound Taste Touch Smell Body Motion

  5 minutes: Curb

  NICK MILLER: Foot sliding off the side of the curb, scraping fine cement dust. Wind from cars rocks me, car horns drone by as sunlight blazes off too-hot-to-the-touch metal. Too hot like the sand down at the beach, you run and try to let your feet touch down for just a second. Skin sun drenched, like you’re marinated in sun wine. Another summer passing like a long wave which takes forever to break, collecting more memories … you start dreaming

  LINDA M: Flaking cracked yellow paint clings to the curb like a skin disease. Diesel drops drizzle like rain, a cold concrete slap on the face. Red balloons trigger panic and obstruction, tripping hard, toe-stubbing confusion and puddle jumping, zigzag. White powder tickles my nose as I fall face first into screaming traffic and twisted panic bites hard, ripping soft skin wide open.

  Check out Nick and Linda’s verbs. Go ahead, underline them. I’ll wait.

  Strong verbs are the key to strong writing. Audition your verbs. Let them prance and somersault for you. Verbs based in metaphor or steeped in the senses usually get the gig.

  Now write about your own curb.

  10 minutes: Bouquet

  GILLIAN WELCH: The stems are molding in the dark of the vase, rotten, down out of sight filling the house with musty funk. The petals are on the table, an I Ching telling me of the haste of my departure. The litter box is full of cat shit and the ammonia of the cat urine hits my nose in an acid wave when I round the corner into the kitchen. Cat puke on the carpet upstairs like a dead little rodent lying under the window. Closed up house smells of hot attic. Somehow the colors all shift when you go away and come back. Dishes in the sink look like archeological dig crusted and smeared in ancient browns. What can we learn from these people? They lived with animals. Burnt out lightbulbs and softened oranges greet me and tell me I have work to do just to keep my head above water cause there is a slow leak in this lifeboat and a week away means some emergency bailing. I am bailing. I am taking out the ripe and evolving garbage under the sink.

  SHANE ADAMS: The preschool kids are a bouquet of flowers playing tag on a baseball field. Their water balloons are rubbery comets bursting like wet tattoos on their delightfully screaming backsides. Diamond patterns of freshly mowed grass shine like a chessboard in the summer afternoon while parents laugh from the sidelines like balloon-filling and knee-bandaging coaches. One of the children, a girl with a kickball-red bathing suit, stops to pick a dandelion. Its white Afro is a sunburst of seeds that she blows towards the sun … but the seeds return like cotton boomerangs and alight in her hair and tickle the ridge of her nose like dainty paratroopers. She tosses the used stem over her tan shoulder like a botanical grenade pin and runs to her mom who brushes her hair back with the swipe of a left hand and a pat to her bottom. From nowhere, sprinklers pop to the surface and strafe the giggling crowd. A hundred hands instantaneously are held out like impotent shields to block the clicking spray as fathers scramble with the folding picnic tables whose Jell-O salads duck and bounce like mandarin orange patients on wooden stretchers. Every child’s legs …

  Now, it’s your turn.

  90 seconds: Rain Cloud

  KAZ MITCHELL: Out on the moors, thick with bristling heather. Wind hurtles down from the mountains freezing the tip of my nose, carrying with it the damp odour of a storm brewing. Fat rain clouds spreading across the sky blotting out all chance of a …

  ADAM FARR: I feel the sharp cold of the thin air peeling at my face. The moisture clings like to a shared towel that never quite shakes off the damp. My breath is fresh and alive in comparison, pausing to consider the rocky terrain and then swallowed by the exploded ocean.

  Try it yourself. I hope that paying attention to your verbs helped your writing today. It’s a surefire way to take your writing to another level instantly.

  DAY #5

  “WHAT” WRITING

  Congratulations for staying on board so far. This is the last day of “what” writing, writing from objects or things, which has been the staple diet of object writers for years and has spawned some pretty remarkable writing. It gives you a place to start and a specific focus for your journey through or from an object.

  Set a timer and respond to the following prompts for exactly the time allotted. Stop IMMEDIATELY when the timer goes off

  Sight Sound Taste Touch Smell Body Motion

  5 minutes: Movie Theater

  KAZ MITCHELL: The rustling of greasy fingers amongst salty popcorn, the sweet smell opening up my memory box to reveal a snaking queue on a balmy summer’s evening. A threadbare carpet greets us as we scamper indoors, the thrill of the movies catching our breath. A constellation of glittering movie stars across the screen …

  SHIRLEY TO: Carefully walking up the stairs, listening to the sticky squeaky sound the bottom of my shoes make with each step, glazed slightly with spilled soda and artificial sweetener, I find my seat and squeeze past the couple who look like they have been stationed in the theater for a long time. I reach for the cloth-covered seat and push it down and slowly slide onto it, it makes a sound like the screws and hinges are complaining of waking them from their sweet dreams. The advertisements are showing, flashing red and green and white light, trying to wake up the stale air in this big room. The air is choked with the smell of popcorn, the fake butter syrup thing that has been lavishly poured onto the little celebration of fireworks of corn. The smell makes me want to vomit. Popcorn, it’s soggy and doesn’t taste like corn. But kettle corn—the crunchy sweetness that explodes in my mouth, waking up my taste buds, my mouth watery. Trailer, deep voice is …

  Hot spots: “A constellation of glittering movie stars.” “The air is choked with the smell of popcorn.”

  See what you come up with.

  10 minutes: Cigar

  SUSAN CATTANEO: As the flames lick their wrinkled feet, smoke like fog rises up and swirls in the air overhead, glasses of cut crystal gleam from the bar, the smell of oiled leather, smoke, and cologne. He leans back against the mud-red leather seat, bow tie tucked like a napkin under his chin. His breath is laced with bourbon and tobacco, the conversation drifts like a raft in the sea of smoke, stock tips slither from his overwet lips as his brain scrambles and stumbles to remember which story he told the wife tonight. Working late or dinner with the client? Confidence pools in his chest like an oil slick. He knows both women wait for him, patient as sheep, longing for the crunch of his tires on gravel in the driveway and the burnt musky smell of cigar on his lips. The wife drowns in neglect, ears impaled with diamonds but her heart is empty and echoing. The girlfriend lies in her spacious b
leach white minimalist apartment. A tsunami of boredom washes over her that only his platinum Amex card can staunch.

  ANTHONY CESERI: Watching the end turn bright red as his chest lifts upwards from his deep breath. Then smoke billows out of his mouth, as he removes the cigar and floods the space in front of him. Smoke pouring out past his lips as if a dam burst. The smell clouds the room. You can smell the bitter brown cigar stank in the air. I can almost taste the wet paper on my tongue as I breathe in the cigar-laden air.

  When the quieter moments align with another one of his puffs, you can hear the crackling of the brown paper as it’s burned up with another one of his big inhales. The tip gets red again, and then leaves its ashy remains behind. The smoke stings my eyes. They feel as if the insides of my eyelids are dry, and made of sandpaper. Then they start to water.

  I imagine what the cigar feels like in his fingers. Warm, and rough to the touch. Leaving a noticeable smell on his hands that won’t come off before multiple showers. But of course he’ll have had more cigars by then anyway … keeping the cycle alive.

  Now I watch him take his last puff and smash his stub down into the glass ashtray. Hearing the ashes shift around against the glass as he crushes them down. The butt stands upright, with smoke pouring upward as he walks away.

  Look at Susan’s “conversation drifts like a raft in the sea of smoke, stock tips slither from his overwet lips” and Anthony’s “Smoke pouring out past his lips as if a dam burst.” Both writers appeal to multiple senses and soak you in the smoky room.

  Now, you try.

  90 seconds: Arrow

  NELSON BOGART: Poison-tipped rail of death, smells like the fire it was forged in, flying swiftly into the dark, at the silhouette sitting by the smoking fire, unaware of anything except the snap of a branch and the sound of the bowstring twa …

  LINDA M: Cupid clips a wing, thrusts a limping arrow through a grain of sand. Saltwater taffy laughed down my throat and tickled my tummy lining, a frantic fish flopping, a worm winding through my metallic veins …

  Nelson focuses on a moment and takes you right there with a mix of sight, smell, and sound. Linda bounds away from the arrow into her tummy and organic sense. Either works. Both stimulate your senses productively.

  Your turn.

  DAY #6

  “WHO” WRITING

  It’s fair to say that object writing, as you’ve experienced it in this book so far, is “what” writing. Like “elevator,” things are your starting point, your diving board. There are other possibilities, too, especially who, when, and where. The fourteen-day challenge asks you to explore all four as the days roll on. Now, rather than working with objects, you’ll try “who” writing —looking at, or through, the eyes of specific characters.

  “Who” writing is great for character development. In every song, you have to answer the questions: Who is talking? Who is she talking to? Sometimes the character is pretty much you, talking either to the audience or to a particular person. Sometimes it’s not. Either way, keep the character in focus. Practice creating characters with specific attitudes.

  Use other perspectives. Your object writing can be from the perspective of an airline flight attendant, hurrying to serve drinks on a short flight. Or a volunteer at an animal rescue shelter. A car thief, as in Sting’s “Stolen Car” or his “Tomorrow We’ll See,” from the perspective of a male prostitute.

  People watching is full of interesting possibilities. Ask yourself questions: “Does she play golf? When did she learn?” “What was his favorite game when he was little?” Of course, you’ll be drawing on your own experiences as you answer your questions. And always stay close to your senses. Specifics. Sense images.

  I also recommend this kind of storytelling when hanging out with other writers. You might even make a special trip to the mall or the airport to exercise your powers of observation. (I call it the “airport game.”) As somebody passes you, ask your friend a question: “Who did he take to his junior prom?” “Does she get along with her younger sister?” Take turns asking questions.

  You’ll be doing “who” writing for the next three days. Have fun.

  Set a timer and respond to the following prompts for exactly the time allotted. Stop IMMEDIATELY when the timer goes off.

  Sight Sound Taste Touch Smell Body Motion

  5 minutes: Sailor

  KAZ MITCHELL: At sea, the wind flapping his clothes against his skin, making him feel alive. Breathing in the salty air like it was his lifeline, the antidote to city smog and the hustle of corporate life. Tasting this freedom with relish, as if it were a banquet for kings, a smile spreads across his stubble-ridden face as wide as the Arc de Triomphe. The sails stretch out towards the heavens, rattling against the mast and sounding as grand as a Beethoven concerto.

  TANJA WARD: The mermaid tattoo spread over his whole back. The mermaid seemed to be smiling, although with age. Her tail, abnormally long, blue faded to light gray on her tail. The full lips once perfectly fire red faded to burnt orange. As he lay on the table the mermaid seemed almost asleep and I could smell the ocean drifting around his body. His skin, raped by too many sunburns to count.

  I got to know both of these sailors: the executive out on the bay and the aging sea-worn sailor, body fading like the mermaid’s. By noting something specific, their character evolves quickly. Have you read Malcolm Gladwell’s Blink?

  Write about your own sailor.

  10 minutes: Waitress Clearing a Table

  DEBORAH QUILTER: A wobbly fan circles above servings of unfinished breakfast. Rosanna spritzes the vinyl ketchup-and-mayonnaise-checkered table cover. The floor is sticky with syrupy sludge from the iced drink machine that twirls a cocktail of passion and punch. Rosanna piles up the plates; sodden crusts of cornbread, maple and egg yolk, lights a cigarette and lets her lipstick and soft bite hold it in place. She wraps a clean cotton apron around her waist in a bow, stretching pink latex gloves over her smooth hands and filling the sink with soaking suds. She pins a rose under her hairclip and rustles a straggly bunch of curls into a knot, turns the knob of the radio to a flush of flamenco and starts to slowly move her hips as she scrapes and scrubs. The morning fog is clearing out of the bay, the sun fumbling through. She pours a strong coffee, inhaling the fumes …

  JOHN O’SHAUGHNESSY: Wobble wobble, cups and plates, spoons and coffee dancing to the orchestrated sliding of swollen feet under blue-veined pylons swirling through the tobacco haze and idle chatter, bending to the slurping, dripping, mouth-dabbing hoi polloi littering the footpath between the drab facade of the bank and the retro-wear clothes shop, haunting the sticky, cracked pavement. She slips the greasy coin into the wishing-well apron pocket and moves seamlessly to the next table, eyes reflecting nothing of self-betrayal or the shallow conversation and miserly intentions of the patrons.

  I love Rosanna: “She pins a rose under her hairclip and rustles a straggly bunch of curls into a knot, turns the knob of the radio to a flush of flamenco and starts to slowly move her hips as she scrapes and scrubs.” And John’s “She slips the greasy coin into the wishing-well apron pocket.” Both Deborah and John let the reader observe their waitresses—they show them in action. In getting to know them from the outside, it becomes possible to write from inside, too, through their eyes. You should take a shot at it.

  90 seconds: Priest

  PAUL PENTON: White collar, leaning over, praying. Swishing around a container of incense. On the pulpit, thundering voice of god, hands and fists smashing the air, congregation in compartmentalized rows like a housing estate, the words of god flying out of his mouth like arrows. Never married, never known the pleasure of oneness except with god. Alone.

  JOY GORA: Wisdom lines framing blue eyes and pearly wavy hair tossed to the side. A soft black robe scented with incense as a bell chimes high. A dry, thin wafer turns to pasty mush to be washed down with tart red wine sipped from an old ornate cup. Air thick with devotion …

  Hot spots: “A dry, thin wafer turns to
pasty mush to be washed down with tart red wine …” “Congregation in compartmentalized rows like a housing estate.”

  Now, your turn.

  DAY #7

  “WHO” WRITING

  I hope your first day of “who” writing opened some new possibilities, maybe motivating you to do some extra writing on your own. Here we go again.

  Set a timer and respond to the following characters for exactly the time allotted. Stop IMMEDIATELY when the timer goes off.

  Sight Sound Taste Touch Smell Body Motion

  5 minutes: Balloon Man

  SCOTT WILKINSON: In the park, the sun warms my back like I’m bathing in a delicate dripping, soothing coat of warm fudge. The peculiar combination smell of cotton candy, caramel popcorn and mechanic’s lubricating oil lacing the air. One child laughing on the tiny race-car ride. The teenagers curdling screams on the monster drop. The balloon man standing in full array of colors. A kindly smile, and helium tanks straddle his makeshift shop. Blue, red, yellow, purple and green float above his head. The children flock and request their color. The smiles, the thrill of a balloon tied to their wrist floating above their head, sugar candy dribbling down the side of their mouth and the air filled with a symphony of laughter and sweet sugary smell, spell pure joy.

  MO MCMORROW: Practicing for hours in the old living room back on Park St. I stretch the balloon lip over the orange plastic pump and make like I was inflating a tire. The balloon stretches and lengthens in seconds and with a flupping sound I pull the balloon off and struggle to tie a knot breathing shallow. Sometimes I tighten it with my teeth and get the sharp rubber taste on my tongue. Twist the balloon, studying the book the whole time and counting the twists, I hold my breath and squint my eyes because of all the others that have exploded in my face. They’re slippery and powdery and threaten to snap but I keep thinking of the guy at the fair that is always stuffing money in his pockets and the smell of popcorn and gunpowder …

  Try writing about your own balloon man.