Songwriting Without Boundaries

by Pat Pattison

  10 minutes: Homeless Child

  CATRINA SEIFFERT: A weary face peers from the weathered car window. Old tears have worn track marks down her dusty cheeks. She stares blankly at the drizzle ignoring the sunny voices of the morning radio and heaves her sweatered chest in a heavy sigh. Her stomach gurgles without her usual crunchy bowl of cornflakes and she squints while imagining a plate of honeyed toast piled high to the car roof.

  The five-year-old thuds back into the vinyl seat. Her left hand twirls her dirty blond curls around her finger and then into her strawberry lips. A miniature river of saliva runs down her chin as she smells the fries from the corner drive-in. The rain plays a soundtrack of fairy drums on the car roof. A drowned sparrow shakes its sodden wings …

  MO MCMORROW: Dirty bare feet, skinny little legs bruised but wiry strong, a soiled dress, once pink with darker flowers of some color, arms thin and reaching out, an expression that kicks me right in the gut. Her dark eyes are sad; I slip money from my pocket and hold it flapping in the air. She leaps for it like a monkey and scurries away behind the fence. I hear scuffling sounds and whispers between the pilings of the fence. I peek around at a little huddled mass of tiny limbs and three sets of black eyes looking up at me like abandoned kittens in a box. The scent of fermenting garbage knocks me back a pace. A sharp taste rises in my throat and I swallow hard then open my mouth to breathe. I stoop down and they back away like one creature.

  Wonderful portraits from both Catrina and Mo. Catrina’s third-person point of view allows a look into the child’s mind “imagining a plate of honeyed toast piled high to the car roof.” Mo’s first-person narrative provides interactions with the three children. Nice verbs in both pieces. Now, your turn.

  90 seconds: Trucker

  LEORA NOSKO: Bare hands, stale beer breath, furrowed brow and sweat-stained foam hat. His body sunk deep into the torn vinyl seat, strong arm wrestler grip on the long stick shift. Motor vibrations pass rapidly through his thick form and around the humming cabin.

  CATRINA SEIFFERT: He heaves his heavy body out of the driver’s seat swishing the sticky flies off his dusty face. His faded blue singlet soaked up the sweat in patches under his pungent armpits.

  Both truckers are sweaty. Great details abound in Leora’s piece, especially the motor vibrations. I like the faded blue singlet. He’s fading, too.

  The details you use say something about the character you’re describing. Remember Tanja’s mermaid tattoo? Try it out.

  DAY #8

  “WHO” WRITING

  This is your last day of “who” writing. Dig in.

  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: Cyclist

  MANUEL STüBINGER: Airstream hoists the whole body, as if I take off, take wing. I whoosh over paving and tar, wreaths singing. Palms burn from tight grasp on the rubber handle. Pressure of the saddle, fire in the thighs, breathlessness in the chest. Tilting into the curve. Fragrant spring flies around me, smell the riverbed, green and fresh …

  TASLEEM RAJWANI: Thin spinning wheels. Spokes and speed and tires treading against the wet pavement. Rain slaps against the biker’s knees as he races home in only a T-shirt and a pair of spandex shorts. Sweat and raindrops mix together to form a freshness that cools and tingles his legs and elbows. Hairs sticking up, but clothes sticking close to his skin. A dark blue helmet protects his head from dampness and drizzle that drips off of branches and awnings and umbrellas of people who don’t look up to see who they are hitting while they pass. There is a black umbrella, tattered and broken lying in the middle of the sidewalk. Its folds look like a sleeping bat, blind to all those passing by. Pitter-patter of feet and sloshing of black dress shoes in the puddles in front of the business district. High rises appear to touch the clouds …

  Manuel writes from inside the biker, Tasleem from outside. As an experiment, try reversing them: Read Manuel’s in third person (“as he takes off …”) and read Tasleem’s in first person (“Rain slaps against my knees as I race …”). Is there a difference in tone and immediacy?

  Now try reading both in second person, using you instead of I or he.

  Airstream hoists the whole body, as if you take off, take wing. You whoosh over paving and tar, wreaths singing.

  Note that, in second person, commands are possible, so you could eliminate the subject from the second sentence:

  Airstream hoists the whole body, as if you take off, take wing. Whoosh over paving and tar, wreaths singing.

  Pretty cool. Now, your turn.

  10 minutes: Ballerina

  CHANELLE DAVIS: I can hear my breath, quick, shallow, electric current in my blood, heart beating almost through my skin. A soft constant drone of conversation behind the heavy royal-red curtains. Clapping, loud like storm rain, makes my feet move, soft silk shoes gliding along the smooth black stage floor. Spotlights beam from over my head and shine down, reflecting off my satin dress. Up on my toes, curling them and stretching long arms, tipping over left then right, arching my back, feeling skin move over my ribs, rippling, inhaling deep. Spinning to the orchestra, violins soar and I fall to my knees, head down, cheek pressed to the cold floor and wait, still. The lights dim, I close my eyes. Can taste my lip gloss, strawberry. He comes to my side, the smell of cologne in the air as he grabs my hand and pulls me to his chest, smooth and tanned arms, drums start pulsing …

  SUSAN ANDERS: Sweat, kneading the knobs formed on her toes, calluses, leather skin on feet hammered by point shoes. The silky satin of the scuffed shoes, then the rough turtle skin of her feet. she squeezes her feet back into the shoes, they smell of dirt and sweat, laces them up. Stands and begins her routine, the clomp as her feet fall with each leap, the crrrrrr as her clothes sweep with her, her panting, a hundred muscles crying out with each controlled bend and sweep of her leg, then arm, then leg again. She watches each move in the mirror, sees the little tremors of exhausted muscles that she must control, her mouth firm, no, betrays pain, relax it, another turn, she watches her right hand and adjusts her index finger by the tiniest of curls. Onward, she tastes metal and realizes that she’s bitten her tongue while concentrating, blood. She smiles just slightly. She watches herself again, sees a hunched up crone galomping around a room full of mirrors and wood floors and walls, then sees a lioness slowly approaching the kill, then sees shoots from a dandelion wafting …

  Try the point-of-view experiment again here. Do Chanelle’s from both third and second person; do Susan’s from first and second person. Again, be alert in second person for commands and questions.

  90 seconds: Puppy

  PAUL PENTON: Big eyes looking up like glass marbles. Tail wagging back and forth in a seesaw. Running in jumbled heap, legs uncoordinated. A fawn blob of fur and fluff, eager, happy. Warm puppy breath with lizard tongue that licks my face, high-pitched yaps and barks of excitement. Paws scrabbling across shiny tiles in bathroom tissue commercials—cute!

  HOLLY BRETTELL: On the car ride home the puppy is whining, pawing and fogging up the window with his breath. Your heart is pounding with excitement seeing your little one padding down the unfamiliar hallway, trying to find a place to mark his territory. You rush him outside not thinking of the potty-training process. New toys cover the floor. After a long hard day as he drifts off, his breathing getting slower, you don’t care about the mess around the corner, this moment is too precious—his first nap in his new home.

  Both Paul and Chanelle use multiple senses. Nice puppies. Try it yourself.

  That’s it, eight days down, six to go. You’ve looked at objects (“what”) and characters (“who”), and have seen how they can interact with each other. Objects reveal character; character assembles objects. It’s a wonderful, fluid dance. All it takes is practice.

  DAY #9

  “WHEN” WRITING

  Welcome to “when” writing. It will give you p
ractice locating your characters and the objects around them at various times.

  “When” can be seasonal—“across the morning sky, all the birds are leaving.” It can be a time of day—“midnight at the oasis,” or even special occasion: “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire.” Play around with it.

  Setting a time of day or year adds a new dimension to your writing. There’s a vast difference between the following three versions:

  I looked at her, she looked back at me …

  A sunny morning, I looked at her, she looked back at me …

  A cold winter, I looked at her, she looked back at me..,

  Our skin wrinkled with age, I looked at her, she looked back at me …

  There’s lots of stimulation available in “when,” as you’ll see. Watch the ideas tumble out.

  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: Summer Rainstorm

  LINDA M: Clapping clouds lick warm wind and drizzle dewy rain on the tart green grass below. Wet dirt cushions my feet, daisy sprays tickle my ankle like a bracelet of watery charms. Sun soaks through the drops, an aqua-coloured rainbow bends across the hopeful horizon like childhood prayers and plastic rosaries …

  DEBORAH QUILTER: Billowing steam rose from the asphalt as the warm rain tapped down on the melted black surface. Veins of lightning splintered across the skyline and a city of umbrellas popped open. Dirty dark clouds clustered overhead threatening to bucket down in pellets. Sticky skin plunged into goose bumps and slippery feet skittles. Traffic slowed to a spluttering slosh, windscreen wipers batted the rain away and beaming car lights flashed along afternoons’ dirty streets. The pavements filled with pot-holed puddles …

  The prompt specifies summer, but Deborah takes the writing even further into “when” with “beaming car lights flashed along afternoons’ dirty streets.”

  Check out both Linda and Deborah’s verbs. Yum.

  One other thing: Note that Deborah’s description is in past tense, removing the reader a bit from the scene. (It happened, after all, in the past.) Look what happens in present tense:

  Billowing steam rises from the asphalt as the warm rain taps down on the melted black surface. Veins of lightning splinter across the skyline and a city of umbrellas pops open. Dirty dark clouds cluster overhead threatening to bucket down in pellets. Sticky skin plunges into goose bumps and slippery feet skittles. Traffic slows to a spluttering slosh, windscreen wipers bat the rain away and beaming car lights flash along afternoons’ dirty streets. The pavements fill with pot-holed puddles …

  Pretty big difference. Present tense is more immediate than past tense or future tense—not that everything you write needs to be immediate. Just remember that tense is a tool—a choice you make. Don’t let the fact that it happened in the past make you write it in past tense. Don’t let “how it really happened” drive the bus. You’re the writer.

  And it’s your turn.

  10 minutes: Graduation

  CHANELLE DAVIS: Parading down the main street of town, spilling onto the road, hundreds of graduates in black flowing gowns and hats with tassles swinging, blue and white collars, descending on the theatre. Sun heating up, burning through our gowns, sweat on my face, big smiles and laughter, whooping and shouting, skipping, I feel my high heels on the footpath, clicking, a street full of friends, flicking through the programme looking for my name, hearing it called and walking up on stage, carefully, follow the white line on the floor, around the towering bouquets of white and blue flowers, shake hands firmly with the man and pose for a photograph, routine clapping, hands sore and red. Listening to speakers and Maori blessings, calls, some students dressed in Korowai, native bird feathered cloaks handed down …

  DEBORAH QUILTER: Felt tasseled caps and camera clicks of smiles. Soft clapping hands and back-patting laudatory gestures. Doves of freedom flying toward the open door that swings beside a cliff. Holding grip of rolling scrolls tied in satin ribbons. Handshake gowns, handed down, fresh and pressed as new. Bumbled words spill out amongst champagnes gulping clatter. Pleased as punch, parents toast to the marvel of their making. Muted nights of muddled minds that cram before the morning. Blurred new days that fade away into late-night library ramblings. Friendships made and promises accidentally broken. Textbook trash heaps, lonesome walk back home. On solid the ravens flock …

  Both Chanelle and Deborah remain in the present, making the experience more immediate. As an experiment, translate both into past tense. Note that both use a lot of the ing form of the verb, which is tense-neutral. Look:

  Parading down the main street of town, spilling onto the road, hundreds of graduates in black flowing gowns and hats with tassels swinging, blue and white collars, descending on the theater …

  So far, there’s no tense established. It could be:

  Parading down the main street of town, spilling onto the road, hundreds of graduates in black flowing gowns and hats with tassles swinging, blue and white collars, descending on the theater, the graduating class looked fabulous …

  It also could be:

  Parading down the mainstreet of town, spilling onto the road, hundreds of graduates in black flowing gowns and hats with tassles swinging, blue and white collars, descending on the theater, the graduating class will look fabulous.

  Chanelle doesn’t put the reader clearly in present tense until line four, “I feel ….” Deborah’s first commitment to present tense is also in her fourth line, “Bumbled words spill out ….” Tense-neutral verbs can be very useful. For more, see chapter nine in Writing Better Lyrics, “Stripping Your Repetition for Re-painting.”

  Your turn.

  90 seconds: Wedding Rehearsal Dinner

  KAZ MITCHELL: The champagne is crisp and full of bubble, just like the chatter around the table. There is much joyous banter and rubbing of shoulders as the guests warm to each other, over hot slices of roasted chicken, filling the air with its succulent aroma. There are tears as the bride’s father …

  MANUEL STüBINGER: Clattering dishes, murmur, creamy on the tongue, scent of candles and perfume, candles flicker, stiff suits, elegant dresses, abdominal fullness, hubbub …

  Now, your turn. Go.

  DAY #10

  “WHEN” WRITING

  There’s plenty of action in “when.” One of the more helpful questions you need to ask when you write is, “When is this happening?” Try several answers: “Am I feeling this loss in the spring, when the external world creates an ironic contrast? In the fall, when everything is fading, just like my lost love? In the winter, when I have to protect myself from the chill, like I’ve been doing since he left? Or summer, when everywhere things are growing in the heat while I shrink emotionally?”

  Or, times of day. So many options, so much time available …

  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: Six in the Morning

  CATRINA SEIFFERT: The alarm screamed in my ear jolting me violently from my flying dream. A beautiful relaxing float above the clouds crashed like a plane wreck. My eyes tried desperately to unglue themselves to peer at the neon red lights of my clock radio. My tongue felt (and tasted) like shriveled cardboard and my bloated stomach was the only incentive to venture out of my warm cocoon and onto the ice-cold tiles of the bathroom floor.

  CHANELLE DAVIS: Cell phone vibrates on my bedside table, louder and louder, flip it open to stop the noise, warm in winter sheets, eyes tight shut, trying to open, a dim streetlight shines through a crack in the curtain, dark outside, rip open the bedcovers letting the cool air slap my body, bare feet on wooden floors, crouch down search under the bed for a missing gym shoe. Blurry eyes, stretching T-shirt over my head, arm muscles torn and sore, pull my hair back tight into a ponytail and brush my
teeth with fresh mint Colgate toothpaste …

  Yikes! Both give a jarring alarm clock experience. Which is more immediate? Why?

  Now try it yourself.

  10 minutes: First Snowfall

  CHANELLE DAVIS: Lift the white mesh curtain, outside snow is drifting through the air, soft and covering the green grass like icing sugar, jump back under the thick sheepskin and press my stomach into the warmth of the bed, walking down Manchester Ave in black furry boots, crunching snow on concrete, breathing in air and frosting my lungs, holding a takeaway Starbucks coffee, cinnamon warms my mouth, snowflakes land on my face and hair, slowly melting, clumps of snow on the carpet disappearing into dark patches, dark streets and church bells echoing, hands snug in mittens in pockets, tight woolen scarf around my neck, stepping carefully around ice, frozen river, skating children bright pink jackets, wobbling, falling, hitting the ice, squirrels darting across the path …

  ADAM FARR: Bright, heavy on the eyes, white like a baby rabbit’s fur. Everything is coated, padded with an anorak like a huge clumsy boxing glove. I hear dripping from icicles like stalagmite knives and an occasional parachute landing of a pod reentering the garden from the sugary roof.

  The cold enters my airways with its purity and my teeth feel large and brittle. My boots labour through layers of crystals, with a sound like an electric bass. I feel myself slipping when the perfect coating gives way and reveals the unexpected dirt beneath. Small petals have been ripped down by the weight of bread-crumb cement, flakes ganging together to pull down branches and enter any vulnerable crack in rocks or clothes. Numb toes flicker trying to regain sensation.

  Now it’s your turn.

  90 seconds: Easter Sunday

  JOY GORA: Angelic songs echo high into the arches of the gothic-style church. The smoky scent of incense spirals in the air and walks along the pews—coating worshipers resting on their knees. Wrinkle-free pastel dresses and pressed suits dot the aisle as a halo of sunlight trickles through the kaleidoscope of brilliant colors etched upon the windows. The tart taste of deep red wine lingers on my lips …