by Pat Pattison
CHANELLE DAVIS: Pink flannelette pajamas, smell of Cadbury chocolate in my bedroom, a tower of Easter eggs on my dressing table, little caramel red and blue foil wrapped with polka dots. A big yellow and pink bunny, tear open the foil and sniff it before biting into the ear, bits of chocolate falling down into the hollow centre …
Hot spots: Joy’s verbs. Chanelle’s chocolate.
Your turn.
DAY #11
“WHEN” WRITING
Today’s your last brush with “when.” By now I hope you’ve become pretty good friends. It’s a friendship that will last your entire writing life—if you don’t ignore it.
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: Late Evening
CHANELLE DAVIS: Headphones on, swivelling on the computer chair, softly strumming guitar in computer screen light, neighbour upstairs TV muffled through the floor, whisper singing into the microphone, sound of the metronome and buzzing strings from tired sore fingers, move the capo up and down the fretboard, sipping milky Earl Grey tea and eating peanut butter toast to stay awake, outside a lone cricket is singing, roll the seat around on the cold wooden floor trying to get comfortable, guitar nestled into my chest …
ANTHONY CESERI: The sun is dipping down just past the horizon now, coloring the sky with oranges, reds and blues. There’s a crisp chill in the air that dances off my skin, and raises up goose bumps. A car passes by on the street to break the silence. Its tires chug along on the asphalt.
The symphony of crickets off in the woods grows louder as the sky darkens. My heart rate at one tick per minute … I feel so calm, my muscles fully relaxed as I stand on the corner against the night sky. I breathe in deep through my nose. I can feel the wind from my breath whooshing up against the sides of the insides of my nostrils.
This prompt seems to have caused a sort of exhalation, a surrender to the calm. Both Chanelle and Anthony get pretty far inside themselves, but I have to confess I’d never felt “the wind from my breath whooshing up against the sides of the insides of my nostrils.” Nice.
Now, what have you got?
10 minutes: Loved One’s Funeral
DEBORAH QUILTER: I stooped outside the sandstone chapel with sunlight shining down, shriveling inside. The afternoon was a musty grey; filled with blurred empty faces. Muted watercolors trickled down my aching face. My heart was swimming against the current and clogging my every breath. I choked as I tried to speak and darted to avoid compassionate gestures of comfort. I could see white wings and angels as I turned toward the wooden coffin carried by ghostly figures. I felt a steady hand on my shoulder, but no one was there. I stood up in a woozy haze, which flickered in fragments and held onto the pew in front of me in a desperate grip. The heavy cloak of change pressed against my throat as I snatched a shallow gulp of air and battled …
PAUL PENTON: The chapel is small, simple plain walls, the coffin at the end of the room, simply polished wood, no oak. Windows sweep the top of the room, like a classroom, letting in streams of light. The ported strains of the Sandhurst Silver Band he played with for fifteen years hang in the air. Played at the ‘Wellington,’ had a pool with the smell of rotting fish.
Inside me small earthquakes of confidence fight with rivers of grief.
At the graveside as the coffin sinks below the level of the ground I finally relent with a hot sweep of grief but collect things together. All buried and dead now …
Hot spots: “The heavy cloak of change pressed against my throat ….” “Small earthquakes of confidence.”
Now, your turn.
90 seconds: Crossing the Finish Line
CHANELLE DAVIS: Cheeks are burning and flushed red, breathe shallow and panicky heartbeat trying to push my feet to the soft dirt, up the last hill, legs like jelly downhill, sun making my face sweat, T-shirt sweat, feel my chubby stomach bouncing, nausea, feel lump in my throat, tears starting as I see the teachers and parents waiting, pouring orange juice into plastic cups …
KAZ MITCHELL: Trudging through mud on a cross-country run, farmyard fumes from steaming manure filling my nostrils as I gulp in oxygen. My thighs burn as they work to lift boots heavier than lead. The panting of my own breath and the blood sprinting around my brain are all I hear as I see the finish line …
Your turn. Try it out.
There. Who, what, and when in an ever-enlarging dance. Each an integral partner in creating something riveting, something memorable. One more friend to introduce to the group, starting tomorrow.
DAY #12
“WHERE” WRITING
“Where” can, of course, be anywhere. But it must be somewhere. The Wailing Wall, 42nd Street, the lake cabin, the Grand Canyon, a mountain path, the backseat of the school bus. The opportunities are endless. That’s its strength.
“Where” and “when” are a powerful combination, working together to create a scene and situation—a context for “who” and “what” to operate from. They make your writing more palpable, more real. These last three days of the challenge will give you practice locating your characters and the objects around them in various places. You’ll be surprised how much muscle your writing will gain from working out with “where.”
Set a timer and respond to the following places for exactly the time allotted. Stop IMMEDIATELY when the timer goes off.
Sight Sound Taste Touch Smell Body Motion
5 minutes: A Cliff by the Ocean
NICHOLAS TOZIER: Smell of salt and low tide. Kelp drying on the beach below, dusted with shining flakes of grit and sand. A golden retriever rolling on its back. A boulder near the rocky shore that looks precariously balanced. A child, antlike in the distance, totters into its shade, arm extended to touch the rock’s pockmarked side. The boulder shifts. My stomach sinks, mouth opens, legs stir—but the child shrieks a laugh, runs away on wobbly legs, and the rock continues to shift and shift and shift without really moving. Shimmers of heat make everything shimmer and undulate. I lick my lips and they are still salty from a swim …
CHANELLE DAVIS: Grass is lush green, long and untrimmed as I get closer to the edge. Flax bushes rustling in the wind, Tui bird clinging onto a black stalk, eating the seeds, looking out to blue sea, white-capped waves in the distance, cloudy sky, seagulls hovering like kites, islands in the distance, shadows on horizon, cruise liner slowly moving through the harbour, waves pounding the rocks below, out of sight, lean over the edge and feel dizzy, stumble back and lie down in the grass, sneezing, summer allergies, plane overhead in the sky leaves a long white trail, cars driving up the steep windy hill tires crunching gravel and spinning dust clouds, families posing for photographs with the view, warm clothes, kids chasing each other in circles laughing …
Sparkling descriptions. They set a wonderful context for action. Put some of your characters in either Nicholas’s or Chanelle’s scene and watch the colors of the place affect them and how readers feel about them. Give them a thing to hold, like a camera, a pickax, a rifle with a scope, and see how “where” reflects back at them.
Your turn.
10 minutes: Park Bench in the City
CHANELLE DAVIS: Pigeons cooing and flapping around my feet, bobbing heads, diving for bread and scattering when people walk through the square, old cathedral towers up to a bright blue sky, eating fresh strawberry yoghurt ice cream with a wooden stick rough on my tongue, smooth cold sweet ice cream with crunchy strawberry seeds, river water running under the little bridge, ducks taking a ride, punting boats of tourists, busker playing endless solos on guitar through his amplifier, park bench is wooden and curved, fits snug into the shape of my back, avoid the patch of white and green watery bird poo, shoppers bustling past arms heavy with bags, summer sun hot I could be getting burnt, feel it creeping up my neck, undo my hair tie and let out my hair, dig around in my messy handbag for my sunglasses, leave the park bench and head across
the square to the sushi shop for salmon and advocado, rip open the plastic container, break the staples, put a whole piece in my mouth …
NELSON BOGART: Blue sky New York April day, park bench with black iron armrests, oak seats worn from the millions of pairs of pants sliding in and out of the now well-worn baskets of brown, wood-grained resting places; pigeons flapping and crying a few feet from this peaceful resting spot, radio-controlled boats gliding silently across the boat pond, tacking jerkily as their captains stride careful along the edge of the pond. Smells of cotton candy, popcorn and deep fry from the little cafe beside the boathouse, strollers and children, gliding by, passed by the roller-bladers, bike racers. The mewing of the pigeons, gulls and laughter. Odd scent of the homeless person who slept on the bench last, the scent of desperation, of no running water. Jazz trumpet, bass and cardboard drum set wafting from the back side of the huge rock formations framing the pond and the statue of Alice in wonderland, so kids crawling all around it while their parents smile as they slide over the brass statue. The percussive interruptions of the thousands of cell phones, chimes and personal ring tones. Armies of park workers in their brown jumpsuitsdriving electric carts and mowers and the great lawn, home the the greatest frisbee catching dogs, and populated by armies of little kids—Sheesh!!
Great attention to detail. Both give you a panoramic view, but do it by engaging your senses: smells, sounds, sense details like “wooden and curved, fits snug into the shape of my back” and “homeless person who slept on the bench last, the scent of desperation, of no running water.”
The better you are at imagining a place, the more activity is possible for your characters because they’ll have something to react to. Try it out.
90 seconds: Hotel Bar
JOY GORA: Bunched shoulder-to-shoulder against the slick mahogany bar, Armani suits and long-legged beauties in svelte black dresses litter the night. Martinis and passions. Stirring to jazz jumping in the background. A dim haze of candlelight mingled with the eye-stinging fog of perfume, hairspray and cologne.
MATT K: The bar stool pivots back and forth as my foot swings restlessly over the floor, like a hypnotist’s medallion, my eyes scanning the room like the spotlight from a prison tower. Her hips swing with the rhythm of a slithering cobra …
Hot spots: “Armani suits and long-legged beauties in svelte black dresses litter the night” and “eyes scanning the room like the spotlight from a prison tower.”
Now, let’s hear about your hotel bar.
DAY #13
“WHERE” WRITING
Get your details glasses on. I’ve heard that’s where the devil is. I guess it’s fair to say that the devil lives in “where.”
Set a timer and respond to the following places for exactly the time allotted. Stop IMMEDIATELY when the timer goes off.
Sight Sound Taste Touch Smell Body Motion
5 minutes: Suburban Swimming Pool
CHANELLE DAVIS: Shrieking kids in colourful togs, my bikini tied up tight around my neck, feel a little bit of my hair caught in it, pulling, sink under the cool water and down to the bottom, sound disappears, open my eyes and feel salt water sting, blurry legs, black lines on the bottom of the pool. Walk across on tiptoes, chin just out of the water, slipping on the tiles, over vents in the bottom exploding air bubbles up my legs, freestyle swim legs kicking and warming my body up, hit in the head with a ball, babies pushed around in floating rings, clapping and smiling, mums trying to keep their hair dry, boys bombing off the side, running and hitting the water, jump out trying to suck my stomach in, walk cool across to the hotpool, jets of water massaging my back, steam ris …
KAZ MITCHELL: Light dances across the water in ripples, the cavernous space filled with a cool sky blue. The choice of easing myself into the icy water wins over plunging in headfirst. The echoing sounds of arms and legs whacking against the surface as dedicated swimmers push themselves from one end to the other then back again, in a hypnotic, trance-like state. Their rhythm works on me like a metronome. Chlorine-scented swimwear get rung out, wrapped up in damp towels then thrown into plastic bags. I crunch hard into a crispy apple as I step out into the grey working day ahead of me.
Hot spots: “… vents in the bottom exploding air bubbles up my legs …”; “I crunch hard into a crispy apple ….”
You try.
10 minutes: The Old Fishing Hole
DEBORAH QUILTER: Trees hunched over the old fishing hole as filtered fins of light hooked through the fluttering leaves. It was tranquil and the water a perfect mirror of clouds and blue satin. When the trees turned green he would head out for weeks at time, tuck his thoughts into his flannel pockets and feel his bare feet on the mud flats where oysters hid among the mangroves. He had rusty old remnants of childhood memories in a squeaking angler’s box and hooks and spindles of line collected over the months of ice and sleet, when he’d delicately hook bait from the chest freezer of the local store. He watches the frying pan splatter and spit bubbles of melted butter and toss in fillets …
CHANELLE DAVIS: Oily mackerel in my fingers, browny red flesh, soft and chilled with silver and dotted blue thin skin, scales stick to my hands, push the sharp hook through, pierce the skin and let it dangle off the wharf, flick the bailer arm on my reel and let the nylon spool off, sinking down into the green-blue water, look over the wooden edge, big wooden pylons covered in green slime and barnacles, little bits of sea lettuce floating on the top, tiny spotties darting around in groups, feel the tugging on my rod and quickly wind it up, little fish jiggling on my hook, flapping in the wind, carefully hold him in my palm, he wriggles as I force the hook free and throw him into mum’s red laundry bucket, he swims round in circles with the others, one dead and white belly up on the surface. Seagulls stalking, looking for scraps of bait, squawking and boat engines humming, diesel fumes cloud the air, my feet are warm in gumboots, old grey track pants. Bits of fish on my pants where I wiped my hands clean, fish under my nails, salty and dry, open the flask of steaming milo and pour into the flimsy plastic cup. Blow it cool before sipping, careful not to trip in the cracks of the wharf, chicken and relish sandwiches on white bread, smell like plastic wrap, dry on the corners, buttery and filling …
Hot spots: “Trees hunched over the old fishing hole as filtered fins of light hooked through the fluttering leaves.” “Tuck his thoughts into his flannel pockets.”
I feel like I’ve been fishing after reading Chanelle’s piece.
Try Deborah’s piece in present tense. Then translate it into first person, then second person.
Now write about your own fishing hole.
90 seconds: Under an Umbrella
PAUL PENTON: Drops rush by, making a wet phutting sound on the synthetic cover. The smell of rain coming in from the sea, the smell of the tar unleashing trapped dirt and chemicals and road grit. The taste of the rain in the air, clean fresh. Mist trying to fly sideways swiping my face …
MATT K: Rain spatters the umbrella that barely covers our heads as we crouch next to each other by the wall of the old hotel, looking out over the deserted beach stretching like an empty highway. We cower like two rabbits shivering underneath a rock as we listen to the small pellets of angry water pounding on the nylon, like rubber bullets against a shield. It’s the sound of a ruined vacation.
Nice details in both of these: “a wet phutting sound,” “the smell of the tar unleashing trapped dirt,” and “small pellets of angry water pounding on the nylon.” They really take the reader there.
Now, you try.
DAY #14
“WHERE” WRITING
Wow! The final day of this challenge. Almost there …
Here we go!
Set a timer and respond to the following places for exactly the time allotted. Stop IMMEDIATELY when the timer goes off.
Sight Sound Taste Touch Smell Body Motion
5 minutes: On the City Bus
PAUL PENTON: My chair becomes a massage-o-matic as I sit high over the rear wheels. The
lights change and the driver stamps on the pedal, the motor reaches for a soprano ‘C’ and we’re moving again. The brakes need changing, every new stop it’s the scree of complaint from just under me. Hungry now, stomach punches me for food, waiting to get a premade bacon and egg—the yolks explode and mix with the smoky bacon and the way the toast sandpapers my tongue. This morning, cold fingers were brushing my face; winter is almost here: I emerged from the house to a hint of cloud as I breathed. So the bus jumps and jives over the last tram tracks and swings its disco dance around traffic lights, depositing me on the corner near the gallery. The driver stamps again and the engine complains its way down Southbank Boulevard …
KAZ MITCHELL: A freezing wind hurtles off the Firth of Forth as I wait for the No. 17 into Edinburgh. I stamp my feet, rub my hands, pace up-and-down the worn pavement to warm my blood. Finally, I hear the chugging of its engine before I see its maroon skin ease into sight and pull up like a tired and unwilling beast of burden. I screw up my nose at the leaking petrol smell from its hulk, but quickly climb up to the top deck. I admire the view of the estuary, stretching out like a tongue searching for a salty kiss.
Paul’s metaphors and Kaz’s similes are wonderful. And both pieces are so full of energy. More on metaphor and simile in the next challenge. For now, go back and pick them out.
Your turn.
10 minutes: Wedding in an Old Church
DEBORAH QUILTER: The door is rickety and splinters catch in my palm as I push it wide open. The floorboards creak and puff of dust lassoes my creeping ballet slippers. It’s perfect, this ramshackle gem, in the leafy woods. I press my eyes closed to see pretty lights made out of paper roses and the scent of pine and wonder brushing by. I can hear the band playing my favorite songs from days when I was too small to see up over the window ledge. I peer down at my finger to a sparkle, and smile. I hold the wooden bench soon to be wrapped in tightened vines and step into a stream of violet light and shadows. The soft breeze of certainty whistles …