Exercise 4: Adaptation of Persuasion
The fire from the candles burned steadily, throwing a soft and warm light on the bountifully arrayed table. Cakes, meats, and nuts were spread evenly about the table, all eaten to varying degrees as the dinner party drew towards the end of the meal. Soon it would be time to clear the table. I shifted, eager for them to finish and for the work to be done. Amiable prattle rolled around the room and Captain Wentworth, wearing the deep blue and shining gold of a military jacket, seemed to be relishing the attention of the table as he spoke of his military service. He was a strange man; another topic might have rendered him silent, tongue-tied or out of his depth, but on the topic of the military, he always had more to say. Already the women of the table were gazing at him, intent on his every word. He lapsed into a humorous tone, playing to his audience. “The admiralty likes to amuse itself by sending out a few hundred men in a ship barely fit for service.”
The topic, however, invariably seemed to turn to wives. Captain Wentworth tried not to scowl as Admiral Kroft less-than-casually said, “Did not you bring Mrs. Arbol and her children with you?” Admiral Kroft smiled in the irritating way superior officers have that is inescapably a precursor to some remark they know to be aimed particularly at upsetting the person in question. “This from a man famous for claiming he’ll never have a woman on his ship.”
The women of the table grew quite flustered. Captain Wentworth hastened to explain himself. “It’s from no lack of gallantry. Ships cannot be made suitable for parties of women.”
“Frederick, I’ve been on five,” Sophia Kroft said.
The Admiral’s face assumed that same expression, and Wentworth steadied himself in anticipation. “When he’s married,” the Admiral said, “He’ll sing a different tune. He’ll be grateful to anybody who will bring him his wife.”
Wentworth thought it best to pick his battles and left somewhat in a huff.
Anne watched him go. It was only after she had left that Anne found the courage to ask of Sophia, “You must have been a great traveler, mam.”
“I have crossed the Atlantic four times and been to the West Indies,” she said proudly, her eyes taking on a wistful look.
“Did you never suffer any sickness?”
“No. The only time that I ever imagined myself unwell or had any ideas of danger was the winter that I passed on my own when the admiral-- Captain Kroft then-- was away on the northern seas. That I did not like. As long as we could be together, nothing ever ailed me.”
It seemed clear to me that Anne wished Wentworth would have stayed to hear the rest of Sophia’s explanation, but she none the less found it to be satisfying.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Stopping
Exercise 3: Argument in a Car
Driving down to Las Vegas had seemed like a good enough idea, when we were sprawled out in my dorm room looking at the climbing prices for Southwest tickets and the map of California and Nevada. But now, crammed into my little Honda Accord, with Chris driving and Kimi and Tina situated in the back, those plane tickets were looking better and better. We were driving two cars down in something that had become a race, and we were solidly behind.
Every time we passed a rest stop, Tina would subversively mutter about stopping for another bathroom break and Chris, who had been driving for the whole seven hours, only replied with optimistic estimates about how long it would take to get to the next rest stop. Chris would read a sign that said ‘No Rest Stops for Next 60 Miles’ as “Tina, can you wait another forty-five minutes?” She would reluctantly agree and Kimi would note that she wanted a coke when we got to the next rest stop.
It was only after we finished out the last long stretch without a stop that Tina put her foot down.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” Tina said, a sigh catching at the end of her voice.
“We’re only about an hour and a half away,” Chris said, referring to Las Vegas.
“Is another hour and a half okay, ‘Tine?” Kimi said, “Because otherwise we should call the other car now so we can both stop.”
“Uh. Well, I’d really like to stop. I’ve been talking about stopping for the last two hours.”
“So let’s just stop,” Kimi said.
Chris didn’t say anything. He kept his eyes carefully on the road.
“I’ll call the other car,” I said. I flipped open my phone and hit redial, calling Justin’s cell phone.
“Hello?” he answered.
“Hey. We’re going to stop. Tina has to use the bathroom. Do you want to stop with us?”
“Uh…. Sure. Where are you?”
I named off the exit we had just passed and I heard him pressing buttons on his Garmin Navigation thing. They were a few miles ahead of us, so they would pick the spot.
“There’s a good place to stop a few miles from you. We’ll wait for you there.” Justin told me the name of the exit and I repeated it to our car. Chris nodded.
When the exit came, Chris got in the lane to exit. Right before the off-ramp, there was a sign calling the exit another name.
“That’s not the right name,” Chris said.
“I think that’s the exit, though,” I said.
“Just take it.” Tina shifted uncomfortably in the back seat.
“No, it’s definitely not the right one,” Chris said. “It’s not the right name.”
We watched out the window of the car as the small stop, with everything from food places to a gas station, flew by.
“I don’t think there’s any other way to get there,” Tina said.
“We’ll stop at the next one,” Chris said.
Kimi stared back at it sadly. “It had a Carl’s Jr.”
But Chris didn’t offer to turn around, not that there were any off ramps nearby to accommodate the maneuver anyway, so we charged on.
“I’ll call the other car,” I said. I hit redial again, thinking walkie talkies might have been a sound investment.
“We missed the exit,” I said. “We got confused by the signs.”
Justin informed me that there were no stops for several miles. They had made the exit and were getting some food.
The mood in the car was considerably darker.
“There are no big rest stops,” Chris said, “But there will be gas stations.”
“It would have been nice to stop at the Carl’s Jr.,” Kimi said.
“Are you sure there are even gas stations?” I asked.
“Yes. We’ll just stop at the next one.”
But the next exit held only a deserted junkyard. The exit after that was entirely vacant. And the exit following that one was barricaded by orange traffic cones with a sign that the rest stop was under repair.
“We should have just turned around,” Tina said.
“There’ll be one coming up soon,” Chris said. And the miles passed on and on…
Driving down to Las Vegas had seemed like a good enough idea, when we were sprawled out in my dorm room looking at the climbing prices for Southwest tickets and the map of California and Nevada. But now, crammed into my little Honda Accord, with Chris driving and Kimi and Tina situated in the back, those plane tickets were looking better and better. We were driving two cars down in something that had become a race, and we were solidly behind.
Every time we passed a rest stop, Tina would subversively mutter about stopping for another bathroom break and Chris, who had been driving for the whole seven hours, only replied with optimistic estimates about how long it would take to get to the next rest stop. Chris would read a sign that said ‘No Rest Stops for Next 60 Miles’ as “Tina, can you wait another forty-five minutes?” She would reluctantly agree and Kimi would note that she wanted a coke when we got to the next rest stop.
It was only after we finished out the last long stretch without a stop that Tina put her foot down.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” Tina said, a sigh catching at the end of her voice.
“We’re only about an hour and a half away,” Chris said, referring to Las Vegas.
“Is another hour and a half okay, ‘Tine?” Kimi said, “Because otherwise we should call the other car now so we can both stop.”
“Uh. Well, I’d really like to stop. I’ve been talking about stopping for the last two hours.”
“So let’s just stop,” Kimi said.
Chris didn’t say anything. He kept his eyes carefully on the road.
“I’ll call the other car,” I said. I flipped open my phone and hit redial, calling Justin’s cell phone.
“Hello?” he answered.
“Hey. We’re going to stop. Tina has to use the bathroom. Do you want to stop with us?”
“Uh…. Sure. Where are you?”
I named off the exit we had just passed and I heard him pressing buttons on his Garmin Navigation thing. They were a few miles ahead of us, so they would pick the spot.
“There’s a good place to stop a few miles from you. We’ll wait for you there.” Justin told me the name of the exit and I repeated it to our car. Chris nodded.
When the exit came, Chris got in the lane to exit. Right before the off-ramp, there was a sign calling the exit another name.
“That’s not the right name,” Chris said.
“I think that’s the exit, though,” I said.
“Just take it.” Tina shifted uncomfortably in the back seat.
“No, it’s definitely not the right one,” Chris said. “It’s not the right name.”
We watched out the window of the car as the small stop, with everything from food places to a gas station, flew by.
“I don’t think there’s any other way to get there,” Tina said.
“We’ll stop at the next one,” Chris said.
Kimi stared back at it sadly. “It had a Carl’s Jr.”
But Chris didn’t offer to turn around, not that there were any off ramps nearby to accommodate the maneuver anyway, so we charged on.
“I’ll call the other car,” I said. I hit redial again, thinking walkie talkies might have been a sound investment.
“We missed the exit,” I said. “We got confused by the signs.”
Justin informed me that there were no stops for several miles. They had made the exit and were getting some food.
The mood in the car was considerably darker.
“There are no big rest stops,” Chris said, “But there will be gas stations.”
“It would have been nice to stop at the Carl’s Jr.,” Kimi said.
“Are you sure there are even gas stations?” I asked.
“Yes. We’ll just stop at the next one.”
But the next exit held only a deserted junkyard. The exit after that was entirely vacant. And the exit following that one was barricaded by orange traffic cones with a sign that the rest stop was under repair.
“We should have just turned around,” Tina said.
“There’ll be one coming up soon,” Chris said. And the miles passed on and on…
Back Home
Exercise 2: Describing a Place
The grass was always dead, perhaps more than dead, a crisp, yellow straw-like texture, that smelled dusty and dry. Frogs and snakes were always to be found in the swimming pool, and more than one dead rat met its untimely end at the bottom. Our back yard, or rather The Back of the Land, as we called it, was an open expanse of thick, soft dirt, spotted with fruit trees. There was one expanse of dirt without any trees, which was our particular place to play. We would trace out the boundaries for Capture the Flag and spend our days tromping through the dirt. In the spring, we would collect the fruit ripening on the trees and eat all we could before the rest was dried out or juiced for Popsicles. The fruit would ripen and sometimes drop before we could collect it. The fallen fruit, often gashed open from the drop, was left to rot at the base of the tree, gnats buzzing around the wounds.
During the day, the sun beat down indiscriminately on anyone that dared to venture outdoors. The air had an aftertaste of smoke, a result of the neighbor’s company of diesel trucks. The hot, dry air would blast in your face if you opened the front door. It was a dry, crackling heat, which seemed to preclude much movement. We seldom went farther than the swimming pool, though on more temperate days we would clamber up the hill. The inverse of the swimming pool, the direct result of the displaced earth required to empty out a space for it, the hill rose ten feet and ran the length of half the house. It was more often than not that an excursion on the hill ended in a skinned knee or a tumble through the dirt.
The side yard, the official yard, was fenced in with chain link on three sides (the house forming the fourth wall). That was the domain of the pets. For the most part, Snoopy patrolled the area, entertaining himself with races against the neighbor’s dog or by barking himself into a frenzy at a passing cat. The rabbits, Twinkle and Dixie, were rarely to be seen. We left them food, but it seemed that they had long since taken to foraging for themselves as the food dishes never seemed to empty. The trampoline was on the side yard, so we went there to use it, and also to lay on our backs on clear nights and watch for shooting stars in the wide, black sky. The sky would stretch on and on and up and up. I would strain my eyes to see the cloudy belt of nebula across the blackness that marked out the Milky Way. There weren’t any streetlights, that far in the country, and the darkness wrapped up everything in a massive dampness that was comforting in the face of all that everything.
The grass was always dead, perhaps more than dead, a crisp, yellow straw-like texture, that smelled dusty and dry. Frogs and snakes were always to be found in the swimming pool, and more than one dead rat met its untimely end at the bottom. Our back yard, or rather The Back of the Land, as we called it, was an open expanse of thick, soft dirt, spotted with fruit trees. There was one expanse of dirt without any trees, which was our particular place to play. We would trace out the boundaries for Capture the Flag and spend our days tromping through the dirt. In the spring, we would collect the fruit ripening on the trees and eat all we could before the rest was dried out or juiced for Popsicles. The fruit would ripen and sometimes drop before we could collect it. The fallen fruit, often gashed open from the drop, was left to rot at the base of the tree, gnats buzzing around the wounds.
During the day, the sun beat down indiscriminately on anyone that dared to venture outdoors. The air had an aftertaste of smoke, a result of the neighbor’s company of diesel trucks. The hot, dry air would blast in your face if you opened the front door. It was a dry, crackling heat, which seemed to preclude much movement. We seldom went farther than the swimming pool, though on more temperate days we would clamber up the hill. The inverse of the swimming pool, the direct result of the displaced earth required to empty out a space for it, the hill rose ten feet and ran the length of half the house. It was more often than not that an excursion on the hill ended in a skinned knee or a tumble through the dirt.
The side yard, the official yard, was fenced in with chain link on three sides (the house forming the fourth wall). That was the domain of the pets. For the most part, Snoopy patrolled the area, entertaining himself with races against the neighbor’s dog or by barking himself into a frenzy at a passing cat. The rabbits, Twinkle and Dixie, were rarely to be seen. We left them food, but it seemed that they had long since taken to foraging for themselves as the food dishes never seemed to empty. The trampoline was on the side yard, so we went there to use it, and also to lay on our backs on clear nights and watch for shooting stars in the wide, black sky. The sky would stretch on and on and up and up. I would strain my eyes to see the cloudy belt of nebula across the blackness that marked out the Milky Way. There weren’t any streetlights, that far in the country, and the darkness wrapped up everything in a massive dampness that was comforting in the face of all that everything.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
One Chance
Tim and I sat in the filing room that doubled as our “office.” There was a dusty, metallic smell to the room and a hushed silence that hummed in my stomach. The internship was a rare one, with a real productions company, and my nervousness was renewed each day when I settled into the quiet. The silence was cut by the sound of our nearest neighbor answering the phones, acting as the gatekeeper, shifting out the telemarketers from the important executives. As the afternoon progressed, her tone would shift, the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles showing through in her voice as “May I ask who’s calling?” became “May I ask who’s calling?”
From our little office, we would lean out and talk with her, our oracle to understanding the office, as we called her, always quickly retreating to our office when we got a new assignment. It was a nice office, although cozy. Eight filing cabinets lined two walls of the room. A desk took up the third wall, and the width of the room was only enough to accommodate the door on the fourth wall. In the space that was left in the center of the room, we managed to cram two relatively nice chairs. At first, we used the chairs we had found in there. One squeaked at the slightest movement; the other had arm rests that had long ago been picked at until the jagged metal beneath poked through. Tim and I switched off on who bore the pink-and-red scratches on the backs of his or her arms until Frank, who had a profound understanding of the company that much surpassed our own brief interaction with it, noticed our predicament. We were in the midst of taping pieces of Kleenex over the jagged-- our sad attempt to spare our arms-- when he happened to walk by.
“Why don’t you take another chair?” he asked, sweeping his hand back at the cavernous space of the office where the interns didn’t venture. But for the promise of new chairs, and with Frank’s assurance that it was allowed, we were willing to wander out of our small office to the back rooms. Tim and I were wide-eyed as we softly walked through the dark rooms, past the empty desks. People once worked here. They left their papers on their desks, their sticky notes with important things to do on their walls. They had left it like a horror movie, the kind where you see people’s eyeglasses and photographs and know that they didn’t pack up and leave, they were killed in the basement and now may or may not be reanimated as the ravenous undead.
But the lure of new chairs drove us on. With childlike delight we examined the hidden treasures that we found: chairs with cushions, chairs with wheels, chairs that tipped back just enough to let you prop your feet up against the bottom rung of the desk. Frank watched in amusement as we wheeled our precious cargo back to our small filing cabinet and made the exchange. For that matter, Frank went on, why shouldn’t one of us use one of the back offices?
But that was a step too far, at least for me. I remembered the lists, filled with cryptic reminders, “Review Dog Script” and “Pick up copies.” These traces of things that must have seemed so important, once, to someone, did they ever get done? Did anyone know the difference? “Oh, it’s no problem, here,” I said quickly. I spoke for both of us, hoping that Tim would agree.
“It’s easier for people to reach us up front,” Tim said, much to my relief. “And I think it helps if we’re both together.”
And it was true. People loved leaning into the small room for anything from just checking up on us to giving us a new assignment. Halfway into our internship, our supervisor leaned into our small filing cabinet and gave us an incredible opportunity, the kind of opportunity that interns dream about while they photocopy scripts and write coverage. As though it were no significant assignment, our supervisor calmly told us to write up a pitch for a sequel to send Sony for approval. We played it cool, up until he left, and we turned to each other with barely contained excitement. Tim and I each had our own outlook on the situation. Tim chose unbridled optimism.
“This is it, Kara, this is it,” he would periodically say, pausing with his fingers frozen over the keyboard as he marveled at the opportunity. “This is our big chance, right? I just know something is going to happen.”
And my reaction? I, for my part, chose paralyzing fear. This was apparently it, the once in a lifetime chance that moves an intern from relative obscurity to being a director, or something like that. But I couldn’t see past the possibility of failure to even glimpse the chance of success. What would happen if we met with the director and turned in our pitches and were flatly, completely rejected?
The room was equipped with only one painfully outdated iMac on top of the cluttered desk, so I had my personal laptop propped up on my knees. I stared down the blank Microsoft Word document and my fingers typed, sentences and paragraphs unfolding in a muddled tangle that was so heavy with self-doubt that I could feel the weight of it in each line. The hours scampered by, and so did the drafts. I made and discarded a handful of ideas, then went over the old ones until I found one I was satisfied with. I changed it around, simplified it, shortened it and then stretched it out, uncertain of something even as simple as the length. I adjusted margins and font size. I played with the title. And all the while, I made myself sick thinking about the consequences of a wrong decision. Los Angeles is a make-you or break-you town, and I had a feeling I was about to be broken.
From our little office, we would lean out and talk with her, our oracle to understanding the office, as we called her, always quickly retreating to our office when we got a new assignment. It was a nice office, although cozy. Eight filing cabinets lined two walls of the room. A desk took up the third wall, and the width of the room was only enough to accommodate the door on the fourth wall. In the space that was left in the center of the room, we managed to cram two relatively nice chairs. At first, we used the chairs we had found in there. One squeaked at the slightest movement; the other had arm rests that had long ago been picked at until the jagged metal beneath poked through. Tim and I switched off on who bore the pink-and-red scratches on the backs of his or her arms until Frank, who had a profound understanding of the company that much surpassed our own brief interaction with it, noticed our predicament. We were in the midst of taping pieces of Kleenex over the jagged-- our sad attempt to spare our arms-- when he happened to walk by.
“Why don’t you take another chair?” he asked, sweeping his hand back at the cavernous space of the office where the interns didn’t venture. But for the promise of new chairs, and with Frank’s assurance that it was allowed, we were willing to wander out of our small office to the back rooms. Tim and I were wide-eyed as we softly walked through the dark rooms, past the empty desks. People once worked here. They left their papers on their desks, their sticky notes with important things to do on their walls. They had left it like a horror movie, the kind where you see people’s eyeglasses and photographs and know that they didn’t pack up and leave, they were killed in the basement and now may or may not be reanimated as the ravenous undead.
But the lure of new chairs drove us on. With childlike delight we examined the hidden treasures that we found: chairs with cushions, chairs with wheels, chairs that tipped back just enough to let you prop your feet up against the bottom rung of the desk. Frank watched in amusement as we wheeled our precious cargo back to our small filing cabinet and made the exchange. For that matter, Frank went on, why shouldn’t one of us use one of the back offices?
But that was a step too far, at least for me. I remembered the lists, filled with cryptic reminders, “Review Dog Script” and “Pick up copies.” These traces of things that must have seemed so important, once, to someone, did they ever get done? Did anyone know the difference? “Oh, it’s no problem, here,” I said quickly. I spoke for both of us, hoping that Tim would agree.
“It’s easier for people to reach us up front,” Tim said, much to my relief. “And I think it helps if we’re both together.”
And it was true. People loved leaning into the small room for anything from just checking up on us to giving us a new assignment. Halfway into our internship, our supervisor leaned into our small filing cabinet and gave us an incredible opportunity, the kind of opportunity that interns dream about while they photocopy scripts and write coverage. As though it were no significant assignment, our supervisor calmly told us to write up a pitch for a sequel to send Sony for approval. We played it cool, up until he left, and we turned to each other with barely contained excitement. Tim and I each had our own outlook on the situation. Tim chose unbridled optimism.
“This is it, Kara, this is it,” he would periodically say, pausing with his fingers frozen over the keyboard as he marveled at the opportunity. “This is our big chance, right? I just know something is going to happen.”
And my reaction? I, for my part, chose paralyzing fear. This was apparently it, the once in a lifetime chance that moves an intern from relative obscurity to being a director, or something like that. But I couldn’t see past the possibility of failure to even glimpse the chance of success. What would happen if we met with the director and turned in our pitches and were flatly, completely rejected?
The room was equipped with only one painfully outdated iMac on top of the cluttered desk, so I had my personal laptop propped up on my knees. I stared down the blank Microsoft Word document and my fingers typed, sentences and paragraphs unfolding in a muddled tangle that was so heavy with self-doubt that I could feel the weight of it in each line. The hours scampered by, and so did the drafts. I made and discarded a handful of ideas, then went over the old ones until I found one I was satisfied with. I changed it around, simplified it, shortened it and then stretched it out, uncertain of something even as simple as the length. I adjusted margins and font size. I played with the title. And all the while, I made myself sick thinking about the consequences of a wrong decision. Los Angeles is a make-you or break-you town, and I had a feeling I was about to be broken.
Monday, April 9, 2007
Biography
I've been taking creative writing classes since sophomore year of college. I started out writing fairly normal fiction, but my writing later developed a distinctly science-fiction or comic book style. My influences would be my favorite movies and books: The Matrix, 300, Resident Evil, Enter's Game, Ella Enchanted, and the Lioness and Wild Magic quartets by Tamora Pierce. But don't be fooled by all the action movies in there. I like roses and ribbons and chocolates, and one of my favorite hobbies is baking. I've also recently started learning how to mix drinks, so someday I may go to bar tending school. Currently, I'm a senior, with just a couple of short months left before graduation, so I'm trying to make the most of my time left in school.
Sunday, April 8, 2007
The Title Explained
The title of this blog is a tribute to my friends, who have mercilessly teased me for frequently mixing up the term creative non-fiction with the term non-creative fiction. What exactly non-creative fiction constitutes would be up for some debate, but that's beside the point. This blog will focus on creative non-fiction, which perhaps is the exact opposite of non-creative fiction.
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