There's a reason they call it "mood music." Music can not only affect your mood as you write, it can add depth, emotion and atmosphere to a story.
Writing prompt for this week: in class, we listened to "Grapevine Fires" by Death Cab for Cutie. (If you missed it or want to hear it again, here's a link, but don't watch the video until after you do the exercise, or images from it will creep into your writing.)
Listen to the song and jot down words that resonate for you and ideas and images that strike you as you listen.
Then, do a 15-minute free write, taking off from these words and images. Try not to overthink or edit yourself as you write--just stay with the mood.
You can also do this same exercise with any song of your choice.
For class discussion next week, we have a story that Tom posted and Michael Cunningham's classic short story "White Angel" in What If? You'll see how he uses music references and other details to evoke the mood of the 1960s.
Also recommended (not an assignment, but just for fun or extra credit): If you haven't already seen it, or even if you have, watch the film Across the Universe, then try this exercise from Meg Pokrass's writing blog.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
For Thursday, 10/1: story to read and discuss
Story by Tom Greffin for 10/1
Just as a quick note for the students reading it: most of the elements that may or may not confuse you in the story were intentional, and I'll be happy to explain anything and everything in class.
The bar is dingy; the dim lighting conceals the worst of the deep-seated grime. This wasn’t just dirt, or dust; these were the stains that gave that bald cleaning guy nightmares, that sent him screaming for a mop and bucket. You look around at the patrons, and you have to wonder if they even care. You look down at yourself, what you look like here… and you wonder if you should care either.
I pulled up a stool at the bar, and sat down on a warm seat. Ah, as odd as it may seem, those were always the best. Sure, you might be sitting where some biker or punk was probably born, screaming and bloody, but hey, it could always be worse. The bartender favored me with the look I swear they all patent; that look that makes you wonder if they’re patient enough to take your order for a drink, or just call a bouncer over to hold you while he works you over and takes your wallet as an afterthought.
-Drink?
-What have you got?
A mug of beer gets slapped down in front of me. It stirs up a little of the grime that’s caked on the bar, and adds just a bit more of a burning smell to the fetid air. The glass has seen better days: rough blown, misshapen, and streaked with dirt, it’s filled nearly to the brim with beer that has no froth to speak of. I take a large gulp of it, and manage it without a change of expression and, miraculously enough, without choking. It’s piss-warm… and to judge from the leering smile my gulp gets out of him, I can guess what it’s flavored with. I ask my tongue’s forgiveness as I take another swallow down, trying to avoid swishing and tasting.
-Battery acid?
The leering grin stretches from ear to ear, and somehow manages to not look menacing. He leans forward at my inquiry, the bright lights in the back of his black eyes dancing with delight.
-Just for color.
A quick appraisal of the “beer” tells me just how much color it added to the liquid.
-Any particular reason I’m here?
-That’s not mine to answer boy.
Typical. Bartenders like this are always such complete fuck-sticks.
-In that case, I’ll leave.
I throw a silver coin onto the bar and leave the mug unfinished, pushing myself up to leave. The barkeep’s hand shoots out and smashes into my wrists, pinning them to the bar.
-I wouldn’t.
The violence in him has never changed, but now, it’s more dangerous than ever. I can’t even react without getting my feet out from under the bar, and by the time I can do that he’ll have had the time to gouge out my eyes, eat them, and clean his fingers off. And with him, that would only be the beginning.
-Tell me why I’m here chief.
Gamble. Big one. He knows he’s got the leverage at the moment; question is, will he use it?
-No quarrel with you, little man. Boss is in the back room.
Full house to his two pair. I won… for now at least. As his hands leave my wrists I whip backwards, bounce off the floor with the balls of my feet, and land a stinging blow onto his right eye. All before the stool even gets halfway to the ground. By the time he registers what happened, and as the stool crashes down, I’ve got my right hand, like a spear, less than an inch from his left eye, cocked and ready to power straight forward. He nearly laughs.
-Go ahead.
I straighten up, brush the grime off my sleeves, and walk towards the back door.
-I gave that up.
The bastard actually laughed. Sick fuck.
The office door is impressive. Black, of course. Red trim on the brass handles. Wry grin on my part; the bastard at least always knew how to look good. Or maybe he just always had that damnable pride. Little bit of both I suppose. The office is impressive, to say the least; red walls with scars of black adorning in odd intervals, almost seeming to make the walls pulse. Odd decorations, considering the one sitting in the chair looking at me and his unique tastes. There were, of course, the obligatory paintings; of a somewhat darker nature than usually found in a boss’s office. I turned away, slightly repulsed at the sight of one of them. In my opinion, pokers should never leave a fireplace for any reason. My host chuckled lightly.
-You can always count on the Baptists, my friend.
I ignored the invitation to speak, and instead sat myself onto a chair with the comfort level of, roughly speaking, a flaming piece of charcoal. Charcoal crafted from the ashes of hope. I refused to betray any sense of discomfort, however; it was hard enough accepting the invitation to this meeting. Too many old memories here.
-Down to business then?
I flashed something passing for a grin. It was a weak attempt at one, but hey, considering the circumstances?
-I suppose.
The fire is back in his eyes. God, it’s been so long since it’s been there. I remember the last time we spoke; ages past… there had been nothing there. They had been dull: his debate lost, consigned to exile, out here in the back of beyond. We’d spent a long time nursing drinks that night; the boss who’d lost in his bid to the Big Boss, and brought some of his friends with him. We’d all needed drinks that night.
-Why did you invite me?
Best to be blunt, right?
-I thought you should see what I did with the place.
I couldn’t help it; I’m a sarcastic sum-bitch.
-Looks like hell.
That grin hasn’t ever changed. I wonder if it ever will. Or the fangs and snake-oil tongue hiding behind them.
-Thanks for the compliment.
Just as a quick note for the students reading it: most of the elements that may or may not confuse you in the story were intentional, and I'll be happy to explain anything and everything in class.
The bar is dingy; the dim lighting conceals the worst of the deep-seated grime. This wasn’t just dirt, or dust; these were the stains that gave that bald cleaning guy nightmares, that sent him screaming for a mop and bucket. You look around at the patrons, and you have to wonder if they even care. You look down at yourself, what you look like here… and you wonder if you should care either.
I pulled up a stool at the bar, and sat down on a warm seat. Ah, as odd as it may seem, those were always the best. Sure, you might be sitting where some biker or punk was probably born, screaming and bloody, but hey, it could always be worse. The bartender favored me with the look I swear they all patent; that look that makes you wonder if they’re patient enough to take your order for a drink, or just call a bouncer over to hold you while he works you over and takes your wallet as an afterthought.
-Drink?
-What have you got?
A mug of beer gets slapped down in front of me. It stirs up a little of the grime that’s caked on the bar, and adds just a bit more of a burning smell to the fetid air. The glass has seen better days: rough blown, misshapen, and streaked with dirt, it’s filled nearly to the brim with beer that has no froth to speak of. I take a large gulp of it, and manage it without a change of expression and, miraculously enough, without choking. It’s piss-warm… and to judge from the leering smile my gulp gets out of him, I can guess what it’s flavored with. I ask my tongue’s forgiveness as I take another swallow down, trying to avoid swishing and tasting.
-Battery acid?
The leering grin stretches from ear to ear, and somehow manages to not look menacing. He leans forward at my inquiry, the bright lights in the back of his black eyes dancing with delight.
-Just for color.
A quick appraisal of the “beer” tells me just how much color it added to the liquid.
-Any particular reason I’m here?
-That’s not mine to answer boy.
Typical. Bartenders like this are always such complete fuck-sticks.
-In that case, I’ll leave.
I throw a silver coin onto the bar and leave the mug unfinished, pushing myself up to leave. The barkeep’s hand shoots out and smashes into my wrists, pinning them to the bar.
-I wouldn’t.
The violence in him has never changed, but now, it’s more dangerous than ever. I can’t even react without getting my feet out from under the bar, and by the time I can do that he’ll have had the time to gouge out my eyes, eat them, and clean his fingers off. And with him, that would only be the beginning.
-Tell me why I’m here chief.
Gamble. Big one. He knows he’s got the leverage at the moment; question is, will he use it?
-No quarrel with you, little man. Boss is in the back room.
Full house to his two pair. I won… for now at least. As his hands leave my wrists I whip backwards, bounce off the floor with the balls of my feet, and land a stinging blow onto his right eye. All before the stool even gets halfway to the ground. By the time he registers what happened, and as the stool crashes down, I’ve got my right hand, like a spear, less than an inch from his left eye, cocked and ready to power straight forward. He nearly laughs.
-Go ahead.
I straighten up, brush the grime off my sleeves, and walk towards the back door.
-I gave that up.
The bastard actually laughed. Sick fuck.
The office door is impressive. Black, of course. Red trim on the brass handles. Wry grin on my part; the bastard at least always knew how to look good. Or maybe he just always had that damnable pride. Little bit of both I suppose. The office is impressive, to say the least; red walls with scars of black adorning in odd intervals, almost seeming to make the walls pulse. Odd decorations, considering the one sitting in the chair looking at me and his unique tastes. There were, of course, the obligatory paintings; of a somewhat darker nature than usually found in a boss’s office. I turned away, slightly repulsed at the sight of one of them. In my opinion, pokers should never leave a fireplace for any reason. My host chuckled lightly.
-You can always count on the Baptists, my friend.
I ignored the invitation to speak, and instead sat myself onto a chair with the comfort level of, roughly speaking, a flaming piece of charcoal. Charcoal crafted from the ashes of hope. I refused to betray any sense of discomfort, however; it was hard enough accepting the invitation to this meeting. Too many old memories here.
-Down to business then?
I flashed something passing for a grin. It was a weak attempt at one, but hey, considering the circumstances?
-I suppose.
The fire is back in his eyes. God, it’s been so long since it’s been there. I remember the last time we spoke; ages past… there had been nothing there. They had been dull: his debate lost, consigned to exile, out here in the back of beyond. We’d spent a long time nursing drinks that night; the boss who’d lost in his bid to the Big Boss, and brought some of his friends with him. We’d all needed drinks that night.
-Why did you invite me?
Best to be blunt, right?
-I thought you should see what I did with the place.
I couldn’t help it; I’m a sarcastic sum-bitch.
-Looks like hell.
That grin hasn’t ever changed. I wonder if it ever will. Or the fangs and snake-oil tongue hiding behind them.
-Thanks for the compliment.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Work in Progress - for Thursday, 9/23
Prologue: of Sorts
Within the chapel of her contrition
Soles are cobbled to tread
contained within stones; beneath her crust of bread
untamed and bled; beneath the archway her mistress led
cleanse, contaminate, and rend
the folds of her gown
convoluted, courtesan; parasitic preacher
maintain her train; like those emerging from beneath the mound
If only fate could reach her (and show her anything at all)
it would simply be…
“You simply aren’t good enough!” exclaimed the slightly rotund mistress of the gallery. “You best be on your way you withering wench” she exclaimed, and with a simple gesture to the butler, the gilded doors to the estate came crashing shut. As if the sheen from the scrupulously polished marbled floor had never mirrored her reflection at all. With a pause, she sighed; and slowly began to tread the acre long gravel causeway back to the periphery of the estate; back to her attic room and the stench of rotting straw and damp timbers; she is heading back home. She considers herself an intelligent and refined woman…so she walks slowly. Not with the limp of some cell dwelling beast of combat; but instead resembling the rhythmic canter of the Mistress’ finest mare.
Past the wrought iron defenses of mechanical melancholy that drew the line between the Madame’s estate and the rest of the village. Into the shuffling and ragged collection of peasants, and what the Madame referred to as those of “pestilent pedigree!” Within and through this harlequin collection of townspeople she remembers one thing; She is not good enough…
As shadows lengthened throughout the narrow streets and alleys of the village; she trod like one who has suddenly found themselves fully immersed within the realm of dreams; though it was but a handful of minutes before sunset, and the bats had just began to emerge for an early breakfast. Her strides mechanical in appearance, she thinks about what the Madame had said, and decides with a gathering certainty… “That not only is she PERFECTLY good enough”, but the Madame would learn this particular lesson, someway, somehow,
Somewho
Who?
Not you.
A note from the Author:
This is just a very brief “skeleton” of a “young adult” or children’s novel that I came up with. I feel as though this character can possibly become part of a much larger story, concerning some of the figures that come up in this brief passage. I hope you enjoy it a bit, it is meant to be a bit whimsical and satirical in nature.
See you all in class!
-Colafrancesco
Within the chapel of her contrition
Soles are cobbled to tread
contained within stones; beneath her crust of bread
untamed and bled; beneath the archway her mistress led
cleanse, contaminate, and rend
the folds of her gown
convoluted, courtesan; parasitic preacher
maintain her train; like those emerging from beneath the mound
If only fate could reach her (and show her anything at all)
it would simply be…
“You simply aren’t good enough!” exclaimed the slightly rotund mistress of the gallery. “You best be on your way you withering wench” she exclaimed, and with a simple gesture to the butler, the gilded doors to the estate came crashing shut. As if the sheen from the scrupulously polished marbled floor had never mirrored her reflection at all. With a pause, she sighed; and slowly began to tread the acre long gravel causeway back to the periphery of the estate; back to her attic room and the stench of rotting straw and damp timbers; she is heading back home. She considers herself an intelligent and refined woman…so she walks slowly. Not with the limp of some cell dwelling beast of combat; but instead resembling the rhythmic canter of the Mistress’ finest mare.
Past the wrought iron defenses of mechanical melancholy that drew the line between the Madame’s estate and the rest of the village. Into the shuffling and ragged collection of peasants, and what the Madame referred to as those of “pestilent pedigree!” Within and through this harlequin collection of townspeople she remembers one thing; She is not good enough…
As shadows lengthened throughout the narrow streets and alleys of the village; she trod like one who has suddenly found themselves fully immersed within the realm of dreams; though it was but a handful of minutes before sunset, and the bats had just began to emerge for an early breakfast. Her strides mechanical in appearance, she thinks about what the Madame had said, and decides with a gathering certainty… “That not only is she PERFECTLY good enough”, but the Madame would learn this particular lesson, someway, somehow,
Somewho
Who?
Not you.
A note from the Author:
This is just a very brief “skeleton” of a “young adult” or children’s novel that I came up with. I feel as though this character can possibly become part of a much larger story, concerning some of the figures that come up in this brief passage. I hope you enjoy it a bit, it is meant to be a bit whimsical and satirical in nature.
See you all in class!
-Colafrancesco
Friday, September 18, 2009
Week 2 Writing Prompt : Writing Into the Story
This exercise is adapted from Elizabeth Libbey's "Writing Outside the Story" (What If?, p. 236).
Write a short scene that is part of the story of Stephen King's "Night Surf," but that doesn't appear in the published story. It could be something that happened before the events described here, something that happens after, or something that happens "off the page" in the story. You can stay in Bernie's point of view or write from the point of view of a different character. Ideally, your scene should have narrative movement, conflict and dialogue. It doesn't need to be a complete story, but it should come to some kind of resolution.
Libbey's exercise suggests some ways to do this with your own story to help give it more richness and depth, such as a journal entry from your protagonist's point of view. If you have a story in progress or a draft of something that you'd like to work on, try this exercise with your own writing.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Week 1 Writing Prompt: Surfing with the Mummies
Tell me where is fancy bred? In the heart or in the head?
(William Shakespeare, via Willy Wonka)
Sometimes figuring out where to start your story is the hardest part of writing. Writing prompts can help us push through the fear of beginning by forcing us to start with a seemingly random line or element.
Read Chapters 3 and 4 in What If? and do the Chapter 4 exercise, "Begin a Story with a 'Given' First Line." Use the first line "Where were you last night?" or one of the other options Kittredge lists. Write a short story, around 2-3 pages, or set a timer for 15 minutes. (If you are inspired, feel free to go over.)
Use at least three of these random plot, setting and character elements from our class-generated list.
PLOT:
mummies attack
time travel
Crusades
a forbidden romance
SETTING:
the beach
the 1950s/early 60s era
a haunted mansion, used as a set for a Disney movie
CHARACTERS:
a surfer bum
uptight lifeguard
rookie cop
James Brown
Good luck and have fun!
(William Shakespeare, via Willy Wonka)
Sometimes figuring out where to start your story is the hardest part of writing. Writing prompts can help us push through the fear of beginning by forcing us to start with a seemingly random line or element.
Read Chapters 3 and 4 in What If? and do the Chapter 4 exercise, "Begin a Story with a 'Given' First Line." Use the first line "Where were you last night?" or one of the other options Kittredge lists. Write a short story, around 2-3 pages, or set a timer for 15 minutes. (If you are inspired, feel free to go over.)
Use at least three of these random plot, setting and character elements from our class-generated list.
PLOT:
mummies attack
time travel
Crusades
a forbidden romance
SETTING:
the beach
the 1950s/early 60s era
a haunted mansion, used as a set for a Disney movie
CHARACTERS:
a surfer bum
uptight lifeguard
rookie cop
James Brown
Good luck and have fun!
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Syllabus
English 205b
Quick Class Description: Creative Writing-Fiction is an introductory workshop that will focus on generating new work, reading and discussing students' short stories. Students will learn about craft elements (point of view, character development, voice, plot, etc.) by reading published stories and student work and through short writing exercises, in class and at home. You should finish the class with one or more completed, revised short stories or novel chapters you are proud of and would consider submitting for publication.
Format:
Texts:
Work Requirements:
Final grade: There is no final exam. In figuring your final grade, I will count:
Late/Incomplete work: As a part-time instructor I cannot assign grades of Incomplete except in cases of emergency, in which case it must be approved by the Department Chair and Dean.
Intellectual dishonesty: Great artists steal; bad artists borrow.--Bob Dylan
Class Environment: People in the workshop will be sharing their own, uncensored creative work, which may be personal, honest and emotional. If, as a reader, you find something offensive, this can be an opportunity for discussion, but always differentiate between the writer and the work.
Creative Writing - Fiction
Providence, Thursdays 4:15-6:45 September 9 – December 9
Providence, Thursdays 4:15-6:45 September 9 – December 9
Instructor: Kathryn Kulpa
Office hours: Available after class or by appointment
E-Mail: kathrynka@yahoo.com
Quick Class Description: Creative Writing-Fiction is an introductory workshop that will focus on generating new work, reading and discussing students' short stories. Students will learn about craft elements (point of view, character development, voice, plot, etc.) by reading published stories and student work and through short writing exercises, in class and at home. You should finish the class with one or more completed, revised short stories or novel chapters you are proud of and would consider submitting for publication.
Format:
Every week, there will be short writing exercises (usually around 10-15 minutes), designed to provide practice in some area of fiction writing. Students will share these exercises, understanding that these are not meant to be finished, polished drafts (although some may grow to be). Students will also work on one or more fiction projects of their choice and share these with the group for close, critical reading. As you read, think about your honest reaction—what you liked, what you didn’t like or didn’t understand—and what the writer could change to make the story better. We will also read and respond to some published work, from classic to contemporary, looking at fiction from the writer’s point of view.
Texts:
What If? Writing Exercises for Fiction Writers by Anne Bernays and Pamela Painter.
Other texts will be provided as handouts or online.
Work Requirements:
Thoughtful reading and creative criticism of student and published work, active class discussion, participation in class writing activities and writing on your own are all essentials of the course. As a student in this class, you will:
- Write short fiction exercises that you will share with the class, and revise and/or expand some of these
- Write and present to the group for critique at least one completed fiction piece (ideally a short story, because it’s easier to critique something that’s finished, but novel chapters are also acceptable), and revise this piece
- Read and discuss the work of other workshop students and provide them with constructive criticism through in-class discussion and written notes
- Participate in discussions of students’ and published stories and write short response pieces to some of these
Final grade: There is no final exam. In figuring your final grade, I will count:
- Class participation (writing exercises, discussion, story responses): 25%
- Midterm exam (includes short answers, story analysis and writing exercise): 25%
- Final portfolio (a selection of your work from the semester): 50%
Manuscript format: Stories for class discussion should be emailed to me, either as attachments in an easy-to-open format (Word .doc or .rtf), or they can be pasted in as plain text. I will post them on this blog. For longer pieces, double-spacing and page numbering is highly recommended. Weekly writing exercises should be brought to class, but if you miss a class, they can be e-mailed. These don't have to be typed, but if your handwriting is hard to read, it's recommended! All work included in your portfolio should be typed and should have your name on it.
Late/Incomplete work: As a part-time instructor I cannot assign grades of Incomplete except in cases of emergency, in which case it must be approved by the Department Chair and Dean.
Intellectual dishonesty: Great artists steal; bad artists borrow.--Bob Dylan
Plagiarism—any uncredited use of another's words and/or ideas will result in a grade of F. Creative (and credited) reworking of existing texts (such as parody and homage) are allowed.
Class Environment: People in the workshop will be sharing their own, uncensored creative work, which may be personal, honest and emotional. If, as a reader, you find something offensive, this can be an opportunity for discussion, but always differentiate between the writer and the work.
Illness Due to Flu
The H1N1 Flu Pandemic may impact classes this semester. If any of us develop flu-like symptoms, we are being advised to stay home until the fever has subsided for 24 hours. So, if you exhibit such symptoms, please do not come to class. Notify me at 401-225-4683 or kathrynka@yahoo.com of your status, and I will make sure you receive all reading and writing assignments by email. We will work together to ensure that course instruction and work is completed for the semester.
The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention have posted simple methods to avoid transmission of illness. These include: covering your mouth and nose with a tissue when coughing or sneezing; frequently washing your hands to protect from germs; avoiding touching your eyes, nose and mouth; and staying home when you are sick. For more information, please view www.cdc.gov/flu/protect/habits.htm. URI information on the H1N1 will be posted on the URI website at http://www.uri.edu/news/h1n1, with links to the www.cdc.gov site.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
