Latest Writing Workshop

I went to a full-day workshop on exploring my writer's voice yesterday, and did a lot of writing there. Here are some of the pieces that I wrote there:

"I pray each morning thanking God for the people who are or have been in my life, even if they intimidate or aggravate me. I ask God to teach me that I, too, belong to the human family. Recently it occurred to me that at times I may be the one who is intimidating or aggravating someone else. And that ability is part of what makes me human."

We were asked to pick a postcard from a large selection on a table and write about what drew us to it:

"The intense, beautiful blue color called to me from across the table -- I don't much care what it is, but I want to have that sapphire snapshot to look at. Pacing myself, I waited until most of the cards were laid out on the table before reaching for it -- sure that others would be attracted by its beauty and want it for their own, but they didn't grab it; it was mine. Finally I could see the image and read the legend -- it's a night picture of the California Coast, with a large rock in the background and smaller rocks in the foreground, tule fog hovering over the ocean, and a crescent moon in the sky. Something about the words or image, or both, brought a lump to my throat.

I have lived on the California Coast, north and then south and then north again, for 43 years; first with my father, then with my mother, then with a roommate or two, and then alone. There's something a bit lonely about the picture. It's empty of people, buildings, books, beach towels. It has no sunshine, smiles, surfers, or snow cones. No sandy tacos on the beach, smelly sunscreen, mother smoking on her beach towel and backrest, turning increasingly tan while I burn and freckle.

I once became separated from my blackwatch plaid air mattress in Santa Monica, in water over my head, complete with rip tide and undertow. Waves kept pulling me down. I looked around for help and saw a man standing nearby in water that to him was only waist deep. I waved my arm and cried "Help!" He looked at me in disbelief. "I said, Help," I yelled again. He walked over to me, took my hand, and drew me into the shallows. I hope I thanked him, and hiked back to my mother -- the rip tide had carried me maybe a block down the beach. I don't remember quite how I described my experience. She seemed to be taking it very calmly, but she was determined to reclaim the air mattress. She walked with me down the beach, surprised at how far we had to go. Then she saw a kid playing with it. She, with the authority of not only a mom, but also a senior lifesaver, told one kid to go get the mattress from the other kid. He did, and we returned to our beach towels in triumph."

Then we were asked to write about something we hate as if we loved it:

"I just love being in crowded streetcars, especially when I have to stand. Where else can you so intimately experience your neighbors' tastes in clothes, music, perfume, or cell phone conversations? You get to be part of a single organism swaying with the motions of the car. Being short, I can't reach the overhead bars, so I am limited to standing in spaces near vertical poles, and often get to negotiate access to them with my companions, or, better still, have someone leaning against my hand while I grasp the pole.

Another aspect of being short, my face comes to the middle of most people's backs or chests, which can be cosy, or even pleasurable, depending on whose body part I'm up against. And I don't really need to be able to look out the windows anyway; a nice recorded voice announces the stations.

The exercise and balance-building qualities of riding while standing are also beneficial. In fact, my feet often become so painful that I am eager to get out of the car and walk the rest of the way to my office."