simone.

The Twilight Parades

When all at once the daylight fades
and crabs run trails in the sand
then do begin the twilight parades
that twilight can demand

And crabs run trails in the sand
propelling the perfect stillness
that twilight can demand
but from which we shall now digress

Propelling the perfect stillness
waves tumble in low susurration
from which we shall now digress
at this hour of the moon’s calculation

Waves tumble in low susurration
washing creatures, peculiar, ashore
at this hour of the moon’s calculation
oysters arrive, with pearls for the poor

Washing creatures, peculiar, ashore
the falling tide leaves bigger plans
oysters arrive, with pearls for the poor
starfish come, then seashells and clams

The falling tide leaves bigger plans
for slowly begins the march
starfish come, then seashells and clams
the shrimp are the first to charge

For slowly begins the march
with lobsters all in a line
the shrimp are the first to charge
as seahorses follow closely behind

Lobsters standing all in a line
clicking their pincers in the lead
as seahorses follow closely behind
along the shore they softly proceed

Clicking their pincers in the lead
then do begin the twilight parades
along the shore they softly proceed
when all at once the daylight fades

A circumspect reflection on a unit should focus primarily on what I learned. So I shall revisit my portfolio and give a more complete account…

In fiction, the goal that I tried hardest to achieve was to make characters walk off the page – saunter, in some cases, or crawl or sprint. I did this through careful observation of people going about their daily routines as I went about mine. Small movements, the way people acted or talked, were under the scrutiny of my covetous eye. Writing stranger studies instigated a constant sketching of them in my head. Running commentary and fiction narrative scrolled through my thoughts as I met people, observed them, looked at them from afar. This whole process, which was brought out during the unit and intensified as it progressed, helped make me pay attention to how characters might walk off the page – with a jaunty off-step, or with a slight limp due to a previous injury that the reader does not find out about until the end of the story, or with a wink and a line: “Be good. I’ll come check on you tomorrow.”

But it’s quite difficult, creating a full portrait of a character in such a way that he comes to life for the reader. I feel that many of the characters in my short stories and exercises fall flat. (My extraordinary –> ordinary piece is an example of underdeveloped characters.) I realized the challenge of keeping out of the cliché. At times I felt that the expressions I used were very colloquial and somewhat static. It was difficult to write in a different way, with descriptions that were solely unique to the person, and with a new, fresh perspective. In order to develop my characters, I created their back-stories in my head, so that whether I chose to take anything from them or not, the knowledge of their past and their person would still influence the way I wrote about the character in the story.

One risk I took was the experimentation of inhabiting different characters’ voices. I struggled to break out of my own lyrical, quiet, fairytale-like narrative voice to take on different personas and sound convincing. I tried to do this in both my myth re-appropriation The Boy Who Cried, in which I took on the voice of the “villain” character who is usually not given much thought, and in my first person narrative “Pete’s First Date,” in which I adopted the voice of a character I normally would not write about or from the perspective of. First person was by far the hardest voice to write from, mainly because I wanted to interject as the writer, or simply found it hard to break out of my already established style of writing which I had become rather attached to. Speaking of attachment, I wonder if it dangerous to become too attached to your characters. What degree of distance should the writer maintain? Is the goal to have as little distance as possible? Or will the writer become too involved rather than let the character tell his/her own story?

I think the aspect of writing fiction that I explored most extensively was dialogue. Technique-wise, this is the area that I learned the most in and improved the most in. Before our studies and exercises in dialogue, I was not consciously aware of the different ways of writing dialogue and how each functioned and propelled a story. After learning about the effects of summarized dialogue vs. actual dialogue, I was able to make mindful decisions about how people talk to each other in my stories. I practiced summarized dialogue quite a lot and experimented with how it fit into the narrative voice of the piece and kept the story moving forward rather than slowing it down with actual dialogue. And I learned that actual dialogue, then, in the midst of summarized dialogue, could be extremely effective. It felt, in some ways, earned.

Another important element that I was introduced to in this unit was structure. I learned from the pieces we read, the effectiveness of marrying form and content. For some pieces, certain structures spoke to a particular story more than others. The way that a story is told is just as important as what is being told. Examining writers closely (as I did with my presentation author Thom Jones and my response author Milos Macourek) lent insight into how to employ the best structure possible for a piece. In imitating them, I was able to apply their techniques and learn from putting my observations into practice. The piece that most exhibits my experimentation with form and structure is my imitation piece: Johnny’s Goldfish.

The lessons I learned in writing during this unit are many and I cannot recall them all in this reflection. There may be simple stylistic moments that I picked up unconsciously that I have transferred into my writing – the best way to learn how to write is, after all, reading those who know what they’re doing. And put their instruments into practice, get into the habit of keeping a journal and writing everyday. In all, the most important thing I will take away from fiction, I think, is a heightened awareness of my narrator. With this comes narrative voice, narrative distance, etc., but what is most important is to know who is speaking and whose story it is, be it one person’s, many people’s, an ant’s, or even, perhaps, the color blue’s. I tried my best to bring this awareness of the narrator together with all the other lessons I’ve learned into my final piece: Story of the Stone.

Here is an update on my long fiction piece, still unfinished, still disconnected, but slightly more developed than where I left it last: story-of-the-stone

I Am Sisyphus

I am
more powerful than the gods
am
above
these so-called forces
of nature. Gravity
to me
is just another weight
to overcome.
And I believe,
after these trials,
the Underworld
escape,
games, merely,
that the rock will tip.

The Girl in the TV

They were framed
in large, gold-rimmed spectacles,
his eyes.
And my grandpa looked
through them
to read the newspaper.
I was beyond,
staring at the TV,
its already small frame
getting smaller
still,
with time.
And I watched the girl
in the TV
shout and scream
at her grandpa.
But my grandpa
did not see.
So I turned it off.
And removed his large,
gold-rimmed spectacles
so that I
might climb onto his lap
and read the newspaper.

He sat on the patched-up couch reading the Chinese newspaper with his large, gold-rimmed spectacles framing his kind eyes. The TV was on in front of him but he seemed not to notice, lost in reading about the world. But I was watching the girl in the TV. She talked back to her grandpa in disrespect and threw the allowance money he’d given her at his feet. I turned off the TV in defiance and marched over to my grandpa, thin on the over-sized couch that was falling apart, to give him a hug. And he folded his newspaper and hugged me back, unaware of the scene that had just passed.

Sometimes, at night, when the whole family was present, we would gather around the board-game Scrabble and put words together for points. My dad was the most serious about this, using his letters carefully, reading up on the rules and restrictions. But even so, he could never beat my mom, who assembled words in excitement, making the most interesting combinations, paying no heed to any such point system. She would get up to make some noodles as my dad took his time on his turn, and finish eating before he could tally up the score. And she’d smile playfully and wink at me, as it was always in her favor.

My sister was like a personal pest who would never stop following me around and copied everything I did. So I took her around sometimes. I did, because if I didn’t, she would start to cry. And because she was always there, she was witness to my acts of creativity, my imaginative genius. I created about ten million games for us to play. Four or five stuck. We played stuffed animals sometimes but I didn’t like the term “stuffed” because they were filled with something real, too, so I called them “little animals” and we referred to them as our “L.A.”s. She always wanted to be the bunnies so I let her be the bunnies and she wanted the cats so I let her have those, too. So I took on the personas of octopuses and armadillos, and when she saw that they were more interesting, we switched. And switched again.

You said to me, “old maps”
and I was at sea again.
Hand me a compass
Give me a fair wind
Blow me east,
for my sails have caught
a tidal spirit.

words: -cucumber, savory, jaunty

And though they don’t have much
in these poor villages,
they manage
to intrigue my nose
with a savory smell – a cucumber
dish that they have spiced up
with cumin,
paprika,
spices of sorts,
and I think about her, again,
the girl who I used
to play with
in my childhood
who walked a jaunty walk
and talked a deliberate talk
in streets that were much too dirty
for me to play in now.

Words:
-cliff, voice, whir, needle, blackberry, clouds, mother, lick
-include proverb

I am standing
on a cliff
somewhere above the clouds
and the wind,
like the voice of my mother
whirs
and I see her as it
through the eye
of a needle
telling me, softly,
that this, too, shall pass away.

Re-write poem using different style:

I didn’t listen
I obsessed
and when my mother told me
that this, too, shall pass away
I saw the world,
standing on the tip of a needle
stuck
standing
on the tip of a needle
waiting for her to begin
sewing.

Fiction was supposed to be the unit in which I would feel at home as a writer, but it in fact proved to be the most difficult so far and will stand, I think, as the most difficult unit for me even after poetry, though we haven’t even stepped into poetry yet.

Perhaps it is because I settled into creative non-fiction too nicely and got too comfortable. I’m not sure. I usually tend to think of myself as a fairly creative person, which is why I have always been drawn to fiction – inhabiting different characters’ voices and actually being someone else has always been fun for me. But somehow, throughout this unit, I felt as though I couldn’t get these creative juices to flow. The only consistent feeling I got when sitting down to write was writer’s block.

But though I feel that this fiction portfolio is not up to the standard at which I know I can write, I have learned many things throughout this unit. For one, I am definitely honing my skills in reading as a writer. The step to perfect is applying them. I have also done a lot of experimentation in our exercises and assignments. It may be that they don’t work as individual pieces, but in writing them I am practicing writing. Perhaps this is more important for me as a writer in the long run.

I should mention discipline. You told me in a conference that to be a writer, one needs talent, passion, and discipline (and luck, if we’re going to go there). This unit made me realize just how much I lack discipline. The reason why many of my stories are still unfinished (and not just unfinished in the sense that no piece is ever really “finished” – I mean really, far from finished, as in the ending is nowhere near well thought-out) is because I tell myself that I can only write when I am truly inspired to write, when I want to write. I put off writing, saying I will do it when I am able to set aside a large chunk of time to just sit and write and organize my thoughts. And it takes a long time to even do just that, when I have set aside time.

But here is my sample from fiction nonetheless:
(It is incomplete. I intend to finish this portfolio fully, but find that I cannot within this time limit. This is very much the fault of my writing habit and I am very sorry – I will get my missing pieces up as soon as possible.)

Writer response: Milos Macourek

Macourek imitation: Johnny’s Goldfish

Stranger Studies: England Strangers

Kafka Re-appropriation: The Boy Who Cried

Extraordinary –> Ordinary: Petrified

Dialogue Exercises: 1st, 2nd, 3rd person narrators

1st person short story: Pete’s First Date

Some exercises from my journal.

My long fiction piece is still unfinished as of yet…I will post it soon to complete my portfolio.