Healing through story

Category: storytelling (Page 25 of 28)

Mannequin Monday – You Need an Idea

Mannequin Monday – You Need an Idea

Another Mannequin Monday. This week we look at shaping ideas into tactile form. Sculptor Steven Whyte works from his studio in Carmel, California. Molding clay into sculpture. Dancer Twyla Tharp speaks of her creative process. Shaping movement into dance. “Scratching” to find ideas to kickstart the creative process. And

I include a bit of my own writing, a story I am currently “scratching” at, looking for the truth in my characters.

This Week’s Reading and Discussion

Today we’ll “read” the sculpted form. Sculptor Steven Whyte maintains a studio in Carmel, California. One of his recent works is Comfort Women: a memorial erected at the St. Mary’s Square in downtown San Francisco “to remember hundreds of thousands of Asian women…who were forced into sexual slavery by Japanese troops during World War II.”

In Whyte’s Facebook bio, he says of himself: ” I am primarily a sculptor of people. A historian, recording a likeness and creating characters of yesterday’s community and today’s society for tomorrow’s viewer. I manipulate clay to found into bronze for the consideration by an audience, in the home, the street and the gallery. ” Check out Steven Whyte’s Facebook page. You can find images of Whyte’s work there. Every one of his pieces radiates strength, power.

His Facebook page further says: “The production of art is based on the fundamental struggle to liberate and express a captive vision of creativity. For Steven Whyte this struggle takes on an added element. More than the mere rendering of a visual image, each time Whyte begins to work with his clay he attempts to produce a presence enriched with distinct personality, spirit and vitality.”

I think that last sentence says it nicely: “…a presence enriched with distinct personality, spirit and vitality.” One can easily apply that to writing. Well-written characters create a presence enriched with distinct personality. Plot and setting provide a framework for a story, but it is the characters that in-spire the story with life.

This Week’s Podcast/Interview

I’m in the middle of reading Twyla Tharp’s book The Creative Habit: Learn It and Use It For Life. I like Chapter 6, Scratching. Tharp describes scratching as a habitual routine of looking for “something.” Looking for traction to keep going. Searching for ideas to get her creative process started.

She opens the chapter this way. “The first steps of a creative act are like groping in the dark, random and chaotic, feverish and fearful, a lot of busy-ness with no apparent or definable end in sight. There is nothing yet to research. For me, these moments are not pretty. I look like a desperate woman, tortured by the simple message thumping away in my head: ‘You need an idea.’ It’s not enough for me to walk into a studio and start dancing, hoping that something good will come of my aimless cavorting on the studio floor. Creativity doesn’t generally work that way for me. (The rare times when it has stand out like April blizzards.) You can’t just dance or paint or write or sculpt. Those are just verbs. You need a tangible idea to get you going. The idea, however minuscule, is what turns the verb into a noun – paint into a painting, sculpt into sculpture, write into writing, dance into a dance.”

The concept of scratching characterizes how I often put one of these blog posts together. I’m looking to link a few pieces of fiction, bits of story, notes on artists I know or have recently discovered. And I pick at lots of stories, art, interviews, writings…until connections come together.

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Mannequin Monday – Adventures in Filmmaking

Mannequin Monday – Adventures in Filmmaking

Welcome to another Mannequin Monday. Today we dress the naked form, the blank page, with both words and moving images. A quote from author/painter Huguette Martel’s graphic story, Adventures of a Would-be Filmmaker: “When I die, and if there is life after death, I want to finally be able to walk in very high heels.” And in this week’s interview, camera operator Georgia Packard encourages any filmmaker to emulate Ansel Adams in walking around their subject from all angles before shooting.

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Mannequin Monday – Opening Lines

Hi. Mannequin Monday again. Dressing the blank page. Making art. Welcome back. I love a good opening line. Pulls you right into the story. One of my favorites is the first sentence of Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea. “He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish.” The entire story is set up in the one line. The old man will endure in spite of obstacles and pain. 

Opening Lines

This Week’s Reading

This week I read In That Time, a short story by Richard Bausch, featured in Narrative magazine.

Discussion

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Mannequin Monday – Dressing the Page

Mannequin Monday. A day to dress the blank page. To fill the empty screen. To chip away at the block of stone. To shape the blob of clay.

The mannequin’s purpose is to be draped by the dresser. Blank media exists for the artist. Let’s fill and shape, let’s make art, with our words, our visions, our hands.

Every week I will post a story I have read, a bit of discussion on the story, another reference to a podcast, article, or interview, and then an excerpt from my current writing. The outline will mimic the structure of several online fiction courses I have taken with the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa. I hope you may find inspiration here.

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A Card on Mother’s Day

Here’s another short story I wrote for my online writing course through the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa. The program offers excellent feedback from other participants. So worth it!

I hope you enjoy it.

A Card on Mother’s Day

You shouldn’t have wasted your money on flowers. They’ll only die

Mom tells me that every Mother’s Day. This year I want to say, So will dad.

I hesitated at their front door. I don’t want to do this.

I fingered the bouquet of red carnations and the bag in my hands. Rang the bell. Turned the knob. Always unlocked. I stepped in. Mom came down the hall. “He’s not good.”

I nodded. “These are for you. Happy Mother’s Day.” I handed her the carnations. She offered a thin smile. “I’ll find a vase.”

I followed her to the kitchen. 

“Go say hello. Your dad’s awake.”

I walked to their bedroom. Dad lay in a hospital bed. Shrunken. Pale. Eyes closed. 

“Hi, dad.”

He opened his eyes. Nodded slightly.

I took a corsage and a card out of the bag. “I got these for you to give mom. Can you sign the card?”

Dad shook his head. His eyes glazed over.

“Okay, I’ll sign for you.” I pulled a pen from my shirt pocket, opened the card. 

To My Wife on Mother’s Day. 

I signed the card, Love, Bill. I had already written Dear Mary across the top of the card.

I stuffed the card in the matching yellow envelope. Left the card and the corsage on the side of the bed, next to dad. “I’ll get mom.”

I returned to the kitchen. “Dad needs you for a minute.”

Mom wiped her hands on a dishtowel and went back to the bedroom.

I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat at the table. Stared out the window. Took in a deep breath. Not good.

A while later mom came back to the kitchen, her eyes wet. “Thank you for doing that for him.”

She busied herself preparing supper. A light meal. Shrimp cocktail, potato salad, deviled eggs. “I doubt he’ll eat anything.”

After we ate, mom’s close friend Angela stopped by. With a crumb cake from the local deli. My favorite. We sat in silence eating the cake and drinking coffee.

Afterwards, I told mom I’d be back in a little while. I went out for a walk. A long walk. All the way to the edge of town, to the park that bordered the bay. I circled the park till well after dark.

When I got back to the house, Angela met me at the front door. “Your dad is gone.”

I nodded. “How’s mom?”

“Having coffee. Do you want to see your dad?”

“Yes.”

I walked back to the bedroom again. The Mother’s Day card stood on the night table. The corsage was on her pillow. 

I stood looking down at my dad. My dad’s body. His empty eyes. With an index finger I gently closed his eyes. 

The doorbell rang. Moments later two undertakers stepped into the bedroom. They said nothing. I moved aside, walked back to the kitchen. Mom sat at the table, Angela next to her, holding her hand.

Mom looked up at me. “He’s at peace now. No more pain.”

I nodded.

“See if the undertakers need anything.”

As I approached the bedroom, I heard the zip of the body bag. I stopped. They came out of the room. I met their eyes. Nodded.

I walked ahead of them to the front door. Held it open for them. Stood in the doorway. A dark moonless night. 

I watched them carry the body bag to their van. I felt a single tear ooze out as they drove off.

I stared into the darkness.

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