I would like you to set a story in your primal landscape – meaning, the place in which you were raised. If, like me, you moved around as a child, pick the place in which you spent the longest period of time, one you can remember – which for me would be the post-industrial Pennsylvania city in which I went to high school.
There are so many different kinds of primal landscapes on this planet. We live in dry and wet climates, we live on wind-swept hillsides or in the middle of traffic-choked cities. Small town life is unique, but so is urban, suburban, and rural life. All primal landscapes are interesting to the writer who lived there because the landscape is part of who he or she is.
Your childhood landscape is in your DNA. You grew up listening to the accent, attending the gatherings, playing in the weather, being nurtured or alienated by cultural practices.
The list of writers who mine their primal landscape over and over again is long. Here is just a brief list of some of the great American writers who kept (and some of them still keep) returning to their most personal landscape, even if they also wrote about many other places.
William Faulkner, American South
John Steinbeck, Central California
Annie Proulx, Wyoming
Raymond Chandler, Los Angeles
Sherwood Anderson, the Midwest
Garrison Keillor, the Midwest
H.P Lovecraft, New England
Edith Wharton, New York City
Flannery O’Connor, American South
One of my favorite writers of his primal landscape, and of place in general, is great stylist John Updike. Updike passed away in 2009, but left numerous novels and short story collections, as well as hundreds of poems and works of criticism behind. He wrote movingly of his primal landscape – Shillington, Pennsylvania – in an essay called “The Dogwood Tree.” Watch this clip to hear one writer explain how his primal landscape felt to him, and why he kept returning to it.
John Updike discusses “A Dogwood Tree: A Boyhood” (minute 3.44 to 8:52 at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RApWC3Mn3UA. Note I DO NOT want learners to watch the entire program, which is old and rambling.)
Now, for your last assignment, I would like you to set the beginning of a story in your primal landscape. This is not a memoir, but rather a story set in a place you know deeply and even unconsciously. If it helps you to convert this story into fiction, be sure to write in the third person – he or she. You could call yourself “the boy” or “the girl.” If you write as “I,” it might be tempting to write autobiography.
You may use your 500-750 words to simply describe this landscape, no characters needed. Or, you may populate the landscape with characters. If you have already taken the course on character, use what you learned there to pick a character who is typical of your primal landscape. Either way, I firmly believe we are all highly influenced by the place of our youth. For better or for worse, our hometown is always our hometown.
Write 500-750 words. Let yourself go through the intense experience of remembering this landscape, its weather, people, its joys and sorrows.
Write hard, have fun.
---------
The afternoon arrived, and the sky was cloudy. The
night before, the storm had started to hit the state, making it a peculiar
summer for everyone. The summer of 2010 was a real cloudy and rainy summer. The
school was already over, and kids were transitioning into teenagers, and the
teenagers were experiencing broken hearts.
The graduation
ceremony for the secondary kids had just concluded, and everyone hurried ran toward
their respective families. We had all types of families. The one with elderly,
old brothers and even baby sisters.
Our boy was talking
with their friends and taking some pictures using his digital camera. Then he
saw her and quickly realized that it might be the last time he would see her.
Life was pulling them apart, and things would never be the same. He has always lived
a city away of school and now will study at a more far away high school, and
when you are fourteen years old love is one of the saddest yet strongest
emotions in life.
The graduation was inside the school walls in the main
hall because it was roofed. The school leased hundreds of chairs for the
families of students. After the graduation ceremony the school leave some party
music for students to dance and to enjoy among their families. After the
graduation was done and all the party music stopped. She was still there taking
some pictures with friends near the school exit. He was near her, just in wait
for a moment alone the two of them. She started to saying goodbye to her friends
and start to walk away of school.
As she walked out of the school, about to cross the
street in search of her mom, the boy, eager for at least a farewell, flew
behind her and shout her name.
—Jenny!
With her back in front
of him, she spined herself and responded.
—You sure took your time, —her tone consistently angry
as used to be.
—I just wanted to say
goodbye.
—This is our last
goodbye. Am I right?
—Yes.
She ran to him and embraced him. The boy reciprocated, realizing in that moment how skinny she
was. He loved that of her. It was a special day for him. He was wearing a new white shirt. She had chosen her favorite perfume, waking up early to straighten her hair and put a pretty bow hair tie. The both were dressed for a special occasion. A last hug.
While they were hugging it appear world stopped. No sounds from parents waiting for their
children, no teachers or school staff, neither their peers. Everybody had
already went away with their families. Nothing existed beyond that magical hug.
She began to cry against his chest, and the boy felt a sense of relief—he knew she loved him.
Overwhelmed, she couldn't contain her emotions any longer. She was always proud of herself, but today was inevitable. She conveyed her feelings through tears, expressing what he longed to hear and see.
"My mom will be here soon. I wanted you to talk with her."
"For you, whatever you want."
She was simultaneously happy and nostalgic. Aware that this would likely be their last meeting. A few
exchanged smiles and a final goodbye hug—that would be it.
No comments:
Post a Comment