What I did in writing class

The writing class I have begun is called "Writing from the Heart," and I believe it will be a good class for me. I'm an undisciplined writer, and this class creates a sort of "free discipline," if that makes sense. We critique the words, not the writer, and that will be good as well (I'll maybe learn to be less judgy!).

We started with a 2-page guidelines document, followed by a 2-page "inspiration" document, with poetry from Mary Oliver. (If I can, I'll insert them at the end of this.)

These are the two pieces I wrote. I may not post everything I write every time; some of it may be too personal, and some of it may simply be too awful. But here you go:

Writing 1

Death will come for you, I told my husband, my love, in 5 years or 10 years or 15 years. But it will come, and sooner than you expect, because death is like that.

He thought I had called him lazy or incompetent. I had not. I was just frustrated with his idleness when I asked for his help.

I’d had my own telegram from death, you see, a mere six months before. He knocked on the door and delivered the message:

            “All lives are as the grass.”

I retired so I could decide for myself how those weeks? months? years? could be used. I no longer wanted to sell my days for dollars.

I’d rather be hungry and free, because I have been hungry before, and not free.

I’d rather be cold, and free, because I have been chilled before, and not free.

Being a wage slave to a distant master makes for a narrow life, and I want a life that is as wide as prairie, as tall as sky, mobile and graceful and relentless as water.

So when death delivered that telegram I paid attention. I wish I’d done it when I was younger, but I didn’t, so I must do it now, before I’m older.

Here’s a wave at death, here’s a nod to mortality. Here’s a step into the wide prairie.

Writing 2

I remember a house with a hole in the wall. On the other side of the hole was a cousin.

The next house I remember was home – open, airy, wood floors, fine furnishings. It was my mother’s dream, a small suburban dream that turned dark. His tax fraud, her polio, my birth – it’s hard not to think I was the final, third thing that brought the end to all good things.

I try not to think that way. I try not to remember the men inventorying our possessions, taking our home.

The next home: a smaller, darker suburban dream, one with no daddy, except as a sporadic visitor. Almost as soon as we moved in: a hurricane (Donna), the floor tiles floating up, and my personal catastrophe, Raggedy Ann with mildew freckles, lying in the garbage can. How daunting it must have been for my mother, her new beginning flooded and ruined.

She resurrected it though, with new flooring, white, instead of dark brown; new furniture, light instead of dark; and more windows, more sunlight. We never had another disaster in 15 years of living until her health failed.

Then I inventoried our possessions, sold or shipped the goods, and brought Mom to my home. It was an old house, large and dark, but her room always seemed full of light, the children drawn to it like moths to candles. She lived in pain, but always tried to stay in light as well. Sometimes she failed, but she always tried.

I owe her that lesson: the dark can’t win as long as you seek the light. She never taught me how to be married, though – I learned that for myself. Home now is small but light, brimming with love and sunlight.