American NonFiction Literary Online Magazine

Incorrect Grammar

Today’s exercise comes to us from university of Iowa. the site states, in a the handout above, that beginning writers will often fall into a trap of characters who appear too close to people the writers knows. While this might seem contradictory to the statement “Write what you know”, it actually is not. Find out why…

Try The Conversation

Posted - Thursday, May 1st, 2008

Edited - Wednesday, June 16th, 2010

The Conversation

Today’s Audience Participation writing exercise comes to us from the university of Iowa, where the site used to state that beginning writers will often fall into a trap of characters who appear too close to people the writers knows. While this might seem contradictory to the statement “Write what you know”, it actually is not.

If our characters are too much like an idealized version of ourselves, then we may use a light brush on our canvas of words. We will draw a simple portrait and gloss over the delicate lines of identity. Our object with the conversation is to draw out the reality of our characters.

So In today’s exercise, you will pick a character from a story you are working on, or one that is ready for a second draft. You will write about meeting them in public and the conversation you share. This meeting can take place anywhere, the conversation can be about anything. Let’s throw something against the wall and see what sticks. This is a third person point of view, write as if you are a fly on the wall of your meeting.

For this exercise, I am going to use a character from a story I am working on titled “Hard Truths About Lucky Cigarettes”. The Main Character is named is named John and he was born and raised in Los Angeles. I have spent the last couple nights with John in various rewrites and find we have common traits but let’s see how it all works out.

The Conversation

California might not be the sunshine state but the view from Cafe Euorpe on Santa Monica is a sight to dispute Florida’s claim. John walked out the side door with an iced coffee cooling his hand in the desert heat. The patio is full of L.A. smokers who are forced outside the doors of public places to enjoy their dirty habit in harsh conditions. John eyed a couple of ladies and shot a couple smiles with dead aim. Signs of interest are playful but his object is to lay the bait. “Fools rush in” is a fact of life.

Every table is full and the only free chair is available at a table Wesley claimed. Wesley sits with a half full iced coffee on the table. He grips a pen and his hand manhandles it across the pages. Wild blond hair jets out from all directions of Wesley’s head, as if ideas throb with potent electricity, and a red goatee and thick mutton chops proclaims his Irish heritage. John looks at Wesley size and wonders if he played football, his large body not fat but far from skinny. John could do worse, but as he grips the back of the chair and sees a long legged starlet, he knows he could do better.

“Mind if I take a seat?” John said.

Wesley looks up from his note book to find John at the table. John towers above table and cast a long shadow with his back to the Sun. Wesley takes one look at John and knows he played football, soccer, and all other athletic activities. He had the dashing good looks of a jock and Wesley pegged him for a Agent or Personal trainer. The large blue tooth device stuck to his ear was a dead give away.

“Sure” Wesley said as he thought about what he would do if this guy uses the phone at the table.

John took a seat and got comfortable in his chair. His legs spread wide with his back far against the back of the chair. Wesley took a sip from his coffee and went back to his notebook. He finished what he was writing and placed the pen in the spine of the binder ring.

“Name’s John.” John extends a hand to shake and Wesley raises a fist to dap. A awkward second of shifting hand movements happens as the pair adjust to a common handshake.
“Nice to meet you John, I’m Wesley.”

“Are you a writer?”
“Well, I write, I host a site called American NonFiction. However, to call yourself a writer, you really should have a book in print.”

“So, you place words on pages?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re passionate about it?”
“I keep a rough idea of a schedule”
“Sounds like a writer to me.”

“So, what do you do, John?”
“Well, I’m a personal trainer. I work at a boot camp gym near Beverly Hills.”
“Boot Camp?”
“Yeah, a themed gym. People think of boot camp and they think of lean mean American troops. That’s our pitch. Our trainers are allowed to scream, give orders, all sorts of fun stuff.”
“And customers pay for this?”
“By the truck load. Make no mistake, we get results. We don’t cater and lap them in luxury. If someone wants a body like mine then they do it the way I did.”
“Pretty easy to say, when you don’t have the 8 hour workday on top of a workout schedule.”

“Not really my concern and you sound like my roommate, Sid.” John said. He took a breath and shifted into rehearse mode. “Anyone of my clients could go out there, Today, and become a personal trainer. They would have to drop the weight, get some dedication, and figure out the secrets of the trade. But they could. And I encourage them to do so.”
“But they don’t?”
“Not all of them, but there are ones that do. Some of them become quite successful. But my point is yes, it is easy for me to say.” John notices the long legs from the other table, with an open chair. “Hey Wesley, it was nice to meet you man. I have to get going but I will see you around.”

Wesley bids him good bye and goes back to his note book.

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One Comment

  1. ANFchef added these pithy words on May 9, 2008 | Permalink

    Gretchen was crouched down on the ground, her hair covered her face but I knew it was her. Madeline was beside her, matching stance. At the tender age of 6 the twins had not yet discovered the joy, they would someday find, of solitude. Glued at the hip, this time quite literally, they were squatting side by side in the dirt, pointing and giggling like little girls do. As I approached, they paid me no attention until I cleared some scrub pine needles aside with my foot before lowering my cumbersome body to the ground. I pulled my stocky legs crossed-in toward me, like a child.

    I observed the girls for a minute before speaking. Their whispers barely audible with the ambient noise of nature, I could sense they were talking about me. I felt a strange and familiar pang of panic. It was 24 years ago I was ½ of a petite, curious, blonde pair of twins. Two and ½ decades had passed by without twin-talk, knowing glances, the delight of twin-trickery and a permanent playmate.

    Leaning in a bit to gander at the focus of their concentrated stares I saw Madeline had a plump bumble bee pinned to the dirt by its translucent wings. Caught like a deer in headlights Gretchen was quick to jump up and with her petite hands clamped around her waist she spoke in the tiniest, most unobtrusive voice.

    “We’ve not harmed it!”

    Madeline chimed in.

    “It’s alive, I can’t let it go. We’ll get stung!”

    Their delicate voices rang with delight in my adult ears. Such diction, such poise, children with English accents always sound so quaint.

    “I’m allergic.” My voice sounded so old as the words echoed in my head.

    “Me, too!” Answering in unison, the girls giggled excitedly, it was clear they relished their matching answers.

    Gretchen tore her attention away from the bee, close to death at this point, to stare at me. I felt her drink me in. Those huge blue eyes were hypnotizing. I felt lost inside them as I peered deeper and deeper until I realized my focus was on my own reflection, mirrored back to me.

    “Mummy won’t let us have fringe, though Annabelle Braucher has fringe and Mummy doesn’t care.” She reached out a pale hand and gently pat my head. Her fingers trailed through my bangs like sand through your fingers at the beach.

    Her touch brought a noticeable sadness to my eyes and as they welled up with tears that would never spill, Gretchen quickly withdrew her hand as though my forehead were scorching hot.

    “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” Madeline asked, her brow furrowed, not lifting her attention from her winged prisoner.

    I cleared my throat and shook my head as I blinked the tears back.

    “Nothing, my darlings, nothing is wrong.” My breath caught in my chest and for a split second I felt like a fish, floundering, out of water.

    Gretchen slid her hands into the pockets of her smocked summer dress. She produced a little pouch of Cadbury Buttons. She opened the bag and slid one into her mouth. Savoring the sweet taste of the chocolate, Gretchen grinned and hand-fed a Button to her sister. Madeline’s eyes lit up with glee. Gingerly she offered me the bag. I smiled and accepted her offer. I’ve found Cadbury Buttons stateside before but these were especially good. I’m not usually much for Buttons, I’m more of a Curly Wurly girl, but the taste brought me back to my childhood. Almost as though she could read my thoughts, Madeline spoke.

    “I like Buttons but I do fancy a Curly Wurly!”

    “Me, too!” Gretchen and I dissolved into giggles as we answered together.

    “I like your laugh.” She said sweetly.

    “Well thank you, I’m quite fond of yours as well.” I smiled and turned my gaze downward to the ground.

    We three sat there in the dirt, still watching the bumble bee take its last bumble bee breaths. After 4 minutes of watching I noticed its legs were no longer animated and it had stopped buzzing.

    “I think it’s dead.” These were not the words I’d intended to use with children so young.

    The look of sheer horror and disbelief on their little porcelain faces, was jarring to me. I’d clearly upset them. I stammered and fought to find more appropriate words.

    “I think you can release it, I don’t think it can harm us now.” When had my own voice become so maternal?

    As I reached out my hand to offer to take the reigns and hold the stick the bee was pinned under, the girls scooted backward on their heels. Madeline’s tiny fingers felt doll-like under mine as she slid her hand upward off the stick once it was firmly in my grip. Her lip trembled and her own hand was outstretched, searching for Gretchen’s and quickly found it. Their grip was unbreakable. White knuckled, quivering with fear and remorse, the girls stood up and seemed to tower over me.

    I took the opportunity to pet the bee with my bare finger, to demonstrate the docility of the deceased insect. The girls ooh’d and ahh’d in amazement. Still pinned under the stick I detected no life, no movement. I lifted the brittle, element-damaged, piece of wood and the bee was still.

    “See, it won’t sting you now.”

    Almost as if on cue, a wing fluttered, a leg twitched. There was life in that bumble bee.

    It was short-lived.

    Screeching in a frequency only dogs could surely hear, Gretchen’s maryjane clad foot was lightning-fast and she stomped her little shoe down upon the bee.

    Her response was startling. This tiny little girl looked full of rage. Her cheeks were scarlet, her lips pouting, her eyes, despite being clear as glacial ice, were suddenly dark as coal.

    Madeline and I watched in awe. Dumbfounded. At a complete loss for words.

    I noticed their hands were still gripped. Madeline never let go through Gretchen’s violent outburst.

    The twins exchanged worried glances and widened their eyes at one another and before I knew it, they’d bolted off into the woods together.

    They disappeared into the low, gnarled, scrub pines that blanket most of Cape Cod. The only evidence of our interaction was a couple of scuff and foot marks in the dirt that had disturbed the pine needles scattered on the ground.

    I brushed the dirt from my hands and lifted my body up from the ground. I felt lightheaded and couldn’t tell if it was from rising too fast or indicative of a fainting spell. I leaned against a nearby pine, overtaken by its trademark sea foam green lichen and noticed a bee crawling on the branch near my head. Without pause I jabbed the brittle stick, still in my hand, into the unsuspecting bee.

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