Songwriting Without Boundaries (13 page)

CHANELLE DAVIS:
Oily mackerel in my fingers, browny red flesh, soft and chilled with silver and dotted blue thin skin, scales stick to my hands, push the sharp hook through, pierce the skin and let it dangle off the wharf, flick the bailer arm on my reel and let the nylon spool off, sinking down into the green-blue water, look over the wooden edge, big wooden pylons covered in green slime and barnacles, little bits of sea lettuce floating on the top, tiny spotties darting around in groups, feel the tugging on my rod and quickly wind it up, little fish jiggling on my hook, flapping in the wind, carefully hold him in my palm, he wriggles as I force the hook free and throw him into mum’s red laundry bucket, he swims round in circles with the others, one dead and white belly up on the surface. Seagulls stalking, looking for scraps of bait, squawking and boat engines humming, diesel fumes cloud the air, my feet are warm in gumboots, old grey track pants. Bits of fish on my pants where I wiped my hands clean, fish under my nails, salty and dry, open the flask of steaming milo and pour into the flimsy plastic cup. Blow it cool before sipping, careful not to trip in the cracks of the wharf, chicken and relish sandwiches on white bread, smell like plastic wrap, dry on the corners, buttery and filling …

Hot spots: “Trees hunched over the old fishing hole as filtered fins of light hooked through the fluttering leaves.” “Tuck his thoughts into his flannel pockets.”

I feel like I’ve been fishing after reading Chanelle’s piece.

Try Deborah’s piece in present tense. Then translate it into first person, then second person.

Now write about your own fishing hole.

90 seconds: Under an Umbrella

PAUL PENTON:
Drops rush by, making a wet phutting sound on the synthetic cover. The smell of rain coming in from the sea, the smell of the tar unleashing trapped dirt and chemicals and road grit. The taste of the rain in the air, clean fresh. Mist trying to fly sideways swiping my face …

MATT K:
Rain spatters the umbrella that barely covers our heads as we crouch next to each other by the wall of the old hotel, looking out over the deserted beach stretching like an empty highway. We cower like two rabbits shivering underneath a rock as we listen to the small pellets of angry water pounding on the nylon, like rubber bullets against a shield. It’s the sound of a ruined vacation.

Nice details in both of these: “a wet phutting sound,” “the smell of the tar unleashing trapped dirt,” and “small pellets of angry water pounding on the nylon.” They really take the reader there.

Now, you try.

DAY #14

“WHERE” WRITING

Wow! The final day of this challenge. Almost there …

Here we go!

Set a timer and respond to the following places for exactly the time allotted. Stop IMMEDIATELY when the timer goes off.

Sight     Sound     Taste     Touch     Smell     Body     Motion

5 minutes: On the City Bus

PAUL PENTON:
My chair becomes a massage-o-matic as I sit high over the rear wheels. The lights change and the driver stamps on the pedal, the motor reaches for a soprano ‘C’ and we’re moving again. The brakes need changing, every new stop it’s the scree of complaint from just under me. Hungry now, stomach punches me for food, waiting to get a premade bacon and egg—the yolks explode and mix with the smoky bacon and the way the toast sandpapers my tongue. This morning, cold fingers were brushing my face; winter is almost here: I emerged from the house to a hint of cloud as I breathed. So the bus jumps and jives over the last tram tracks and swings its disco dance around traffic lights, depositing me on the corner near the gallery. The driver stamps again and the engine complains its way down Southbank Boulevard …

KAZ MITCHELL:
A freezing wind hurtles off the Firth of Forth as I wait for the No. 17 into Edinburgh. I stamp my feet, rub my hands, pace up-and-down the worn pavement to warm my blood. Finally, I hear the chugging of its engine before I see its maroon skin ease into sight and pull up like a tired and unwilling beast of burden. I screw up my nose at the leaking petrol smell from its hulk, but quickly climb up to the top deck. I admire the view of the estuary, stretching out like a tongue searching for a salty kiss.

Paul’s metaphors and Kaz’s similes are wonderful. And both pieces are so full of energy. More on metaphor and simile in the next challenge. For now, go back and pick them out.

Your turn.

10 minutes: Wedding in an Old Church

DEBORAH QUILTER:
The door is rickety and splinters catch in my palm as I push it wide open. The floorboards creak and puff of dust lassoes my creeping ballet slippers. It’s perfect, this ramshackle gem, in the leafy woods. I press my eyes closed to see pretty lights made out of paper roses and the scent of pine and wonder brushing by. I can hear the band playing my favorite songs from days when I was too small to see up over the window ledge. I peer down at my finger to a sparkle, and smile. I hold the wooden bench soon to be wrapped in tightened vines and step into a stream of violet light and shadows. The soft breeze of certainty whistles …

KAZ MITCHELL:
It’s cool inside the church, and the light is gentle as it streams through stained glass. Images of Christ hush the expectant crowd, controlling their small talk to mere mumbles. Someone passes around polo mints to suck while they wait. Children blow steam from their mouths into the cold air, tired of sitting on hard wooden pews next to old aunts in floral dresses and floppy hats. The rising swell of the organ fills the space and silences the whispering. Heads turn to the bride marching down the aisle, her footsteps clipped against the hard, grey stone, a trail of Nina Ricci following her like a puppy. Her nerves jump right out of her skin as she approaches the man standing stiff as a sheet left out to dry in the frost. He, on the other hand, can feel the warmth come seeping back to him knowing she’s finally arrived.

See how active these are? Both are written in first-person present tense. They involve multiple senses and use metaphor and simile: “puff of dust lassoes my creeping ballet slippers,” “the man standing stiff as a sheet left out to dry in the frost.”

“Where” is a wonderful tool. Once you decide the place, the rest of your writing can wrap around it or evolve from it. That’s why it’s useful to imagine a place when you write, whether or not you actually talk about it. “Where” organizes action.

Abstract, generic writing usually lacks the grounding power of “where.”

Your turn.

90 seconds: Canoe on the River

CHRIS COWAN:
With its yoke on my shoulders, I stumble under the weight of the canoe. Flipping it into the water, we board, and I kneel in the stern. I use a slow J stroke, noticing the little whirlpools in lapping rhythm. My partner scans for telltale Vs, marking rocks waiting in ambush …