My first workshop experience
For my very first submission to the class, I had no idea what to turn in. I sat at my computer for days
dreaming about something brilliant to write, but nothing ever came.
Two days before my piece was due, I forced myself to write
something. That night I wrote two sentences. The next night I wrote a paragraph.
The night the paper was due I stayed up until midnight to finish, and only did
enough editing to make sure there were no spelling errors.
I turned the piece in, not feeling too great
about what I had done, but at least I had done something. I didn't know then if
the piece was to be a part of a short story or a novel, and I still don’t know
today. I have not revisited the piece since turning it in eight months ago.
Coffee Beans
I smash
my face into the mirror as hard as I can. I do this until I can no longer see my
reflection staring back at me. Instantly, a sense of relief washes over me. As
the tiny shards of glass wedged into my face begin to sting and the room suddenly
starts to fade to black, I try to forget what led me here, and focus on the
pain. Yes, the pain feels good. It is familiar, something that has been a
constant in my life….
“Jorrey
wake up” I hear a deep soothing voice chant over and over. I feel my body being rocked from side to
side; I’m going to heave if it doesn't stop soon. Slowly I peel my eyes open. The room is so
bright and unfamiliar. Ignoring the intense pounding in my head, I attempt to
sit up. I’m almost upright when the nausea hits, I lean over the side of the
bed and release the contents of my stomach.
“Shit! I
just got these shoes” yells an all too familiar voice. Sluggishly, as the dry heaving subsides, I
peek up to a pair of violet storm clouds staring down at me. I hold the stare
for a fraction of a second, before falling back onto the worn mattress. I close my eyes, completely drained and
mortified. I hear his movements, I don’t open my eyes and neither of us speaks
for a long while. Finally the room becomes still and the stench of my
undigested remains no longer linger, making it easier for me to take deep,
clean breaths. “Ouch” I
yelp, as the rough pads of his fingertips connect with my face. “Don’t be so
rough” I grumble.
“Tell me
what happened” he demands.
“I don’t
know what you’re talking about” I say, my voice filled uncertainty.
“How did
you end up in the infirmary?” Infirmary I think to myself. How could I be in
the infirmary? Reluctantly I open my eyes once again, and take in my
surroundings. I’m not sure if I’m in an infirmary or a jail cell. The grey
concrete walls are bare, with the exception of a broken clock. There are no
windows, so the time of day eludes me. In the far left corner sits a sink with
a leaky faucet. Directly in front of me
is a 6 inch white door, with a tiny square window. To my right is where he
sits, impatiently waiting for me to answer his question. I take a deep breath and try to remember
anything that could have possibly led me here. All this thinking is making my
head pound even more. Even still, as I begin to drift, the events of the day start
to play back in my head…..
The last five minutes had been spent numbly
staring at my feet. A sudden noise
causes me to look up, and I’m startled to find my reflection staring back at
me. I’d tried to explain to Cheryl that
I did not want to participate in today’s lesson. I thought she of all people
would understand. Oh, but no, she rewards me with a reassuring smile, and
informs me that it is not optional. In a flash, I feel a familiar lump in my
throat making it hard for me to swallow. Up until that moment I believed Cheryl
was the most sincere person I had ever met. Now I’m not so sure. I can’t help
but question the motives of someone who wants me to stand in front of a mirror,
and explore feelings of self-image, especially when that someone knows my
deepest insecurities. The lump is
growing, threatening to rip my throat apart. My eyes begin to prickle, as the
moisture slowly starts to build a small puddle. I hate Cheryl for causing such uproar. I can
feel my panic level rising, with each second that passes. I had spent the last
four years avoiding the person staring back at me, through the mirrors
reflective surface.
For most of my short lived life, people have
automatically assumed that I was African American. I guess it could be slightly
understandable since there are not many coffee colored Caucasians. Really
coffee mixed with a cap of creamer. My problem has never been the fact that
everyone assumes I’m black (maybe a little), but their reactions when I tell
them I’m not. They pity me, or laugh, some even call me names. In their eyes
I’m a girl who is suffering from misguided identity issues. I have all but
given up correcting people. The rejection from others, propelled by
misunderstandings, has infested into self-hate. I hate that when people see me,
they can’t see me as I am. Therefore, I don’t see me either. I refuse to see,
what others cannot. Therefore, I have avoided myself. Hoping with time, I will
simply stop existing,
My eyes have begun to overfill, and I feel hot
moisture leaving a searing trail down my cheek, as two fat tear drops hit my
chest within seconds of each other. I
feel my fingers curl into two tight fist, as my nails bite into the soft skin
of my palms. This is my first time seeing my reflection in over four
years. Nothing has really changed. The
bleaching creams have failed to lighten my complexion, only causing blotchy
patches of discoloration. My tightly coiled brown hair lay in a tangled heap
past my shoulder blades. The tears make my hazel eyes shine brighter. I think
I’ve grown a couple of inches.
“Wait, what the hell I am doing” I ponder out
loud. I gather my resolve and slowly approach the mirror. I stop once I can see
the moisture my hot quick breaths leave on the mirror’s surface. My heart is
racing, I feel it coming, and the impulse is all consuming. It drags me in, and
then it shatters, the disturbing image has finally been destroyed.
“Wow, so you did this intentionally?” his
voice rouses me from my recollection. I can’t bring myself to answer so I stare
bleakly at the walls. I’m too stunned by my own admission to continue speaking.
“That’s
pretty pathetic, don’t you think?” he says as the metal chair he’d been
occupying scrapes against the concrete floor.
I hear his footsteps retreating. “I thought maybe you had an accident”
he says dejectedly.
“It was
somewhat an accident” I reply lamely, as the door knob begins to turn. The
heavy door groans as it is opened. “If
there was ever a time to hate yourself, now would be it, because you look
pretty fucked up”. With that the door slams shut with a heavy thud causing me
to jump. His words cut deeper than the cuts that now mare my face. Still
reeling from the day’s events, I drift off to sleep with his parting remarks
heavy on my chest.
Class Critiques:
·
Great opening Line
·
Need commas in the quotations throughout
·
Without knowing if this is the beginning or part
of a novel I’m not sure what to make of this.
·
The opening is very strong and draws you in
immediately.
·
Creepy and catching opening
·
This is an interesting and intense story
·
I feel like you tell too much too fast
·
Inconsistent statements
·
There is something clearly wrong with this girl
and I would like to hear her story
·
I’m hoping that her issues are deeper than this
·
Very moving language, powerful
·
Very good details and visceral descriptions
·
The only thing I didn’t quite buy is the line
about there not being many coffee-colored Caucasians. I keep thinking of many
exceptions
·
want to know more about the relationship between
the main character and Jace
Instructor
Critique:
Bold opening I like. There is a
lot of rich emotion here .I think you are on to something vital with this
character who is in the midst of an emotional crisis that is rooted in her skin
tone and overall racial identity. The piece leaves a lot of questions. I want
to know more about who this person is, what’s really at stake in this story.
For me the opening piece isn't quite
working. It creates too much confusion. One-tried and true approach for writers
is to present the reader with a puzzle on the first and second page. Some central mystery that will keep them
turning pages until the end of the story. However, readers are fickle animals, easily
overwhelmed. If you bombard them with too many questions early on –who is this person?
Why is she nauseous? Who is the man in the room with her? What the heck is
going here? - You are likely to make the reader give up before they even make
it to the midpoint of the story.
The novelist Anne
Hood also advises: don’t start your story with a character waking up. Is that a
hard rule? Definitely not. However, it’s a challenger for the writer to start a
story or novel this way without falling into the realm of cliche. Originality
and clarity- these are your two guiding principles. They will not steer you wrong.
As you revise this piece, start
by asking yourself what really needs to be a mystery, and what you should hand
the reader as quickly as possible. Sprinkle some bread crumbs and lead your
reader into the Forrest.
Thanks for sharing. I want to
see more. -Tray
