Workshop I Writing Piece and Critique: Creative Writing-Emory Continuing Education

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.

Workshop piece:

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