The prompt was to explore conflict from various perspectives.
Setup: Two children at playground
First Prompt: Write in third person, omnipotent
Second Prompt: Rewrite the story in first person
Third Prompt: Rewrite the story from the perspective of one of the mothers
Fourth Prompt: Rewrite in second person
Recently, the prompt was about describing the response of a character when put in an internal and moral conflict when confronted with an offensive t-shirt. Another t-shirt is in the news again this week as a SxSW conference attendee wore a shirt handed out by Comedy Central at the conference and was taken off a pending flight by Southwest Airlines for violating their dress code.
Taking our original prompt further, what would be the perspective of the person realizing that the free t-shirt was considered offensive, especially after seeing hundreds if not thousands of them on fellow conference attendees? What about the airline staff seeing the shirt and having to respond? What about the passengers watching this event?
A quick search for similar incidents found that in 2011, a couple protesting outside Dollywood for more inclusive and equal rights for LGBT folks were told their t-shirts, which read “Marriage Is So Gay,” had to be turned inside out or they had to leave as it violated their dress code policy, while saying that the park is open to everyone of “all shapes and sizes.” The married couple was a lesbian couple, 76 and 84 years old.
Consider that perspective as an alternative prompt, both from the women’s perspective, the staff at the entertainment facility, and as a bystander. Does age change the character’s response?
In 2014, a scientist working on the Rosetta comet mission wore a t-shirt featuring scantily clad women as sex objects at a press conference, creating a furor. He made a public apology and broke down in tears as he admitted to his mistake, upset that he could have possibly offended or hurt anyone.
What about his story?
In 2013, a t-shirt manufacturing and online sales company was forced to close after a public uproar about the t-shirt they created that implied rape was a good thing. The owner admitted he made a mistake and the mistake cost him his twenty year old company. (more…)
This prompt is based upon a news story about a person wearing a controversial t-shirt at a university sports game, created by a local sports bar.
“It was pretty much towards the end of the game when things were getting pretty exciting,” said fourth-year medical student Erin Avondet, who spotted the T-shirt. “I spotted it and at first I was just totally taken aback, just completely shocked. I didn’t know how to comprehend it.”
The shirt reads “We are not responsible for lost or stolen virginity!” which appears below the Blue Jay Bar logo.
“The big thing I perceived was the use of the word stolen. That obviously implies it’s just being taken away from you without your permission,” Avondet said.
Avondet posted the picture online and it has been shared thousands of times. She said many people share her disapproval of the message.
“There are so many people that are victims of rape, and I think having that open conversation, starting that conversation is important,” Avondet said.
The prompt was to write about a situation where your character is outraged about an insensitive t-shirt, garment, or situation. Discussing the prompt, we realized that there are layers here in writing such a character driven moment. There are times when a person is offended by something but must constrain their response due to social norms. We can’t throttle everyone we don’t agree with, and protect freedom of speech while promoting responsible behavior.
A dear friend in our writer’s group is about to leave us to move with her husband to Albany, Oregon. To give her a good send off and encourage her to keep writing (and come back and visit often), we did a little research and found the following writing groups in the Albany, Oregon area, which includes Corvallis, Eugene, and Salem. If you can’t make it to Forest Grove, Oregon, we encourage you to do some research and join a group close to you.
According to Ronald Borst, a journalist and writer, the Albany Writer’s Network has been meeting for over twenty years once a month. The Albany Democrat-herald local newspaper reports they meet the fourth Wednesday of the month at the Fire Station 13 from 7-9pm at 1980 Three Lakes Drive behind Home Depot, and offer a phone number for more information.
Writers on the River in Corvallis, Oregon, are part of the Willamette Writers Association and meets in Corvallis the third Monday of the month from 6:30-8:30pm. They have some great topics coming up with some fun speakers. They also host a variety of annual events and readings.
Magic Barrel, an annual literary fundraiser and authors event in Corvallis brings together authors to read fiction, non-fiction, and poetry among music, food, wine, and a determination to change the world. The event, A Reading to Fight Hunger, raises money for the Linn Benton Food Share program.
In Salem, the Salem Willamette Writers group also has great speakers and events. They meet the second Wednesday of the month except in summer from 6:30-8:30 in the Salem Library. You can keep up with them on Facebook, too.
Eugene Poetry Society is a fairly new group and they are determined to keep the poetry alive.
Writer’s Coffee Talk in Eugene meets every Tuesday Morning at the Valley River Inn to talk about the craft of writing.
Our group has been learning about blogging and held some blogging fundraisers recently, and there is a new Salem WordPress Meetup group that meets monthly to keep the learning going with great speakers, work sessions, and a chance to learn from other WordPress users in the area.
Let’s not forget the fabulous The Graduate Writing Center at Oregon State University. There are a wide range of programs, brown-bag talks, and group workshops on professional writing and writing studies.
We wish our friend great joy and happiness, and much writing time, in her new endeavor, and to be surrounded by the best of friends and writers as she has been here.
OPB Radio’s Literary Arts: The Archive Project featured award winning Haitian American writer Edwidge Danticat speaking about the catastrophic earthquake in Haiti from a 2010 presentation with the Portland Arts and Lectures.
She mentions Haiti’s nickname, terre glissée or “slippery ground,” and expounds on the metaphoric and literal connotations of that phrase. With the devastation still on everyone’s mind, Danticat tells of both her own and her family’s experiences during and after the earthquake, mentioning that her cousin Maxo was killed. She witnessed bodies in the rubble and an “altered human landscape” of so many people with injuries. After the quake, Haitians would simply call it “the thing,” or “the devil dancing,” or even onomatopoeias like “gudugudu.” Referencing several other Haitian writers throughout her lecture, such as Dany Lafferière, Danticat discusses the role of the artist who comes from a place of loss, including the importance of bearing witness.
We’ve been working on writing with all of our scenes, and most recently writing to describe the land. Her vivid and emotional descriptions of the impact of the earthquake, described with spiritual metaphors, poetic grace, destructive similes, and survivor humor, are examples of the diverse ways a writer can not only describe the land, but the impact of the land on the creatures that walk its surface. She comments on the Haitians description of themselves as “We are ugly, but we are here.”
There is poetry often in Haitian language, through proverbs, through the way that we try to interpret tragedy.
…I kept wondering, would there be poetry amidst the Haitian ruins?
…The Angel of Death is more democratic [than God]; everybody goes.
LISTEN: The original 52 minute recording is available at the bottom of Edwidge Danticat – The Archive Project on the Literary Arts Site.
One of the prompts this week was:
Are you kin to the land?
One of our recent speakers spoke of pilgrimages, and someone mentioned labyrinths as a form of pilgrimages in place. According to the World-Wide Labyrinth Locator there are at least 50 labyrinths in the Portland, Oregon, area. Many find solace and inspiration in waking mazes. There are also poems and stories published about mazes including the popular fantasy movie, The Labyrinth.
They provide an extensive list of labyrinths for your own personal pilgrimage within a 25 mile radius of Forest Grove.
Closer to Forest Grove, you may explore the following labyrinths:
There is even a Labyrinth Network Northwest with events and activities focused on local labyrinths, including a recent holiday candlelight walk through a downtown Portland labyrinth.
Please note that some of these are private gardens or property available for access by appointment, and others are church, school, and open community areas. Please respect their property and hours of access.
The following is one of the prompts created by members of Writers in the Grove in response to Prompt: Round-Robin Writing in a Group.
Cheri: The smell was familiar and touched a deep place in my heart. Why had I been so angry? Why was he? I am sure it was because of the kids, the unpaid bills, life, the usual suspects of marital discord. No one was talking, we were both just sitting there, angry. I didn’t want to be angry, but I wasn’t about to give in. I was right. Let him apologize. I could only assume he was thinking the same thing, which was getting us nowhere fast. As I sulked on the couch waiting for an apology, my mind wandered to an anecdote I had read a few weeks ago. The article asserted that whenever you are angry with the one you love, walk over and sniff them. The thought made me both laugh inside and smile. No way! I wanted nothing to do with him right now, but maybe…
Dorothy: …I was really angry with myself. Why did I ever love HIM? Why not someone else, anyone else. That darn smell. The smell is to blame. My anger was strong and protected me, but then…maybe I could smell him. Just walk over and lean down and smell him. NO, No! I would probably like the way he smelled. NO. STOP. Don’t let the anger go – it is the only thing protecting me – I need to be angry.
But I can’t. It cost me too much. I do love him. He is not my enemy. He is my friend, my lover. Surely we can work on this – yet there are so many things. Can we work together?
Bev: I’ll do it. Had to try it.
I got up, walked over to his chair, and leaned over his head. His arm went up in defense.
“What are you doing?”
I took a sniff. Hair gel mingled with after shave, and something else. What was that? Familiar, yet not. I stood back and looked him in the eye.
Susan: “I remember,” I said in a hushed tone. “I remember when…”
I saw the look in his eyes, the look of distrust. That was the same look that I had seen in the mirror last month, last week, and even this morning. The distrust that came from hopes and dreams that had been shattered, then scattered about as mere trash. All the memories came flooding back as I remembered his words saying he was moving on without me.
MJ: That meant that I would be all alone. He did not like me any more. He didn’t need me. Where do I go from here?
DK: There are times in life when one must love, and still leave. Remember the first, but walk away from the anger. A place deep in my heart told me this was one of those times.
Barry would always be my first love. That smell, or scent would always take me to a memory of better days and love and bright beginnings. But now, it was time to move on. To find other scents, and colors, and experiences.
I walked to the table, signed the divorce papers, and smiled. I looked into Barry’s deep blue eyes one last time.
“I love you,” I said as I walked out the door.
Lorelle: “And good riddance to bad rubbish,” I quoted the old Bugs Bunny cartoon to myself, then cringed. The relationship hadn’t been rubbish. There had been beautiful moments, memories of moments brought back by the scent of hair gel, burnt into darkness by the resentment in his eyes.
In the car, I gave that thought more consideration as I put the key in the ignition. Memories of joy triggered by hair gel? I started to laugh, hard. Gut tearing laughter. Mouth open, guffaws exploding out.
I put my hand over my mouth, then the laughter turned to sobs. Tears for hair gel. Not funny any more. I cried for the angry voices, the missed appointments, the mean things said behind people’s backs – those were the memories I hoped would be washed away with the tears.
The engine revved as I pressed too hard on the gas as the key turned. I had to leave now. It was now or never. Yet it was done. Finished. Time to leave.
It was final. I’d done it. A done deal. Time to get over it and get on with it. But get on with what? I wasn’t sure what I would move onto, but it was time. The act of putting the car into gear and stepping on the gas felt good, in control, confident. A wipe of my eyes cleared my vision. I let my foot off the brake and rolled down the driveway.
I had plenty to move on toward, I assured myself. Let’s start by turning left.
The following is one of the prompts created by members of Writers in the Grove in response to Prompt: Round-Robin Writing in a Group. Please note that there was an overall time limit for the writing and not all stories completed well.
Susan: The smell was familiar and touched a deep place in my heart. It took a moment to register but it was an Avon scent. Roses, Roses. I remember the bottle clearly as it sat on the mahogany vanity. It was made of a silky looking, almost clear glass in the shape of a flower. The center of the flower had a small plastic cup that turned, and when opened, delivered a heavenly fragrance. It was a very special bottle and was only used on rare occasions. The last time the bottle was opened as when Dotty went to the dance at the old grange hall.
Margaret: When I got there I was taken aback by the big crowd. There were a lot of young men there. I thought I should be able to take my pick, but every time I looked again, he had disappeared. What should I do now, she wondered. There was nobody there I knew. Maybe I should just leave.
DK: As I turned to go, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder and a soft voice asked, “May I have this dance?”
I looked up into the face of the most handsome young man I had ever seen. My words fled from my brain and my mouth, and I was barely able to say “yes.”
He put his arms around me. The music was slow. “My name is Brad,” he whispered. What’s yours?”
“Monica,” I replied.
“What’s that perfume you are wearing? It smells wonderful.”
Lorelle: I blushed and dropped my head to his shoulder. I could hear the beat of his heart echoing through my body, and felt my heart slowly match his rhythm as our feet moved across the floor of their own volition. As I seeped into him, pressing closer, his breath warm through my hair, tickling my ear, I knew I’d found home.
The scream of anguish cut through my peaceful senses. Brad and I whirled toward the noise as everyone came to a halt on the dance floor. The musicians instruments made awkward screeching sounds as they trailed off to quiet.
Dotty stood at the edge of the dance floor, tears pouring down her face. Her dress was dirty and torn, bits of dark flesh peaking through. She put her hands up to her face and screamed again, then pointed at me.
Cheri: Dotty and I had a history, and much of of Dotty’s history was wrapped up in histrionics. She was drama, and when you couple that with her desire to receive the most attention, her fit made sense. Was this another attempt to get attention? I wouldn’t hold it past her. Last year at the church picnic, she almost “drowned,” men flocking to her side to “save” her. It was always something. But the real injuries on her body seemed like something more, something real – after all, how do you fake real injury and why would you want to? But the real question was, “What does this have to do with me?” In a million years I wouldn’t hurt a soul. Does this have something to do with this amazing man I just met? Suddenly it all made sense. Dotty was…
Susan: …willing to die to get all the attention. Everyone here knew her and her games. It appeared as someone was tired of them and had shot Dotty. Dotty was dramatic but harmless, so why would someone shot her? Someone had obviously called 911 and the paramedics were arriving. I was pushed closer into Brad as they passed by. Brad’s arms held me closer with a firm loving grip. It was as if we had know each other all our lives.
Bev: But why had she pointed at me before she collapsed? Or had she? In the crowded room I could have mistaken her pointing at us. Maybe she was reaching out for help? I pushed through the crowd and rushed to her.
“Dotty, what is it?”
“Monica, I’m, sorry,” she whispered.
The following is one of the prompts created by members of Writers in the Grove in response to Prompt: Round-Robin Writing in a Group.
Dorothy: The smell was familiar and touched a deep place in my heart. That was my heart? At least I could feel again. My heart had been broken for so long, it was new and I was excited to feel its warm flow. The light pounding in my ears was like music, a soft drum. I let the pain go and felt alive again. Wow, how can freedom come so quickly, so quietly.
Bev: All because of that wonderful scent! I turned toward it. Where had it come from? Was he here? It couldn’t be. In the crowded shopping mall I whirled in search of the source.
Susan: The man next to me was startled by my sudden movement and he called out in pain as he twisted his ankle on the slick tile floor. I bent down to help him to his feet when I realized the scent had come from him.
It wasn’t an earthy or manly musk scent, but a light feminine floral fragrance. I wanted to drink it in and be transported back to that dance. But instead, this poor guy was laying at my feet, clutching his ankle.
Margaret: How could I get him up? Maybe I would have to take him to a doctor. Did he have any family near by? There was no phone nearby to call for help. I felt so helpless.
DK: Always the caregiver, in my panic over his injury, I had forgotten where I was: in a crowded mall. Of course there was help. Within seconds an EMT team was hovering over him.
“Are you his wife?” They asked.
“No, just a passerby,” I muttered.
“But I’m his wife,” called a voice in the crowd. As the stylish woman shoved her way toward us, I found myself staring at a tall lady with my face. She stared back. It was unreal. She smelled of the very same perfume that I had noticed earlier on the injured man. The same perfume used by my mother before she died in an auto accident two decades earlier – before foster care, and the separation from a twin sister I had never been able to find. Until now.
Lorelle: I stepped forward. “I’m sorry. We bumped into each other. It’s so crowded here.”
She looked at me and a flash of recognition flickered across her face. She knows me, I thought, and it’s her face she sees. But how?
She turned away from me toward her husband as the EMTs lifted him onto the stretcher. One turned to her. “I think it’s just a sprain but we need to get him checked to make sure it’s not broken.”
“Where are you taking him?”
“Mercy General.”
“I’ll meet you there,” she assured them. Then she turned back to me.
I wanted to run. Escape now. Fear clutched my heart, dampening down all the feelings of a few moments ago. It rattled in my ears. I could barely hear her next words.
“My name is Sally Sparrow. You are Olive Sparrow, aren’t you?”
I couldn’t speak. My stomach clenched. How did she know my birth name? I’d hidden that name so deep, tucking it into the dark recesses of secret thoughts and memories. She knew my name. It wasn’t possible, none of this was.
Cheri: But it could only mean one thing – Sally knew about me. This was not about just knowing about my existence – she knew about personal aspects, such as my name. When I finally could speak I asked her, “How do you know who I am?”
After what seemed like eternity, she quietly motioned me over, away from the crowd. I saw her eyes quickly dark to the left, and I instantly looked left as well. My deep breath in spoke volumes to those who could hear. To my complete surprise, a woman looking very much like my mother was standing there, tears in her eyes. Sally touched my shoulder and softy spoke to me. “Our mother is alive,” she simply said. It was clear that the perfume that reminded me of my mother had the ability to reach deep into my soul, but having her standing in front of me was a total different experience. Suddenly I passed out. When I started to come to, all I could smell was the perfume. I was happy. I was sad. I was confused. When I looked up, I saw my mother’s face. She had some explaining to do, but I wanted to enjoy the memories that the perfume brought to mind. They were happy memories, and much more innocent than my new reality.
Writers in the Grove 