Assignment #5: The Big One

OK, I planned to do more to prepare you for this, but it just sort of came up and here we are...it's November! Meaning it's National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo.

You can learn the details at nanowrimo.org, but the simple goal of NaNoWriMo is to write a novel in a month. Definition of a novel: any piece of crap you can come up with, 50,000 words or more in length.

Sound daunting? Well it is. I've tried three times, and every time I fell behind on word count, lost steam, and gave up before the month was half over. But it's still a fun exercise; the very lunacy of what you're asking yourself to do, especially if you're rather unprolific and have never written a novel, makes for very amusing conversations with people.

And, for a bit it feels like you can actually make it: Think about it. If you write 2,000 words per day for at least 25 days in November, you'll make it, and still have Thanksgiving plus a few other days off!

So I invite you to throw together a plot or, barring that, a loose idea for an opening scene, and start writing! Feel free to post excerpts here as you go, or just blog about what a stupid idea this is and how much you hate it. Either way, we'll all be entertained.

Night of the Zombie Pub Crawl (assignment #4)

OK, first, apologies are in order. Here I am the blog moderator and I'm setting a poor example by not posting for a month. But in my defense 1. I was on vacation for 10 days, 2. I've been really busy at work (writing! so at least I've been writing something!), and 3. My last assignment was really impossible! Seriously, every time I had the wherewithall to take notes, nobody was saying anything interesting, and then when I did overhear interesting conversations, I couldn't get to a pen and paper and take notes, and I'd forget the conversation before I got a chance to record it.

But finally one night, I was heading tipsily home on the bus from a party, and it was the night of the zombie pub crawl. Some of the zombies (young 20somethings, I believe) were saying some pretty entertaining things. I only got out my notepad at the end, so I only caught two slightly amusing exchanges. But dangit, I want to get this assignment out of the way so I can move on to something else!

BOY ZOMBIE: I gotta call Celeste...
GIRL ZOMBIE: I don't like Celeste!
BOY ZOMBIE: Well I do, so...sorry.

later...

BOY ZOMBIE: I gotta call Becky...
GIRL ZOMBIE: I love Becky! Well, not love love, but...it's cool.

OK, those were a lot funnier when I was tipsy. But hooray! I'm done with the assignment! I'll consult with Anitra and we'll get another one going soon.

And, just to make sure I'm not the only one still on this site, could someone else write something? Even just a friendly howdy would help!

Assignment #4

This is an exercise that I've heard recommended several times but have never tried myself. Not strictly a creative assignment, it's designed to help improve your ear for actual speech and possibly gather material for a piece.

Eavesdrop, somewhere you can be discreetly writing in a notebook or typing on a laptop. Try to record a conversation between strangers. Post it on here. No creative sweat involved!

Notes from a bleeding heart--and mouth (Assignment #3)

What seems worse—a Republican hatefest in your own backyard or dental surgery? Try having them both at once. One bitter, grinding pain intertwines with the other. The apex of my horror at both occurred Wednesday, Sept. 3—the surgery actually happened and Rudy Giuliani spoke. Doped up and nauseous, I sat and watched a sneering, hateful, bafflingly contradictory speech—former mayor of NYC mocks “urban” cities?—one that contained far more bile than any other I saw, but was overshadowed by Sarah Palin’s far more entertaining performance.

I haven’t felt terribly political this year, but somehow I got sucked into this election season’s inevitable descent away from issues into nonsense, probably because I was home recuperating from having my “gumline lifted” and some eroded bones in my mouth “smoothed out.” Very soothing euphemisms for violent procedures that had the dentist chair shaking and my heart pounding like a trapped little rodent in my chest while I imagined that jerking sensation was the periodontist ripping my teeth from my numbed mouth.

I’m not even strongly Democrat—I’ve only voted for their candidate twice in the four times I’ve been old enough to vote: enthusiastically for Bill Clinton’s first term, and listlessly for Kerry’s attempt. I abstained from voting for anyone for president during Clinton’s second run because I felt he’d gone back on too many of his campaign promises, Dole wasn’t a viable option, and Virginia didn’t allow write-in votes. And yes, I strove to help the Green Party get 5 percent and thus get taken seriously in the 2000 election. Minnesota went with Gore, so I don’t have to grapple with any what-ifs that I might have if I’d voted Nader in Florida.

But this year, the conservatives seem to be more craven and transparently soulless than usual, the Democrats are actually showing some idealism and some charisma—and this election’s still up in the air. I keep going over this point as obsessively as I run my tongue over the plaster covering my “lifted, smoothed” teeth and gums. Like my mouth, my faith in people to see stark differences between truth and lies, logic and emotional pandering, will never be the same.

But just as I start to lose myself in a gloomy mental downward spiral, memories of my August trip to the Minnesota State Fair emerge as a soothing reminder that, even in the middle of Middle America, the bad guys sometimes don’t prevail when they seem to be triumphing everywhere else. I saw the angry crop art—how adorable a term is that?—about picking up after the elephants crapping all over our home. I saw the enthusiastic crowds swirling around the DFL and Al Franken booths. And then I saw a Norm Coleman booth. Two tired old men manned it, and there seemed to be an invisible force field that kept a ten-foot space around it, with masses of people swirling along on all sides but seemingly avoiding it unconsciously.

I almost felt bad for them, for their morally bankrupt party that used to stand for so much that is good. What a typically wimpy liberal thought. That was before I saw the Giuliani speech, of course. Now I wish I could subject them all to torture—periodontal surgery would be a good start.

State Fair, installment #1 [Assignment #3]

This is a story of pride and passion, of blueberry pie and lots and lots of butter. Like all stories worth telling, there is a beautiful woman involved. And I can assure you that every word of it is true, because, you see, the main character is my great-great-great-grandfather Luke, and though he was a lot of things, he was most of all a Man of His Word.

The "Great Minnesota Get-Together" wasn't always so amiable. In fact, at the time our story begins, it was anything but.

After years as a traveling fair, the Minnesota State Fair had settled into a welcoming home in St. Paul, where my great-great-great-grandfather Luke was its chief organizer. This was 1875, when Minnesotans were taking a deep collective breath between the recent unpleasantness of an Indian war and the upcoming industrial boom. Minnesota was full of pleasant people looking to have a pleasant time at a good old-fashioned fair, and Luke was the man for the job.

Luke Helms was competent, nonthreatening, and generically handsome. He was the kind of man who would always step aside when he and another man were interested in the same girl, which led to two things: an army of loyal friends and a near-constant state of singlehood. He ran a successful general store where nice people came for modest goods and polite conversation. Things he enjoyed: the horizontals and verticals of his ledger book, the sound of dry beans pouring into barrels, and the happy claustrophobia of a crowded bar.

But I promised you drama and beauty. And pie! I'd better return to the fairgrounds. The rainy spring of 1875 finds Luke traipsing through the muddy roads of the St. Paul fairground, marking certain buildings for repair or repainting. The smile that teases the corners of his mouth is due to the satisfaction one feels in seeing a great idea coming to life. You see, Luke had designed the first ride. It may be hard to fathom in this age of Vomitron 3000s and ConcussionCoasters, but building a ride at what until then was an agricultural fair was a pretty unusual idea.

During the slower winter months, Luke had sat behind the counter at his store with a stack of clean paper and a line of sharpened pencils. Gear by gear, he drew up the plans for a family-friendly ride called Ye Olde Mill. The fact that this ride would almost instantly become a steamy Tunnel of Love for the fair's teenage patrons had not yet made itself clear, and Luke could simply relish the feeling of nail sinking into wood and iron bars clanking into place.

Luke was engaged in these very activities when a member of his crew approached with the reluctantly determined gait of an elected messenger.

"Look, boss, there's something we found out this morning that we thought you should know right away. It seems, well, there's some people in Minneapolis, and it appears, from what we hear at least, that... Boss, they're settin' up a fair in Minneapolis."

"What do you mean? What kind of fair?"

"A State Fair."

"But this is the State Fair!"

"I know, boss. It seems they're wantin' to... well, compete I guess."

OK, so now I've finally gotten the the drama. I guess it's time for the beauty. Beauty enters the story (as it so often does) in a blaze of trouble. This trouble's name was Mary Brooks and she just happened to be the organizer of this Minneapolis fair. Such a simple name for such a wonderfully infuriating woman. Although Mary would have been beautiful no matter what she looked like, I suppose I can tell you that she had wild black hair, wide-set eyes, and was quite tall - just the right height to look Luke directly in the eyes and turn his guts to jelly.

Now, even though I wasn't there for that first meeting between Luke and Mary, I always imagine them meeting toe to toe at the border between the cities, the ground beginning to shake as they march toward each other, their frightening chemistry causing lightning to shoot out of a cloudless sky.

In reality, the meeting took place over coffee, with no paranormal events reported. I was right about the chemistry though. It was epic.

Without breaking eye contact once during the thirty-minute meeting, they argued their cases. Luke's genuine good manners caught Mary unaware, and made their way across the table to settle warmly on the nape of her neck. In turn, Mary's raucous laugh and air of mischief lodged like stones in Luke's chest.

The night after their first meeting, he slept in sweaty fits, clutching his stomach where she burned inside. She worked her way into his intestines, causing cramps that bent him double. But she hadn't broken him, not yet. After all, it's not the falling that kills you; it's the landing.

[Stay tuned for the next installment, which may or may not contain a pie eating content, cross-gender arm wrestling, and a newspaper tycoon.]

"Niko catches up with his life" story

Drummer and superman. Raised on rap, little-league, piano, arcades, bmx, transformers, gijoe, nintendo; most friends came and went, several parents too. College kept the path straight but he never laughed harder; shook walls and windows. Side stepped at 23 and fell in love ever since.

Book of dreams [Assignment #2]

We woke up this morning the same way we've been waking up for months. There is sunlight, there are palm trees, but mostly there is a dull confusion and a sharper disappointment. Though we haven't talked about it for so long, we know that each morning upon waking we all keep our eyes shut a little longer, hoping that this time when we open them we'll be somewhere else.

Yasuo is the first to rise and enter the dream hut. The urgency of the pen's dry scratch on the parchment makes us optimistic. Perhaps Yasuo's dream was the one we've been waiting for. We search his face as he rejoins us, but see only the usual furrowed brow. In silence, the rest of us take our turns in the dream hut, recording all we can remember of last night's visions. The dream book has grown to a quite intimidating and disheartening size. Each page added represents another night with no answers.

It was Bem's idea to record our dreams each morning, in the belief that the memories we're all missing still exist in our subconscious. He talked about his hopes in the soft, hesitant voice we are all drawn to. We built the dream hut that day, grateful for a project with purpose.

Asha, who knows the forest best, gathered the wood. We all took turns chopping while Yasuo wove complex ropes of leaves to tie everything together. How strongly we hoped that by honoring our dreams with a home they would repay us! How strongly we hope still. Endless days of sun and salt have bleached the hut into a ghost of itself – fading as our hopes have faded.

Still, like this morning, like every morning – we dream, we wake, we write.

Daylight hours are spent in a more concrete fashion. We hunt and fish, gather firewood, make repairs to our shelters. We do most of this in silence; the talking takes place at night. As dusk falls, we converge around the fire, gnawing on dried fish and drinking the water one of us brought from the stream at the center of the island. First we read the dreams that were recorded that morning, searching for symbols, the reader leaning closer to the firelight, the other four with closed eyes and bowed heads.

We know that when everything could mean something, nothing means anything; that observation necessarily changes that which is being observed. Today is no different:

"Entry one: I am an anemone, anchored to the sea floor. I long for stillness, but receive only the endless back and forth of the waves. I can read the thoughts of every fish that swims by, and they all say the same thing: We are going to the place where Yasuo is buried. We have traveled around the world to see his watery grave. I laugh at them and try to shout 'I am here - Yasuo is here. I am not dead,' but I cannot shout, and the fish continue to pass.

"Entry two: I stand in the clearing at the center of the island. For reasons I don't remember, I begin spinning around. I find that as I spin faster, I begin to rise and hover near the treetops. The trouble is that spinning causes parts of my body to fall off. At first it's a few fingers and toes, but then I feel my shoulder begin to loosen. If I stop spinning, I'll fall to the ground and never see what is beyond this island. If I spin fast enough to see past the horizon, I'll have fallen to pieces. I choose to rise, and just before the last piece of me splinters off, I see the truth. The water surrounding our island is an island itself; at the horizon it stops abruptly like the burned edge of a map. I feel..."

We look up. "The sentence ends there."

The three other entries continue in the same vein: isolation, confinement, lost causes. We don't need to discuss them much – we understand that these are visions of our future, not our past.

None of us knows how we got onto this island, nor what came before. Also gone from our minds is the moment we discovered we were here. The knowledge of our plight feels known without being learned, the way a baby learns to speak. All we know are our names, or what we assume to be our names. Each of us, in times of silence, hears a single word humming through our body: Nysa, Bem, Onofre, Asha, Yasuo.

None of us knows how we got here, but that doesn't stop us from gathering nightly and discussing our theories. Tonight, as every night, we search:

Asha: "I've been thinking that what makes the most sense is that we are part of an experiment. I mean, surely you've realized that each of us is a different race? What are the chances that the five of us would end up here by accident? Imagine this: a wealthy, eccentric scientist holed up in her castle somewhere ranting to her son about the hierarchy of the races. She thinks this race is stronger or that race is meaner and aims to prove it. She laughs darkly, pulls out a globe, and spins it. She tells her son to put his finger on it, and his finger lands on this island. She finds us, erases our memories, and ships us here. I expect she's watching us all the time, waiting for us to fight each other or something. I expect she's pretty disappointed."

Nysa: "Although our plain clothes may belie this theory, I think we are all magicians. Not satisfied with optical illusions and parlor tricks, we focused on disappearing. Except there was some malfunction with our magical trunks, and we never reappeared. Or rather, we reappeared here. Do you think the audience members who witnessed our disappearance went home and hugged their children a little harder? Do you think our assistants still gaze into the trunks, searching for a glimmer of our faces?"

Yasuo: "Perhaps we still do exist in our former lives. Nobody is looking for us because they don't realize we're gone. Some parallel universe version of us is walking around in our clothes, kissing our families, spending our money. They know what they've stolen from us, but refuse to give it back. Maybe guilt comes to them in flashes when they see letters we wrote or a worn five-dollar bill folded carefully at the back of our sock drawers."

Bem: "I'm willing to believe that anything is possible, but don't you think the most likely explanation is a ship wreck or a plane crash? The psychological trauma and likelihood of head injuries would explain our memory loss. I know it's comforting to think that what happened to us happened for a reason. But it may be the simplest and most banal events that are true."

Onofre: "What if we came here on purpose? Sometimes I imagine that we are – were – all anthropologists, or botanists, rival scientists who believed that this remote island was home to a species of plant never seen by man. From our different corners of the world we raced here to be the first to discover it. We ran deep into the forest and found it – this plant that would bring us fortune. As we all hurried to clip off its blue flowers, it released a poison so powerful it knocked us unconscious and wiped away our memories."

Sometimes these stories make us feel better; sometimes we go to our slat beds feeling further than ever from the truth. Tonight, though none of the stories seems likely, we all feel as if we are on the cusp of something. It's a feeling that's been building for several days, that something is about to happen. The starlight seems more intense, ready to rip through the canvas of night. We swear we can hear every movement on the island, from the shifting of a grain of sand to an insect burrowing deep in the trunk of a tree. We stay up later than usual, studying each other's faces in the firelight, feeling like siblings or gods. The night passes quickly, and when we wake at dawn we are almost unsurprised to see five boats anchored just off shore, waiting for their passengers.

We sit peacefully on the sand, looking out at the boats as we softly touch each other's hair and take each other's hands. One by one we enter the dream hut and when we have all finished writing, we pass the parchment around, knowing even before we read it that every one of us has dreamed the same dream. We embrace one last time then wade out to our separate boats, leaving our huts, our footprints, and the parchment bearing our final dream:

Suffering on Earth was great. Those who hadn't died of war or murder were dying of disease and famine. Populations dwindled throughout the world. Tyrants seized power from a populace too weak to defend itself. Chaos and fear had taken hold completely.

At great risk to themselves, groups of people in five distant points of the globe came together. Their courage and hope was so great they could create a new kind of magic. They selected one among them to receive this power they had created: the power to bring peace, to start things over. They held renewal ceremonies for their representatives, dubbing them with names to carry them through their journeys.

To complete the magic, these groups drank poison, speaking the representatives' names at the moment of death. This created a force so great that a new divinity was created. These five people gathered together on a distant island to gain strength and awareness. When they were ready to begin their journeys, five boats appeared to take them to all corners of the earth, bringing peace, starting over.