My latest article in Bushwick Daily -
an installation review by Rebecca Gaffney and team in Bushwick:
an installation review by Rebecca Gaffney and team in Bushwick:
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Karen Harvey Dances
Here is my latest Bushwick Daily post about Karen Harvey Dances:
http://bushwickdaily.com/2013/02/choreographer-karen-harvey-explores-water/
Photo by Steven Schreiber.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
"Ants!" - an action story
My homework for Children's Book Writing last week was to compose a 500 piece all about ACTION. The desires, character strategies and themes all had to be described through ACTION. As we've been practicing throughout the semester, we had to show and not tell. It was a good challenge. After reading my homework out loud in class, I have some editing to do.
------------------------------
“To the kitchen!”
The ant pack was steadfast in their escape from the hole in the wall behind the toaster. They flung off the kitchen counter all at once, like a flock of dolphins chasing a school of fish. Working as a team, they all knew the plan: Get to the Ho Ho crumbs.
If the ants were not ants, but say Lions instead, they would have thumped to the ground, blasting the ears drums in every ear for miles. But they were ants. And since ants are small and weightless, the pack belly flopped to the ground without so much as a wink from their arch nemesis, Wesley - a mangy, yellow-haired fellow who paroled the house on all fours.
“Only ten feet to the Ho Ho, lads! Let’s get a move on!”
The pack gazed ahead at the task before them. One shuddered. Some twitched. All salivated.
Gaping at the black crumbs glimmering against the afternoon sun, the ants were put in a trance.
“After School! After School!” they chanted.
The white frosting clung to the floor, its sugars seeping into the ground with every second that passed. Hunger was but a close enemy soon to be exterminated.
The pack glided across the kitchen, maneuvering in and out of the light like skiers on a black diamond run. Figure-eighting their way across the linoleum, the tiny bodies drooled at the thought of the plastic Hostess wrapper.
“To the leeeeeeeeft! Wesley awake!”
The pack darted to the left, whacking bits of dust that stirred from kitchen crevices. Musty air ballooned their lungs. Wesley sneezed.
“Hey guys!” shouted Desmond as he squirmed away from one of Wesley’s hoofs.
“Oh it’s the rookie ant. Whadya want kid?”
“Half of you, ahhhhh, dive underneath Wesley’s water bowl and knock it over. The other half, OMG, carry the Ho Ho back to the colony!”
“Crazy…”
“Great idea!”
“Ummmm OK.”
“Yeah right! You just want to Ho Ho all to yourself, newbie.”
Desmond shook his little spine. His heart was as splattered as the Ho Ho. “Never! I just want us all to get out in one piece.”
“Follow me, brothers!” Desmond redirected his path towards the water bowl, launching ahead.
He had water bowl goggles; nothing could get in his way. Desmond weaved his little body in and out of Wesley’s stale breath. “No turning back now,” he thought.
Desmond closed his ant eyes and prayed to the ant gods. Gazing upwards at the kitchen fan he realized his legs were wet.
That silly dog had woof, woofed Desmond’s body all the way to the water bowl!
“One! Two! Three!” The ants tipped the water bowl over, shattering porcelain everywhere. Ant limbs were drenched in dog spit and water, a simply smelly concoction.
The ants’ eyes were a sopping wet mess, blurring the image of their ant-brothers chomping down on the Ho Ho so far away.
Friday, February 22, 2013
Nicole Wolcott interview
Check out my interview with Bushwick-based dancer, choreographer and
overall kick-ass performer, Nicole Wolcott:
Photo courtesy of Nicole Wolcott
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Cave
In-class assignment: "Write a scene in which a person is moving through a pitch black cave. The character should be alone."
The air is humid and sticky. Grace places each foot in a calculated spot - her moves are careful and planned. She's more tactful here than in math class. She likes the sound of the earth's crunchiness under the soles of her Rebook sneakers. After her heel is firmly planted on her chosen spot and she feels her calf muscle balanced, equally centered, the joy takes over: the freedom of her being alone and also the danger. It enables her with the motivation to keep traveling inward.
Grace uses the side of the cave for support, just in case her nerves take over. It's so dark within this naturally confined space, she doesn't need her eyesight. She's walking blind with her gut instincts as her seeing eye dog.
Eventually the humidity starts to subside and Grace gets a chill on her shoulders. She takes her zip up hoodie off her waist and puts it on. That's helpful.
Soon her footsteps start to encounter mushy ground, swamp-like without the perils of alligators and such. She hears the dripping of water in the distance and realizes she must be making some headway. "Who knows how long I'll be walking," she thinks out loud.
The air is humid and sticky. Grace places each foot in a calculated spot - her moves are careful and planned. She's more tactful here than in math class. She likes the sound of the earth's crunchiness under the soles of her Rebook sneakers. After her heel is firmly planted on her chosen spot and she feels her calf muscle balanced, equally centered, the joy takes over: the freedom of her being alone and also the danger. It enables her with the motivation to keep traveling inward.
Grace uses the side of the cave for support, just in case her nerves take over. It's so dark within this naturally confined space, she doesn't need her eyesight. She's walking blind with her gut instincts as her seeing eye dog.
Eventually the humidity starts to subside and Grace gets a chill on her shoulders. She takes her zip up hoodie off her waist and puts it on. That's helpful.
Soon her footsteps start to encounter mushy ground, swamp-like without the perils of alligators and such. She hears the dripping of water in the distance and realizes she must be making some headway. "Who knows how long I'll be walking," she thinks out loud.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Voice
This past week, my homework for Children's Book Writing was as follows:
"Pick a favorite passage of a favorite children’s book (or a grownup book). Pick a passage with no dialogue. Copy out a paragraph or two, word for word. Just to see how it feels to write those words. Then write a passage of your own on a completely different topic, emulating the writer’s voice. Or: Write a passage on the same topic, this time using your own voice."
If you didn't understand the assignment above, the goal of this exercise is to emulate the author's voice, whatever that may be.
My attempt below. The voice I'm trying (desperately) to emulate: Neil Gaiman in Coraline (excerpt from pages 52-53). Note: the idea for my character and story was established before this homework assignment.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Essie took the thick book from the bookshelf and carefully blew the dust off. Her grandmother said it was old, but Essie didn’t expect for the dust to be this ancient.
Essie started to flip through the pages at a rapid pace, impatient for results, but still careful not to rip or dent any of the pages. She skimmed past a lot of black and white illustrations that gave her the creeps. She paused on a grim portrait of a girl who looked sad and lonely amongst the trees. There was a tree swing in the background. Essie looked hesitantly towards the window; she had been swinging on that same swing just yesterday. She was distracted by the depiction of the girl's solemn face, as if staring at the picture would provide her with any answers. Before she reached the Mortimer chapter, she heard the sound of hurried footsteps enter the library. They were walking towards Essie’s direction.
"Pick a favorite passage of a favorite children’s book (or a grownup book). Pick a passage with no dialogue. Copy out a paragraph or two, word for word. Just to see how it feels to write those words. Then write a passage of your own on a completely different topic, emulating the writer’s voice. Or: Write a passage on the same topic, this time using your own voice."
If you didn't understand the assignment above, the goal of this exercise is to emulate the author's voice, whatever that may be.
My attempt below. The voice I'm trying (desperately) to emulate: Neil Gaiman in Coraline (excerpt from pages 52-53). Note: the idea for my character and story was established before this homework assignment.
Essie took the thick book from the bookshelf and carefully blew the dust off. Her grandmother said it was old, but Essie didn’t expect for the dust to be this ancient.
Dust bunnies flew everywhere, including in Essie’s eyes,
which immediately became watery. It looked like she was crying, but inside
Essie was excited to finally discover
the secrets hidden within the pages.
Essie sat on the purple sofa next to the bookshelves and cautiously
placed the book on her lap. Her hands felt abnormally small. She traced the
outline of the title with her fingertip, echoing the rough imprints that for so
long had been quiet. Unseen.
The Baxter Files
She read the title out loud. Saying the name Baxter made her
feel giddy, like a first crush.
She opened the book to the index and saw the key words she had hoped to find: The Mortimer Mansion Years. That chapter was over one hundred pages and at least two thirds deep into the book. Clearly a lot had happened to Baxter before arriving to this spooky place. She craved to know everything. The mystery was killing her.
She opened the book to the index and saw the key words she had hoped to find: The Mortimer Mansion Years. That chapter was over one hundred pages and at least two thirds deep into the book. Clearly a lot had happened to Baxter before arriving to this spooky place. She craved to know everything. The mystery was killing her.
Essie started to flip through the pages at a rapid pace, impatient for results, but still careful not to rip or dent any of the pages. She skimmed past a lot of black and white illustrations that gave her the creeps. She paused on a grim portrait of a girl who looked sad and lonely amongst the trees. There was a tree swing in the background. Essie looked hesitantly towards the window; she had been swinging on that same swing just yesterday. She was distracted by the depiction of the girl's solemn face, as if staring at the picture would provide her with any answers. Before she reached the Mortimer chapter, she heard the sound of hurried footsteps enter the library. They were walking towards Essie’s direction.
Her step-mother’s, she assumed. Lunch was probably ready. As
quickly as she could muster, Essie stuffed the book under the sofa. For just a little
while longer, The Baxter Files remained a mystery to Essie Mearns.
Friday, February 1, 2013
Trisha Brown
I had the opportunity to see Trisha Brown Dance Company last night at the
Brooklyn Academy of Music. Trisha is retiring from making new work, and
so I felt very fortunate to have been in attendance. TBDC will be
putting together a 3-year international "farewell tour" so if you missed
them at BAM this month, there's still time!
Typically before any performance starts at the Howard Gilman Opera House, a voice echos through the theater reminding everyone about cell phone and photography policies. Last night, the charming voice overhead, in addition to her usual, brief speech, asked former Trisha Brown company members and collaborators to please stand up for acknowledgement. We were applauding history. Job well done.
My first exposure to the work of Trisha Brown came when I was a dance major at The Ohio State University. I spent a quarter learning from one of Trisha's former company members, Abby Yager. Her class was a challenge. I had trouble letting go of my muscles and moving with lightness and "less effort, less effort." Initiating from the top of my head and finger tips were foreign concepts, and I easily became frustrated. I was used to using core strength, deep physicality and overworking my quads. I am not alone in this feeling. Many sentiments regard Trisha's work as difficult, yet so satisfying when that release in your body is found. It's like a light bulb going off in your veins. "Ohhhh that's what it's supposed to feel like.....Eureka!"
I fully came to appreciate this "less effort, less effort" last night. The dancers expel movement with such ease and grace, liquefying their arms and moving through a serene pathway. This is post-modern technique at its finest. The weight shifts and connect-the-dots transitions look natural for this troupe - but any Trisha aficionado knows they work hard to achieve it.
Last night was an education. I had seen "Set and Reset" performed by OSU students while I was in school, but that was the extent of my Trisha Brown experience. Watching "Set and Reset" took me back to my college classes with Abby -- I thought about what I could have done better, how I could have worked harder.
The last piece of the first half transported the audience back to the 1980s with "Newark (Niweweorce)," created in 1987. I couldn't believe I was watching a dance that once broke the mold with its use of analog sounds in dance performance. At one time this was a really big deal. These days with all the post-post modern weirdness and often-missed themes lacking in practice and humility, audiences can get overwhelmed with the use of digital technology and storytelling. The loud and purposeful droning sounds in "Newark (Niweweorce)" were effective and hypnotic. The dancers were nothing short of extraordinary, holding shapes and landing poses in plies that made my mouth drop. "Hold it, hold it!" I thought for them.
Simple concepts focused on basic technique and form. The use of color blocking on the stage also reminded me of 1980s fashion. Here's an article that Anna Kisselgoff wrote about the piece in 1987: http://www.nytimes.com/1987/
The second half featured Brown's work from 2011, "I'm going to toss my arms - if you catch them they're yours." The elemental Trisha Brown aesthetics were all there in this later work -- seamless partnering, cool technique and effortless weight. But the live pianist, barren stage and large industrial fans modernized it without being cliche. It was poetic and quietly beautiful. The dancers disrobed throughout the piece from their wispy, white outfits to colorfully classic leotards. Bodies floated in between the winds of the fans -- they were like feathers blowing happily away.
Here's a review from Oregon Live: http://www.oregonlive.com/
For more great reading about Trisha Brown Dance Company, start here with BAM's blog: http://bam150years.blogspot.
Typically before any performance starts at the Howard Gilman Opera House, a voice echos through the theater reminding everyone about cell phone and photography policies. Last night, the charming voice overhead, in addition to her usual, brief speech, asked former Trisha Brown company members and collaborators to please stand up for acknowledgement. We were applauding history. Job well done.
My first exposure to the work of Trisha Brown came when I was a dance major at The Ohio State University. I spent a quarter learning from one of Trisha's former company members, Abby Yager. Her class was a challenge. I had trouble letting go of my muscles and moving with lightness and "less effort, less effort." Initiating from the top of my head and finger tips were foreign concepts, and I easily became frustrated. I was used to using core strength, deep physicality and overworking my quads. I am not alone in this feeling. Many sentiments regard Trisha's work as difficult, yet so satisfying when that release in your body is found. It's like a light bulb going off in your veins. "Ohhhh that's what it's supposed to feel like.....Eureka!"
I fully came to appreciate this "less effort, less effort" last night. The dancers expel movement with such ease and grace, liquefying their arms and moving through a serene pathway. This is post-modern technique at its finest. The weight shifts and connect-the-dots transitions look natural for this troupe - but any Trisha aficionado knows they work hard to achieve it.
Last night was an education. I had seen "Set and Reset" performed by OSU students while I was in school, but that was the extent of my Trisha Brown experience. Watching "Set and Reset" took me back to my college classes with Abby -- I thought about what I could have done better, how I could have worked harder.
The last piece of the first half transported the audience back to the 1980s with "Newark (Niweweorce)," created in 1987. I couldn't believe I was watching a dance that once broke the mold with its use of analog sounds in dance performance. At one time this was a really big deal. These days with all the post-post modern weirdness and often-missed themes lacking in practice and humility, audiences can get overwhelmed with the use of digital technology and storytelling. The loud and purposeful droning sounds in "Newark (Niweweorce)" were effective and hypnotic. The dancers were nothing short of extraordinary, holding shapes and landing poses in plies that made my mouth drop. "Hold it, hold it!" I thought for them.
Simple concepts focused on basic technique and form. The use of color blocking on the stage also reminded me of 1980s fashion. Here's an article that Anna Kisselgoff wrote about the piece in 1987: http://www.nytimes.com/1987/
The second half featured Brown's work from 2011, "I'm going to toss my arms - if you catch them they're yours." The elemental Trisha Brown aesthetics were all there in this later work -- seamless partnering, cool technique and effortless weight. But the live pianist, barren stage and large industrial fans modernized it without being cliche. It was poetic and quietly beautiful. The dancers disrobed throughout the piece from their wispy, white outfits to colorfully classic leotards. Bodies floated in between the winds of the fans -- they were like feathers blowing happily away.
Here's a review from Oregon Live: http://www.oregonlive.com/
Photo by
For more great reading about Trisha Brown Dance Company, start here with BAM's blog: http://bam150years.blogspot.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
The Worst Kid
For my children's book writing class this week I have to remember the "worst kid I ever dealt with" and put him in a scene with the a stereotypical school character (bully, nerd, etc). We also have to find a way to sympathize with the "worst kid." Around 500 words, here's my work in progress:
Justin Fick was the snobbiest kid in the whole school. He just thought he had good taste. Maybe his parents spoiled him with front row seats to Cleveland Cavalier games. And maybe he was the first of all his friends to talk about the newest video game. Justin just liked to share cool experiences with his friends. He was too young to understand jealousy.
But Justin never thought he was the snobbiest until he had detention with Bobby Beartrout, the cruelest member of the Black Ninja's.
The Black Ninjas were a group of boys who taunted the unadventurous during recess. And Bobby was the meanest, most ruthless kid to roam the playground.
The kids in school knew, for the most part, that the Black Ninjas meant no REAL harm. They were rough around the edges, but once you cracked a smile on their face, you knew the Ninja's maybe just ate too many Fruit Loops, or something. But something in Bobby's eyes meant real trouble.
Justin was dreading this detention. He picked up his cell phone and called his dad (it was an emergency), "Dad, yeah, I'm not going to make my tennis lesson today. I have detention."
"No problem, Justin. I'll just tell Camille to reschedule." Justin's dad didn't even ask what happened, let alone sound worried.
"Who's that you're talking to, mamas boy?" said Bobby as he entered the abandoned classroom. "Nice pants, Nancy."
The Black Ninjas were a group of boys who taunted the unadventurous during recess. And Bobby was the meanest, most ruthless kid to roam the playground.
The kids in school knew, for the most part, that the Black Ninjas meant no REAL harm. They were rough around the edges, but once you cracked a smile on their face, you knew the Ninja's maybe just ate too many Fruit Loops, or something. But something in Bobby's eyes meant real trouble.
Justin was dreading this detention. He picked up his cell phone and called his dad (it was an emergency), "Dad, yeah, I'm not going to make my tennis lesson today. I have detention."
"No problem, Justin. I'll just tell Camille to reschedule." Justin's dad didn't even ask what happened, let alone sound worried.
"Who's that you're talking to, mamas boy?" said Bobby as he entered the abandoned classroom. "Nice pants, Nancy."
Justin hung up the phone and sighed heavily. “What’s that smell?” he mumbled under his breath.
“I heard your girly voice down the hall and farted a special one just for you.” said Bobby.
"Thanks, Bobby." Justin said sarcastically. "But I’m surprised you could even get past your own smell to think.”
Bobby walked up to Justin. Closer than he would've liked. "What's that you said, princess?"
"Alright boys, calm down," Mrs. Wentworth said as she entered the classroom. "You two, take out your homework and do something productive." Then she put her headphones on and began humming.
"Thanks, Bobby." Justin said sarcastically. "But I’m surprised you could even get past your own smell to think.”
Bobby walked up to Justin. Closer than he would've liked. "What's that you said, princess?"
"Alright boys, calm down," Mrs. Wentworth said as she entered the classroom. "You two, take out your homework and do something productive." Then she put her headphones on and began humming.
“You smell like an Easy Bake Oven." Bobby said.
“Whatever.” Justin replied. “I’d rather smell exotic and intriguing. Girls like exotic smells.”
"You think you're so cool, rich kid. Watch where you step." Bobby threatened as Mrs. Wentworth hit the crescendo in the song. She was completely transcending her students' argument.
Crap, Justin thought. He was wearing his new Prada loafers and didn't want them to get dirty. Maybe he could ask his dad to hire a body guard.
"You think you're so cool, rich kid. Watch where you step." Bobby threatened as Mrs. Wentworth hit the crescendo in the song. She was completely transcending her students' argument.
Crap, Justin thought. He was wearing his new Prada loafers and didn't want them to get dirty. Maybe he could ask his dad to hire a body guard.
“Guess what, Justin? Nobody likes you!” Bobby was starting to get a cruel grin on his face. The same grin that gave Jeremy the black eye and Rory the broken finger. “Everyone talks behind your back, about how snobby you are, how ugly your shoes are. Did you know that?”
“Shut up, Bobby." Justin sat quietly for a while. Did people really feel that way about him?
“I guess you didn’t see the flyer then.” Bobby sneered. Bobby slowly pulled a paper out of his book bag. He looked down at it before handing it to Justin and started to feel a bit awkward. Part of him wanted to laugh, but the other part kind of felt bad. Almost guilty. Bobby Beartrout, almost guilty? What was happening in the world?
Thursday, January 24, 2013
blah
In continuance of a Facebook rant that I'll probably delete:
During my freshman year at HTHS, Mr. Noble asked my Public Speaking class to crisply define at what age one becomes an adult. As you might assume, the most popular answers were 18 and 21 -- smoking, drinking and gambling (not necessarily in that order). I believe my response was that it was "all relative" and dependant on various circumstances. You could have adult responsibilities at nine for all I knew. However, Mr. Noble, I would now like to add the addendum of "26" to my paper presentation. "All relative" right on, but "adult" seems to be stamped in peculiar and permanent fonts these days.
........
This is not to boast my responsibilities these days. I fuck up, become more of an asshole when I don't follow-through, write e-mails that are difficult and make me wonder if I regret them - though I do try to avoid doing that via text message, which I think comes with this "26" territory.
I dance with glitter on my nose and love it. But the pressures that have arisen I find quite interesting. Pressure to fill my time with important people and keep myself busy. Maybe that's the New Yorker in me, but sitting still is becoming hard, yet so much more enjoyable when its deserved.
Then again, I've always been busy. Gym, cheer, dance. Rehearsal, research paper. Relationship > gas. I've never been one to idle. So why the pressure now, the rush? Maybe adulthood is the sickness you get in your stomach when you know you can do better than your current situation. More money, more happiness, more knowledge. It's the greed of age.
The pressure to make money and live in a nice place where I can feel confident that when I leave no one will fuck up my shit HAS ALREADY BEEN IN EXISTENCE. Yet, my shit still keeps getting fucked with. The pressures of my ticking clock and whatever else comes with bodily changes is annoying, but is part of this stream into adulthood acceptance? Or rather, the adult experience.
Today I shouted the word "Slut" at work. It was in context and not directly towards anybody (in reference to a television character actually). Ask me if I cared. Nope. Maybe the "not caring" is also considered adulthood too. Or maybe it is juvenile of me. Or maybe its an excuse for too much coffee. Damn you, Secret Squirrel.
The literature I read these days is primarily children's lit. Is it an escape from the daily doldrums, or is it in pursuit of my dreams of becoming a children's book writer? Maybe both. This decision first acknowledged, then made. Doth thou hath a car? I don'teth.
During my freshman year at HTHS, Mr. Noble asked my Public Speaking class to crisply define at what age one becomes an adult. As you might assume, the most popular answers were 18 and 21 -- smoking, drinking and gambling (not necessarily in that order). I believe my response was that it was "all relative" and dependant on various circumstances. You could have adult responsibilities at nine for all I knew. However, Mr. Noble, I would now like to add the addendum of "26" to my paper presentation. "All relative" right on, but "adult" seems to be stamped in peculiar and permanent fonts these days.
........
This is not to boast my responsibilities these days. I fuck up, become more of an asshole when I don't follow-through, write e-mails that are difficult and make me wonder if I regret them - though I do try to avoid doing that via text message, which I think comes with this "26" territory.
I dance with glitter on my nose and love it. But the pressures that have arisen I find quite interesting. Pressure to fill my time with important people and keep myself busy. Maybe that's the New Yorker in me, but sitting still is becoming hard, yet so much more enjoyable when its deserved.
Then again, I've always been busy. Gym, cheer, dance. Rehearsal, research paper. Relationship > gas. I've never been one to idle. So why the pressure now, the rush? Maybe adulthood is the sickness you get in your stomach when you know you can do better than your current situation. More money, more happiness, more knowledge. It's the greed of age.
The pressure to make money and live in a nice place where I can feel confident that when I leave no one will fuck up my shit HAS ALREADY BEEN IN EXISTENCE. Yet, my shit still keeps getting fucked with. The pressures of my ticking clock and whatever else comes with bodily changes is annoying, but is part of this stream into adulthood acceptance? Or rather, the adult experience.
Today I shouted the word "Slut" at work. It was in context and not directly towards anybody (in reference to a television character actually). Ask me if I cared. Nope. Maybe the "not caring" is also considered adulthood too. Or maybe it is juvenile of me. Or maybe its an excuse for too much coffee. Damn you, Secret Squirrel.
The literature I read these days is primarily children's lit. Is it an escape from the daily doldrums, or is it in pursuit of my dreams of becoming a children's book writer? Maybe both. This decision first acknowledged, then made. Doth thou hath a car? I don'teth.
Retro flaws
In Children's Book writing class this week, we had to write down five flaws we had as a child. I wrote:
1) Bossy
2) Show-off
3) Impatient
4) Short-tempered
5) Fibber (but maybe a great story teller?!)
After we wrote down these five traits, our teacher asked us to write about a character (not ourselves) who has that flaw. Our goal was to show the flaw, not tell it. Meaning we had to describe that flaw through action, dialogue, appearance, etc. Here is my short, in-class story.
Dylan stumbled into the lunch room giddy from gym class and hungry. He picked up tacos from the line (his favorite, yes!) and sat at the usual table in the back of the cafeteria with his friends.
"You guys, the amusement park was so cool this weekend!" Josh exclaimed. "Nitro was wicked fast! I was..."
-- "Yeah well check this out guys." Dylan interrupted.
"I once rode Nitro in the front row and slipped out of the seat belt when the seat belt police weren't looking. Once the roller coaster started going up the hill I climbed up out of my seat and faced backwards. Everyone was freaking out, ha! I rode the whole ride backwards. Did YOU do that, Josh?"
"Oh come on, Dylan," said Trevor. Dylan didn't see him enter the cafeteria.
"They stopped the ride and some guy had to climb the stairs and take you off the ride. We barely moved." Trevor started laughing, "I think I even remember someone booing."
Dylan rolled his eyes while his friends chuckled. "Crap," he thought. He forgot that Trevor was at the amusement park that day.
1) Bossy
2) Show-off
3) Impatient
4) Short-tempered
5) Fibber (but maybe a great story teller?!)
After we wrote down these five traits, our teacher asked us to write about a character (not ourselves) who has that flaw. Our goal was to show the flaw, not tell it. Meaning we had to describe that flaw through action, dialogue, appearance, etc. Here is my short, in-class story.
Dylan stumbled into the lunch room giddy from gym class and hungry. He picked up tacos from the line (his favorite, yes!) and sat at the usual table in the back of the cafeteria with his friends.
"You guys, the amusement park was so cool this weekend!" Josh exclaimed. "Nitro was wicked fast! I was..."
-- "Yeah well check this out guys." Dylan interrupted.
"I once rode Nitro in the front row and slipped out of the seat belt when the seat belt police weren't looking. Once the roller coaster started going up the hill I climbed up out of my seat and faced backwards. Everyone was freaking out, ha! I rode the whole ride backwards. Did YOU do that, Josh?"
"Oh come on, Dylan," said Trevor. Dylan didn't see him enter the cafeteria.
"They stopped the ride and some guy had to climb the stairs and take you off the ride. We barely moved." Trevor started laughing, "I think I even remember someone booing."
Dylan rolled his eyes while his friends chuckled. "Crap," he thought. He forgot that Trevor was at the amusement park that day.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Redux
The same assignment as the prior post, but now I'm down to 506 words.
Once upon a time three little boys lived in a hippie commune with their mom. She had not enough to keep them, so she sent them off to seek their fortune.
The boys wandered for days and eventually found themselves in a big city with bright lights, loud noises and lots of yellow cars. They quickly decided that they wanted to live the high life – as in they wanted to live in really tall skyscrapers.
The youngest boy encountered a man carrying lots of straw and said, “Please sir, give me your straw so I may build the best home this city has ever seen.” The man squeezed the boy's chubby cheeks and gave his straw away.
The boy built in Central Park. One day, a menacing-looking man in a suit stopped by. He called himself an Investment Banker from Wall Street.
The Investment Banker knocked and said, “Little boy, little boy, let me come in.”
“Never! Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin” the boy replied.
“Then I’ll huff and puff and I’ll blow your house in!” And he blew the boy’s house down and ate him.
The middle boy encountered an old lady on the Upper East Side carrying lots of clay in a bag that said “Michaels.” “Please miss, I need your clay to make the tallest home in this town.” The elderly woman was reminded of her own grandson and gave the clay away.
The boy built in Chelsea. Pretty soon, he received a knock on his door from the same, scary Investment Banker.
“Little boy, little boy, let me come in.”
“Never! Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.”
“Then I’ll huff and puff and I’ll blow your house in!” And he blew the boy’s house down and ate him.
The Investment Banker rang the boy’s fancy doorbell, “Little boy, little
boy, let me come in.”
“Never! Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.”
“Then I’ll huff and puff and I’ll blow your house in!”
The boy was young, but he knew that even the most intimidating Investment Bankers could not move buildings with their breath. The boy watched as the Investment Banker exhaled…nothing moved but his own, ugly tie.
But the Investment Banker was clever and clambered up the fire escape to look for a way inside.
The boy instinctively thought of the movie Home Alone and set up booby traps on the roof.
When the Investment Banker reached the top he tripped on the traps KABLAM and fell through the skylight, landing on a large pile of fake money.
The boy took the Investment Banker to jail for embezzlement and lived as a happy hippie for ever after.
Once upon a time three little boys lived in a hippie commune with their mom. She had not enough to keep them, so she sent them off to seek their fortune.
The boys wandered for days and eventually found themselves in a big city with bright lights, loud noises and lots of yellow cars. They quickly decided that they wanted to live the high life – as in they wanted to live in really tall skyscrapers.
The youngest boy encountered a man carrying lots of straw and said, “Please sir, give me your straw so I may build the best home this city has ever seen.” The man squeezed the boy's chubby cheeks and gave his straw away.
The boy built in Central Park. One day, a menacing-looking man in a suit stopped by. He called himself an Investment Banker from Wall Street.
The Investment Banker knocked and said, “Little boy, little boy, let me come in.”
“Never! Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin” the boy replied.
“Then I’ll huff and puff and I’ll blow your house in!” And he blew the boy’s house down and ate him.
The middle boy encountered an old lady on the Upper East Side carrying lots of clay in a bag that said “Michaels.” “Please miss, I need your clay to make the tallest home in this town.” The elderly woman was reminded of her own grandson and gave the clay away.
The boy built in Chelsea. Pretty soon, he received a knock on his door from the same, scary Investment Banker.
“Little boy, little boy, let me come in.”
“Never! Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.”
“Then I’ll huff and puff and I’ll blow your house in!” And he blew the boy’s house down and ate him.
The oldest
boy spent time networking with adults on the Lower East Side. He used his charm
to convince everyone to let him build a high rise downtown.
One year
later, he lived in a skyscraper. He could see the tops of all the other
buildings and noticed that the little dogs looked even littler.
“Never! Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.”
“Then I’ll huff and puff and I’ll blow your house in!”
The boy was young, but he knew that even the most intimidating Investment Bankers could not move buildings with their breath. The boy watched as the Investment Banker exhaled…nothing moved but his own, ugly tie.
But the Investment Banker was clever and clambered up the fire escape to look for a way inside.
The boy instinctively thought of the movie Home Alone and set up booby traps on the roof.
When the Investment Banker reached the top he tripped on the traps KABLAM and fell through the skylight, landing on a large pile of fake money.
The boy took the Investment Banker to jail for embezzlement and lived as a happy hippie for ever after.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
The Three Little Pigs - retold
The first assignment for my children's book writing class is to modernize a popular fairy tale, while maintaining the essential plot elements of the original, in under 500 words. I chose the Three Little Pigs and I'm currently at 550 words.
Once upon a time there were three little boys who lived in a hippie commune with their mom. She had not enough to keep them, so she sent them off to seek their fortune.
The three boys wandered for days and eventually found themselves in a big city with bright lights, loud noises and lots of yellow cars. They quickly decided that they wanted to live the high life – as in they wanted to live in really tall skyscrapers.
The first boy encountered a man carrying lots of straw and said, “Please sir, give me your straw so I may build the best home this city has ever seen.” The man thought the little boy was so cute, he handed all his straw away.
The boy built in Central Park, thinking the house would blend into the scenery. One day, a tall, menacing-looking man in a suit stopped by. He called himself an Investment Banker from Wall Street.
The Investment Banker knocked and said, “Little boy, little boy, let me come in.”
“No, no! Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin” the boy replied.
The Investment Banker yelled back, “Then I’ll huff and puff and I’ll blow your house in!” And he blew the boy’s house down and ate him.
The second boy encountered an old lady on the Upper East Side carrying lots of clay in a bag that said “Michaels.” “Please miss, I need your clay to make the tallest home in this town.” The elderly woman was reminded of her own grandson and gave the clay away.
The boy built in Chelsea. Pretty soon, he received a knock on his door from the same, scary Investment Banker.
“Little boy, little boy, let me come in.”
“No, no! Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.”
“Then I’ll huff and puff and I’ll blow your house in!” And he blew the boy’s house down and ate him.
“No, no! Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.”
“Then I’ll huff and puff and I’ll blow your house in!”
The boy was young, but he knew that even the most intimidating Investment Bankers could not move a building with their breath. So the boy watched as the Investment Banker exhaled – all stayed still but the pigeon feathers on the street.
But the Investment Banker was tricky and climbed up the fire escape to look for a way inside.
The boy saw this and was reminded of the movie Home Alone, so he set up a bunch of booby traps on the roof.
When the Investment Banker reached the top he tripped on the booby traps KABLAM and fell through the skylight, landing on a pile of fake dollar bills.
The little boy took the Investment Banker to jail for embezzlement and lived as a happy hippie for ever after.
Once upon a time there were three little boys who lived in a hippie commune with their mom. She had not enough to keep them, so she sent them off to seek their fortune.
The three boys wandered for days and eventually found themselves in a big city with bright lights, loud noises and lots of yellow cars. They quickly decided that they wanted to live the high life – as in they wanted to live in really tall skyscrapers.
The first boy encountered a man carrying lots of straw and said, “Please sir, give me your straw so I may build the best home this city has ever seen.” The man thought the little boy was so cute, he handed all his straw away.
The boy built in Central Park, thinking the house would blend into the scenery. One day, a tall, menacing-looking man in a suit stopped by. He called himself an Investment Banker from Wall Street.
The Investment Banker knocked and said, “Little boy, little boy, let me come in.”
“No, no! Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin” the boy replied.
The Investment Banker yelled back, “Then I’ll huff and puff and I’ll blow your house in!” And he blew the boy’s house down and ate him.
The second boy encountered an old lady on the Upper East Side carrying lots of clay in a bag that said “Michaels.” “Please miss, I need your clay to make the tallest home in this town.” The elderly woman was reminded of her own grandson and gave the clay away.
The boy built in Chelsea. Pretty soon, he received a knock on his door from the same, scary Investment Banker.
“Little boy, little boy, let me come in.”
“No, no! Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.”
“Then I’ll huff and puff and I’ll blow your house in!” And he blew the boy’s house down and ate him.
The third boy
spent time networking with the parents on the Lower East Side. He used his
charm and wilderness skills to convince everyone to let him build a high rise
downtown.
A year later, the boy lived in a skyscraper where he could see the tops of all the other buildings. He noticed that the little dogs looked even littler.
The Investment Banker rang the boy’s fancy doorbell, “Little boy, little boy, let me come in.”
A year later, the boy lived in a skyscraper where he could see the tops of all the other buildings. He noticed that the little dogs looked even littler.
The Investment Banker rang the boy’s fancy doorbell, “Little boy, little boy, let me come in.”
“No, no! Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.”
“Then I’ll huff and puff and I’ll blow your house in!”
The boy was young, but he knew that even the most intimidating Investment Bankers could not move a building with their breath. So the boy watched as the Investment Banker exhaled – all stayed still but the pigeon feathers on the street.
But the Investment Banker was tricky and climbed up the fire escape to look for a way inside.
The boy saw this and was reminded of the movie Home Alone, so he set up a bunch of booby traps on the roof.
When the Investment Banker reached the top he tripped on the booby traps KABLAM and fell through the skylight, landing on a pile of fake dollar bills.
The little boy took the Investment Banker to jail for embezzlement and lived as a happy hippie for ever after.
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