Back to feeding my spirit in the Creative Writing Center at UBC. New classmates and old classmates, now friends, get to play in the writing sandbox. The instructor always starts the class with a writing exercise, much to the chagrin of some. Not me. It is playtime…
It is a critique and a writing class. The first few critiques were a little painful. In three years, I have learned a critique will teach you how to be a better writer. Not everyone will like my work. Not everyone will say my idea was brilliant. Some will extol, challenge, or make a suggestion or two. We treat the work with respect even if it is not our genre choice. Once in a while, I get a little impatient with the few long-winded, where-are-you-going-with-this-thought comments. Patience is a virtue. Sometimes, I let out a long sigh, just to nudge them along. Perhaps when I am on my deathbed I will finally have patience.
Poetry, descriptive prose, and lots of laughter, it could not have been more fun writing short pieces in five or six minutes. Here is my description of a person in terms of food without using the word skin ~
She sits in the chair, listing to one side, crooked fingers splayed upon her lap, grey, white hair flat against her skull, blue eyes stare, confusion draws her brows together, a quiver on her lips, like a dried apple in a bowl, colour fading, from pink to brown, slowly loosing moisture, day by day, surface no longer smooth, tiny wrinkles, now misshapen, no longer crisp and sweet.
(Then, because I can be a little perverse, just to play around a little bit, I added…)
My mother waits for the end, forgotten, no longer the apple of his eye. (I know, a cliche in a metaphor.)
There were loud groans. I had a laugh. They should know me by now, well, the new ones don’t, so they probably think I am a bit strange. I’m having fun, it feeds my spirit as I walk through Mama’s decline. What do you do to feed your spirit?