Songwriting Without Boundaries (8 page)

SCOTT WILKINSON:
In the park, the sun warms my back like I’m bathing in a delicate dripping, soothing coat of warm fudge. The peculiar combination smell of cotton candy, caramel popcorn and mechanic’s lubricating oil lacing the air. One child laughing on the tiny race-car ride. The teenagers curdling screams on the monster drop. The balloon man standing in full array of colors. A kindly smile, and helium tanks straddle his makeshift shop. Blue, red, yellow, purple and green float above his head. The children flock and request their color. The smiles, the thrill of a balloon tied to their wrist floating above their head, sugar candy dribbling down the side of their mouth and the air filled with a symphony of laughter and sweet sugary smell, spell pure joy.

MO MCMORROW:
Practicing for hours in the old living room back on Park St. I stretch the balloon lip over the orange plastic pump and make like I was inflating a tire. The balloon stretches and lengthens in seconds and with a flupping sound I pull the balloon off and struggle to tie a knot breathing shallow. Sometimes I tighten it with my teeth and get the sharp rubber taste on my tongue. Twist the balloon, studying the book the whole time and counting the twists, I hold my breath and squint my eyes because of all the others that have exploded in my face. They’re slippery and powdery and threaten to snap but I keep thinking of the guy at the fair that is always stuffing money in his pockets and the smell of popcorn and gunpowder …

Try writing about your own balloon man.

10 minutes: Homeless Child

CATRINA SEIFFERT:
A weary face peers from the weathered car window. Old tears have worn track marks down her dusty cheeks. She stares blankly at the drizzle ignoring the sunny voices of the morning radio and heaves her sweatered chest in a heavy sigh. Her stomach gurgles without her usual crunchy bowl of cornflakes and she squints while imagining a plate of honeyed toast piled high to the car roof.

The five-year-old thuds back into the vinyl seat. Her left hand twirls her dirty blond curls around her finger and then into her strawberry lips. A miniature river of saliva runs down her chin as she smells the fries from the corner drive-in. The rain plays a soundtrack of fairy drums on the car roof. A drowned sparrow shakes its sodden wings …

MO MCMORROW:
Dirty bare feet, skinny little legs bruised but wiry strong, a soiled dress, once pink with darker flowers of some color, arms thin and reaching out, an expression that kicks me right in the gut. Her dark eyes are sad; I slip money from my pocket and hold it flapping in the air. She leaps for it like a monkey and scurries away behind the fence. I hear scuffling sounds and whispers between the pilings of the fence. I peek around at a little huddled mass of tiny limbs and three sets of black eyes looking up at me like abandoned kittens in a box. The scent of fermenting garbage knocks me back a pace. A sharp taste rises in my throat and I swallow hard then open my mouth to breathe. I stoop down and they back away like one creature.

Wonderful portraits from both Catrina and Mo. Catrina’s third-person point of view allows a look into the child’s mind “imagining a plate of honeyed toast piled high to the car roof.” Mo’s first-person narrative provides interactions with the three children. Nice verbs in both pieces. Now, your turn.

90 seconds: Trucker

LEORA NOSKO:
Bare hands, stale beer breath, furrowed brow and sweat-stained foam hat. His body sunk deep into the torn vinyl seat, strong arm wrestler grip on the long stick shift. Motor vibrations pass rapidly through his thick form and around the humming cabin.

CATRINA SEIFFERT:
He heaves his heavy body out of the driver’s seat swishing the sticky flies off his dusty face. His faded blue singlet soaked up the sweat in patches under his pungent armpits.

Both truckers are sweaty. Great details abound in Leora’s piece, especially the motor vibrations. I like the faded blue singlet. He’s fading, too.

The details you use say something about the character you’re describing. Remember Tanja’s mermaid tattoo? Try it out.

DAY #8

“WHO” WRITING

This is your last day of “who” writing. Dig in.

Set a timer and respond to the following characters for exactly the time allotted. Stop IMMEDIATELY when the timer goes off.

Sight     Sound     Taste     Touch     Smell     Body     Motion

5 minutes: Cyclist

MANUEL STüBINGER:
Airstream hoists the whole body, as if I take off, take wing. I whoosh over paving and tar, wreaths singing. Palms burn from tight grasp on the rubber handle. Pressure of the saddle, fire in the thighs, breathlessness in the chest. Tilting into the curve. Fragrant spring flies around me, smell the riverbed, green and fresh …

TASLEEM RAJWANI:
Thin spinning wheels. Spokes and speed and tires treading against the wet pavement. Rain slaps against the biker’s knees as he races home in only a T-shirt and a pair of spandex shorts. Sweat and raindrops mix together to form a freshness that cools and tingles his legs and elbows. Hairs sticking up, but clothes sticking close to his skin. A dark blue helmet protects his head from dampness and drizzle that drips off of branches and awnings and umbrellas of people who don’t look up to see who they are hitting while they pass. There is a black umbrella, tattered and broken lying in the middle of the sidewalk. Its folds look like a sleeping bat, blind to all those passing by. Pitter-patter of feet and sloshing of black dress shoes in the puddles in front of the business district. High rises appear to touch the clouds …

Manuel writes from inside the biker, Tasleem from outside. As an experiment, try reversing them: Read Manuel’s in third person (“as
he
takes off …”) and read Tasleem’s in first person (“Rain slaps against
my
knees as
I
race …”). Is there a difference in tone and immediacy?

Now try reading both in second person, using
you
instead of
I
or
he
.

Airstream hoists the whole body, as if you take off, take wing. You whoosh over paving and tar, wreaths singing.