Story lines

A year ago I was sitting in a coffee shop in Southern France, privileged to participate in a writing exercise with two writer friends. One of us would pick a person passing by then the three of us would invent a story based upon what we saw, felt or imagined – a lot of fun!

Thanks to them, and another group called “With Flying Colors” where once a week a color or combination thereof is picked and the whole next week we look for pictures to take of that color – opening our eyes and making us more aware of that particular color, I have not only looked at things, but actually “seen” them.

Thanks to my accident (yes I did say “thanks”) I have had to purchase a bus pass so am also out in the public more and today’s return reminded me of both subjects: writing and photography – the color this week is red.

In Southern France I took a photo of an elderly woman sitting outside the coffee shop and although I have never written a story about her, she continues to intrigue me: she looks content with her world, happy to just be sitting in the sun outside.

 Earlier this week, whilst having lunch in my “stamm” restaurant (there is truly no translation for that one other than you would say this about the chair in the library that you always use, the stool in the bar upon which you always sit, the table in a restaurant that is “your” table), I noticed in the middle of the room one table with four grandparent-type people and one teenager. One supposes that he was invited by one or the other of the grandparents, but throughout the entire meal I never saw him remove his head phones, nor observed any interaction with the four adults other than when he left – presumably to return to the Junior High in the neighborhood – when he did say goodbye.

I didn’t have my camera on the return bus – much to my regret – as a young man got off at one of the stops. So I will have to settle for a description:  he had a small cross earring in his right ear, a black ski bonnet with a very predominant “DEATH” patch across the front, a t-shirt on top of which a black crop-top jacket, dark jeans and red shoes!

Ah the world is an interesting place – the stories to be told – the things to be observed.

I am a writer

Now that sounds like a big statement doesn’t it? Does it mean that I am paid to write – no?

Does it mean that I am a published writer of anything at all – no? Does it mean that what I write is meaningful or important – only for myself.

Actually if one takes the Webster’s (very old edition) definition of a writer the very first simply states: “writer, n. 1. A person who writes”… So what if it goes on to state that 2. This is a person whose business or occupation is writing and then gives the specifics.

I learned to read and write like most of my generation in first grade. We had moved into our new house mid school year so I did not go to kindergarten (did I miss it? Not that I recall other than the status of being able to say that one had gone, which for my entire young childhood was a negative for my friends as they had all been, how weird was I?). Thus it was all new and fresh when I walked into that first classroom.

If I remember how many books I read (62) that first year, I also recall that family folklore has it that I returned from my first day of school and told my parents that I thought that it might take a week to learn to read: I didn’t speak of writing, which is intrinsic to reading.

When did I first write? Not quite so sure, other than the first signs of a continuous type of writing came with our move to Hawaii when I was 13. In order to keep in touch with my friends left behind I had to write letters – of not much importance they are now gone – tossed with one of those frenzies of cleaning.  I do have journals dating back to that period: one bad memory is of the day that my siblings absconded with it and proceeded to read various private phrases out loud.

I have over the years kept journals sometimes writing every day, sometimes going for years with nary a line. I have written thousands if not tens of thousands of letters and like to say that I would be an anthropologists dream (o.k. more like a nightmare with the wealth of material to sort through) as I have notes on most phases of my life.

So I’m a writer, in my own time, in my own corner and mostly just for my own pleasure.

Writing with the writers – 2

Friday at the coffee shop down the street from my housemate’s flat we did two writing exercises: although everyone preferred their first story, the object of these periods being to simply write – well, badly or indifferently – I thought that it was also worth publishing the second lot so any would-be writers out there can see that it’s all a matter of perspective and appreciation. Sometimes the story you prefer will not be the one your audience prefers. I know this from my photos: I am often amazed at the cards my friends will chose as they are often not the photos that I like best.

So for what it’s worth – here is the second series (in the same order author-wise)

Story one – D-L N

Jean followed his brother watching the kid’s backpack that was almost as big as his brother, the little shit.

“Make sure he gets into the school”  his mother would say as she handed them their lunch.

Jean would sell his and use the money for a joint.

Thomas knew his brother was behind him but didn’t want anyone to know his mother insisted he not be alone.

Jean didn’t want any of his buds to see him with his little brother so the distance suited both.

At the school Jean held back until Thomas disappeared.  He knew the brat would raise  to answer all the questions he could, hand in his homework, which would be perfect and his teacher who said “You are certainly different from your big brother”.

She’d been Jean’s teacher, the bitch who never understood that when he looked at the letters they jumped around.

Sighing he walked to the alley where he ditched his backpack.  Maybe he’d spend the day in the woods --- anywhere but the classroom.

He went close enough to the school to sell his lunch. A fast sale and he was off to freedom from the weight of his life.

Story LS

He was late for school again and so was Selby who was running down the street a few feet ahead of him.  His mother was always nagging him to hurry, drink your chocolate, do your homework, have you had a shower yet, did you brush your teeth, and forget about the homework question.

He was going to cut school one day, he was going to hop on a train, be a hobo for a few years and then come to his mum and say Mum see? No school, no problem.

Because the thing about parents was that they always saw the bad side of life – He had read on the internet about these businessmen who had started their own company and made tons of money and travelled and were famous and role models and in the end, they were all dropouts and that’s what he had to show his mum, that he could be who he wanted to be.

But at 12 years old, all the adults in his life saw was grades, manners and who he hung out with.

Story JSL

Nonchalantly he sauntered down the road past the church, head uncovered – never mind his mother’s request that he cover those ears – he might take cold.

It was nice to be allowed to go back to school; it was lovely to not have to submit to any more treatments. Cancer was a thing of the past – he was off to continue a normal life.

The Tramontane blew but he felt invigorated by it: he no longer feared the cold.

His friend followed a few paces behind – sweatshirt and jeans totally covering every body part.

What was very interesting about the two “bodies” – two authors had them as brothers, the third had noticed that one was dark-skinned, the other white.

Writing with the writers

Down here in lovely Argelès-sur-Mer I have two writer friends (actually more and it’s a colony for artists of all types). This time I decided that it would be fun to be able to write with them during one of their normal exercises and requested – and to my shock – duly received not only permission, but also an invitation to do so.

The basic premise of this exercise is for one of them to pick a body (a passer by on the street outside the coffee shop) then they write for about 10 minutes. Stories are then read, first by the person who didn’t choose the victim (I too was rather startled by the phrase “I picked the body, so you have to read first” until I remembered that one is a mystery writer).

The results:

Story D-L,

The dark glasses didn’t block the brilliant sun from hurting her eyes.  Of course the light was a contrast to the dark church where she’d listened to the early mass as she had every day for the last forty years.

She’d started when Frédéric had been so sick, his blood cells fighting with each other. The good cells had won, merci dieu and in thankfulness, she’d gone to morning mass every day since, except when she had the flu and her hysterectomy.

Now she wondered if his life had been a good thing.  A month ago she’d have gone for a coffee across the street but she couldn’t face her friends.

Her baby boy, once so sweet, had been in all the papers laying on the ground his arms behind him, his hands attached.

Police were wheeling away the cloth-draped guerneys.

Frédéric’s gun was being held by one of the flics.

She’d had trouble praying this morning. All she could say over and over “forgive him, forgive me”.

Story two: LS

She hated the wind with a passion but wouldn’t have missed a visit to the church for anything. It was a way to talk to Ricardo who had been dead well over 30 years but still answered when she spoke.  She couldn’t expect Karls her “new husband” of 15 years to understand but he was open-minded enough not to comment.

She liked her morning routine of lighting a candle for Ricardo, one for their daughter who was following her own path but certainly not the right one, according to Karl and most of the neighbors.

That was the thing about living in a village. People had a collective mind and opinion and the only moment of privacy was when you locked yourself in the bathroom.

It was taking a while for Ricardo to respond today. Her biggest fear was that one day he might not answer her questions – then what? She’ll have to turn to Karl.

Story three: JSL

She struggled against the wind, even her tightly tied scarf fluttered and struggled to break free.  Thin, greying, sensible shoes and a raincoat, she could have been anyone’s beloved aunt.

However, underneath her rather worn exterior beat a heart and body that had known a much gayer life young.

She had been the prima ballerina in a group in Paris young. The darling of the director, she – it was inevitable – she was also his mistress.  At 25 she was forced to abort his child.  At 30 she was cast aside both professionally and personally and for 10 years walked the streets making a living.

At 40 she was desperate to become a mother so married the only man who would have her: they adopted two children and life was stable for a few years. She came to love her husband and adore the children.

At 50 she lost them all in one of those freak accidents.

Not at 60 she is leaving the church at 9:30 on a Friday morning. Guilty? In pain? Or finally at peace?