Writing Workshop (...with wine!)

I truly meant to make the six copies of my short story during the weekend. I had every intention of being prepared two days in advance. Regardless, my efforts began shortly before 5:30pm leaving me ninety minutes before the workshop begins with or without me. I scrambled to find my old flash drive, loaded it with the essential, hopped on my bike, and darted for Staples. Two blocks later, I crossed a busy avenue during rush hour and it seems sensible to travel via sidewalk. Unfortunately, an older woman with two bag fulls of groceries got in my way. Damn pedestrians and their sidewalks. Didn't their mommas teach them to share? And what about watching for traffic? I distinctly remember screaming WATCH OUT before running over her with my 10-speed. Consequentially, I flew over my handlebars. The momentum sent me to the pavement and two somersaults later, I'm lying there worried about a skinned elbow - moaning and groaning like the big baby that I am. I heard the woman scramble to my side and ask if I was alright. Considering I have just busted every single one of her fresh eggs, I'm thinking she's a saint for even showing me the slightest bit of concern. Damn pedestiran . . . Now she's gone and made me feel guilty. I leapt to my feet and apologized sincerely three times, maybe four, lunged for the over-turned sack of groceries, and returned the question. "Are you ok?!" Damn pedestrian . . . She hugged me.

With a mild burning sensation coming from my left knee, I stood in line at Staples. Two heads in front of me, a heavy Brooklyn accent scolded the clerk I so desperately needed to see and with the large clock on the wall, I was all too aware of time. 5:47! Sure, the subway directory webiste said it would only take thirty-six minutes to get there, but that doesn't include the time it will take me to recover from getting lost! And I still haven't even made the copies of my story, thanks to the lady in large gold hoop earrings and her loud accent.

At 5:57, I shoved the stapled manuscripts into an unagreeable heap at the bottom of my purse, hopped back on the barely-functioning bicycle, and pedaled hard for the train station.

Having never been to Cobble Hill before, I knew it would happen. As I wound in and out of neighborhoods, I patted myself on the back for leaving extra early. I was lost, as anticipated. Nevertheless, I was the first to arrive - fifteen minutes early. The conductor, Rachel, sat near the front window amoung five empty chairs and greeted me as I came in. I found her to be surprisingly young and attractive, which may have been a contributing factor to our quick ability to get lost in conversation. As a twenty-something young female, she was relatable, which was easy to appreciate.

Three more females showed up - all in their twenties. But don't worry. The lack of diversity turned out to be a good thing as we found ourselves very comfortable with each other in no time at all. At the end, after two glasses of wine each, one of the writers suggested continuing the night with a slumber party, which sent us all into giggles.

Rachel had us do two writing exercises. The first exercise was to spend 20 minutes writing about two every-day people (any people) sharing a meal together (a life changing meal). Where are they? What's the discussion? What are they eating? And what's the risk? All questions needed to be answered.

This is what poured out of me:

The two-top seemed an unlikely setting for Thurston to meet his father. It was placed on a small patio along a barron city sidewalk with nothing more than a ketchup bottle and one salt shaker to offer the guests. No pepper. Perhaps the beads of sweat on his furrowed brow would have been less noticable if there were more pedestrians crowding the atmosphere, customers dining at dusk, or pesky servers pushing for an order in hopes of moving their mundane workshift along. Alas, ("Alas"??? I'm not sure what I was thinking with that word) the burger joint was slow causing Thurstron's resentment to boil. How could he be late? How can a man go through such great lengths to contact his son, a son left to the wolves as a defensless infant, only to leave him high and dry yet again?

A drop of water fell from the awning where rain had gathered only hours before and landed on Thurston's fidgetting hand. A voice reeking of emphazima growled from behind the young man, "Hello." Thurston turned to face the surprisingly short man.

"Hi. I almost ordered for you," Thurston quickly began, "but the waiter hasn't been around. They've got good burgers here. I figure everyone likes a good burger, yeah? They've got one with feta cheese that's alright, if you like feta."

Thurston's obvious nervous babble placed a warm smile on his estranged father's face, "I'm not all that hungry." He lit a cigarette, took a seat in front of Thurston, and continued to smile as he looked into his child's eyes for the first time in twenty-six years.

"So how come you wanna do this? Why now?"

"Good. I'm not looking to shoot the shit either, small-talk and all that... I'll go ahead and spell it out for you, my boy--"

"My boy?"

"My name, as you know, is Lou. It sure is nice to finally meet you. You see, I'm not looking for money, but I'm not no dying rich man looking to send an inheritance your way either. I'm not looking to say I'm sorry. I don't really feel all that guilty. If you wanna hate someone, hate your momma. I'm not looking for a young buddy, to feed off your youth... See now, I'm just a big fan! And I hear you and your Sonic Youth buddies are looking for a drummer. And it just so happens I've got a kit back home in the garage."

One girl wrote about a woman leaving her husband after twenty-some-odd years of marriage, another wrote about a clingy mother and her sympathtic boy, and the third wrote about a woman and her teenaged daughter at the clinic awaiting the results from a pregnancy test. The last line revealed the mother's name was Sarah Palin. We all rolled with laughter.

Our next exercise was to express an emotion using one of the characters from the previous exercise using a beach as the setting. The catch was... we weren't allowed to use the word or any of its synonyms. We were each handed a word in private and after reading our paragraphs allowed, the others would try to guess the emotion we attempted to express.

I wrote:

Lou stabbed one bare ingrown toe into the loose sand and crossed his meaty arms. His basset hound cheeks were sagging even more than usual following the underturned corners of his mouth. As his beer belly grew tense from the fit of nerves inside, a bit of flatulence escaped from the sagging Levi's and floated up to his slumped shoulders. The Budweiser mixed with his churning gut created a moist scent even he turned his nose up at, but the ocean breeze quickly swept it away, leaving Lou alone with the bitter taste of rejection between his grinding teeth.

(I'll tell you the word I was given at the end of this post.)

We handed each other the copies of our short stories, the stories we all hope will evolve into published pieces shortly after the conclusion of this workshop. Over the next week, we'll read each story and include our thoughts in red ink along the way. Next week, we'll share. We finished our last sips of wine and walked with each other to the train. Upon saying our goodbyes, I hustled home to relieve my employers for a date night while thinking fondly of my first experience with a New York writing workshop. However, I watched closely for the little old ladies.

(My word: distraught)