Read Songwriting Without Boundaries Online
Authors: Pat Pattison
Songwriting Without Boundaries (11 page)
CHANELLE DAVIS:
Pink flannelette pajamas, smell of Cadbury chocolate in my bedroom, a tower of Easter eggs on my dressing table, little caramel red and blue foil wrapped with polka dots. A big yellow and pink bunny, tear open the foil and sniff it before biting into the ear, bits of chocolate falling down into the hollow centre …
Hot spots: Joy’s verbs. Chanelle’s chocolate.
Your turn.
DAY #11
“WHEN” WRITING
Today’s your last brush with “when.” By now I hope you’ve become pretty good friends. It’s a friendship that will last your entire writing life—if you don’t ignore it.
Set a timer and respond to the following prompts for exactly the time allotted. Stop IMMEDIATELY when the timer goes off.
Sight Sound Taste Touch Smell Body Motion
5 minutes: Late Evening
Headphones on, swivelling on the computer chair, softly strumming guitar in computer screen light, neighbour upstairs TV muffled through the floor, whisper singing into the microphone, sound of the metronome and buzzing strings from tired sore fingers, move the capo up and down the fretboard, sipping milky Earl Grey tea and eating peanut butter toast to stay awake, outside a lone cricket is singing, roll the seat around on the cold wooden floor trying to get comfortable, guitar nestled into my chest …
The sun is dipping down just past the horizon now, coloring the sky with oranges, reds and blues. There’s a crisp chill in the air that dances off my skin, and raises up goose bumps. A car passes by on the street to break the silence. Its tires chug along on the asphalt.
The symphony of crickets off in the woods grows louder as the sky darkens. My heart rate at one tick per minute … I feel so calm, my muscles fully relaxed as I stand on the corner against the night sky. I breathe in deep through my nose. I can feel the wind from my breath whooshing up against the sides of the insides of my nostrils.
This prompt seems to have caused a sort of exhalation, a surrender to the calm. Both Chanelle and Anthony get pretty far inside themselves, but I have to confess I’d never felt “the wind from my breath whooshing up against the sides of the insides of my nostrils.” Nice.
Now, what have you got?
10 minutes: Loved One’s Funeral
I stooped outside the sandstone chapel with sunlight shining down, shriveling inside. The afternoon was a musty grey; filled with blurred empty faces. Muted watercolors trickled down my aching face. My heart was swimming against the current and clogging my every breath. I choked as I tried to speak and darted to avoid compassionate gestures of comfort. I could see white wings and angels as I turned toward the wooden coffin carried by ghostly figures. I felt a steady hand on my shoulder, but no one was there. I stood up in a woozy haze, which flickered in fragments and held onto the pew in front of me in a desperate grip. The heavy cloak of change pressed against my throat as I snatched a shallow gulp of air and battled …
The chapel is small, simple plain walls, the coffin at the end of the room, simply polished wood, no oak. Windows sweep the top of the room, like a classroom, letting in streams of light. The ported strains of the Sandhurst Silver Band he played with for fifteen years hang in the air. Played at the ‘Wellington,’ had a pool with the smell of rotting fish.
Inside me small earthquakes of confidence fight with rivers of grief.
At the graveside as the coffin sinks below the level of the ground I finally relent with a hot sweep of grief but collect things together. All buried and dead now …
Hot spots: “The heavy cloak of change pressed against my throat ….” “Small earthquakes of confidence.”
Now, your turn.
90 seconds: Crossing the Finish Line
Cheeks are burning and flushed red, breathe shallow and panicky heartbeat trying to push my feet to the soft dirt, up the last hill, legs like jelly downhill, sun making my face sweat, T-shirt sweat, feel my chubby stomach bouncing, nausea, feel lump in my throat, tears starting as I see the teachers and parents waiting, pouring orange juice into plastic cups …
Trudging through mud on a cross-country run, farmyard fumes from steaming manure filling my nostrils as I gulp in oxygen. My thighs burn as they work to lift boots heavier than lead. The panting of my own breath and the blood sprinting around my brain are all I hear as I see the finish line …
Your turn. Try it out.
There.
Who, what,
and
when
in an ever-enlarging dance. Each an integral partner in creating something riveting, something memorable. One more friend to introduce to the group, starting tomorrow.
DAY #12
“WHERE” WRITING
“Where” can, of course, be anywhere. But it must be somewhere. The Wailing Wall, 42nd Street, the lake cabin, the Grand Canyon, a mountain path, the backseat of the school bus. The opportunities are endless. That’s its strength.
“Where” and “when” are a powerful combination, working together to create a scene and situation—a context for “who” and “what” to operate from. They make your writing more palpable, more real. These last three days of the challenge will give you practice locating your characters and the objects around them in various places. You’ll be surprised how much muscle your writing will gain from working out with “where.”
Set a timer and respond to the following places for exactly the time allotted. Stop IMMEDIATELY when the timer goes off.
Sight Sound Taste Touch Smell Body Motion
5 minutes: A Cliff by the Ocean
Smell of salt and low tide. Kelp drying on the beach below, dusted with shining flakes of grit and sand. A golden retriever rolling on its back. A boulder near the rocky shore that looks precariously balanced. A child, antlike in the distance, totters into its shade, arm extended to touch the rock’s pockmarked side. The boulder shifts. My stomach sinks, mouth opens, legs stir—but the child shrieks a laugh, runs away on wobbly legs, and the rock continues to shift and shift and shift without really moving. Shimmers of heat make everything shimmer and undulate. I lick my lips and they are still salty from a swim …