Exercise 9: A Character Sketch

Write a two-page (or longer) character sketch using objects, landscape, weather, etc., to intensify the reader’s sense of what the character is like. Use no similes (“She was like…”). Purpose: to create convincing character by using more than intellect, engaging both the conscious and unconscious mind.

Henry Richardson sits at his desk with a laptop open in front of him and a glass of iced bourbon in his hand. He has been holding the glass in his left hand long enough to lose account of the last drink he took. What he is aware of is the phantom feeling of the wedding band that encircled his thick finger for 12 years–he touches the underside of it to the glass, hoping the ice will numb it–as well as the words in the email he has been re-reading continuously, looking for a way to penetrate. The slippers on Henry’s feet smell of sweat and mold, his socks loose around warm ankles. He wears athletic pants he has never played a game of sports in. Stretched over a wide paunch is a sweatshirt from the University of Kansas his daughter gave him. He has a short neck and loose skin that hangs off his jaw. The eyes that stare at the screen are aided by rectangular, plastic lenses in narrow frames. A trio of wrinkles run parallel to his black, bushlike eyebrows. Thin brown hair combed across his head does a poor job of concealing his scalp. Most people don’t spend this much time looking at Henry.

Henry has lived alone for the past year and a half. His two daughters now live in the part of the Midwest called the Corn Belt–both of them 500 or more miles away. Plus, their mother took up with the man that was once his boss. A year ago Henry was a functioning failure as an architect–only his company loyalty and the fact that it was nigh impossible to bring in a young, talented replacement, one that wouldn’t start sending out resumes at exactly the 10-month mark, had kept him employed. He lacked motivation, happiness, a sex drive, and had long ago ceased trying to make his wife happy.

This was the subject of the email Henry sat re-reading. It literally read: You Stopped Making Me Happy. Then went on, saying he lacked motivation, happiness, and a sex drive. Henry was a big man, he could take it, but he still wanted to know what his wife had done with his shotgun and the key to the lawnmower, and where she was taking the girls for the holidays. He just needed to figure out how to ask her nicely.

Exercise 8: Secrets

Write a dialogue in which each of the two characters has a secret. Do not reveal the secret but make the reader intuit it. For example, the dialogue might be between a husband, who has just lost his job and hasn’t worked up the courage to tell his wife, and his wife, who has a lover in the bedroom. Purpose: to give two characters individual ways of speaking, and to make dialogue crackle with feelings not directly expressed. Remember that in dialogue, as a general rule, every pause must somehow be shown, either by narration (for example, “she paused”) or by some gesture or other break that shows the pause. And remember that gesture is a part of all real dialogue. Sometimes, for instance, we look away instead of answering.

“Hey baby. How was work?” she says, coming into the front hallway.

“Fine,” he says, not looking at her as he hangs up his coat. “Actually not good. We’re going through some what-they-call major changes.”

“Like what?” She touches him on the elbow.

“Like big stuff. You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Well, now I really want to know,” she says, moving closer to him. “You can’t just not tell me.”

He looks at her and walks into the kitchen. “Did you pay the bills?”

She sucks on her teeth. “Shit. I forgot. I’ll do it tomorrow. Tell me.”

“Later. Like I said, you’ll find out soon enough.”

“Is it bad?”

“It’s not good. What about the dog?”

“Shit! I forgot that too.”

He stops moving and takes a good look at her. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing. I just forgot.”

“That’s been happening a lot.”

“No it hasn’t.”

“The car, the kids, now these two things. What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing. Really.” She is in the hallway closet now, calling to him. “I think I’m going for a walk.”

“A walk?” He goes down to the den and sits. “Okay.”

She leaves without saying anything.

He has a drink while he watches the news. He imagines what he’ll look like on the television tomorrow, what pictures they’ll use. When she comes back he can tell she has been crying. He thinks she can’t know yet, but he’s not sure. She sits on the couch and looks blankly through the TV.

“Who told you?”

“Who told me what?”

“Why are you crying?”

“It’s just this time of year,” she says, looking at him. He doesn’t look away. “It’s just girl stuff. I’m feeling emotional.” She checks that with him then looks back at the TV. “I think I’m starting my period, OK? Who told me what?”

“What happened at work.”

“No one told me anything. I was walking. I didn’t even have my phone with me.”

“Didn’t you just have your period?”

“I’m really irregular right now.”

“Maybe you should see a doctor.”

She laughs a little to herself.

“Was that funny?”

“No. You’re right. I should see a doctor.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not mocking you. You’re right.”

“It felt a little like you were mocking me.”

“I wasn’t.”

They both stare at the news.

“What’s for dinner?”

“Chicken.”

Exercise 7: A Picture of Success

Write a monologue of at least three pages, in which the interruptions–pauses, gestures, description, etc.–all clearly and persuasively characterize, and the shifts from monologue to gesture and touches of setting (as when the character touches some object or glances out the window) all feel rhythmically right. Purpose: to learn ways of letting a character make a long speech that doesn’t seem boring or artificial.

I just don’t understand it. How do these people think everything in the world today wasn’t gotten by work? I made my money by doing what I was told I needed to do growing up–work hard, live clean, and do right by others. [The old man pauses to set his glasses down on the glass-topped end table next to his chair.] Take my son for instance–we didn’t exactly start in the same place, growing up he had next to nothing, I had nothing–but we’ve been doing the same thing for just about the same amount of time. When you’re talking about about me being 85 and him being 64, there’s not all that much difference. We’ve been in the same line of work, the same trade for at least 40 years, and what does he have? What does he have to show for his work? Almost nothing. Anyone can have children, that’s nothing. But to take what’s out there for yourself, to find ways to outsmart your fellow man–that takes work. Work and brains. And it doesn’t require a great amount of intelligence to work for someone else, to let someone do all the thinking for you. It’s easy to break your back swinging a hammer or work nights in a kitchen washing dishes. None of that takes a mind. You need ambition. You need drive to succeed in this world. The thing about money is that it’s everyone’s–it belongs to no one–and it’s yours for the taking. But you have to want to it. Most people either don’t want it or don’t know how to get it. [He calls to the kitchen: Ester! Can you bring me out a diet soda? And bring a Coke out for our guest.] A good woman is important, too. It’s important to find a good woman, get married, and for God’s sake keep it in your pants. I don’t know how many guys I’ve seen out there ruin everything out chasing women. You need a woman who doesn’t nag at you, who does a few things for herself, and, and I guess this is important for everyone, knows how to make herself happy. Someone with their own built-in happiness is going to be a lot stronger, have a lot more ways to keep herself entertained, that way you can focus on doing what you need to do, get done what you need to get done. Ester there [he nods out toward the kitchen and it is a dignified, respectful nod] she lets me work long hours. She lets me stay up at night in my self-imposed fits of insomnia, working out business problems, thinking about our future. And she never complains. Without her I’d be lost. And you can’t drink. You can’t gamble. Now there’s a few of them out there that drink and take big risks with their money, but for every one of them you hear about that’s a socialite and an alcoholic and a successful risk-taker, there are dozens just like them in the gutter. No. You have to play, not exactly by the rules, but play with the rules. Within the framework of the system there are ways to get ahead. By working long into the night, by trying new angles, by teaching yourself how to see the trends before they see you. You have to be aware. You have to keep your ear to the ground. I know you’re young, and you probably think you’re going to do a hell of a lot more than I did with your life–and I hope you do–but I also hope you realize that I’ve seen a lot of men and a lot of lives in my time and I can say with confidence that I would stack my achievements and the amount of work I’ve done up against theirs any time. And I’m still alive. There is still more to do.

Edwin Arlington Robinson

In the basement of my apartment building there is a community bookshelf with a sign that reads: SHARE. Weeks ago, I picked up a Norton anthology of American literature, and tonight, thumbing through it at random I found the poet Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935). The biography reads:

…he always saw himself as estranged both from his time and from the practices of other poets. The difference between him and these others lay in his ever-present sense of a lost, glorious past.

I have quite a few friends like this–especially men–who think they were born at the wrong time. I don’t buy it. I think complaining about your “lot in life” as though you don’t have a choice to improve it by an act of will is a cop-out. (My feeling toward this is somewhat expressed in the first part of this exercise.) But there is a grain of truth in their sentiments, and Robinson felt it too, most notably in the following poem.

MINIVER CHEEVY

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,

Grew lean while he assailed the seasons,

He wept that he was ever born,

And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old

When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;

The vision of a warrior bold

Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not,

And dreamed, and rested from his labors;

He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,

And Priam’s neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown

That made so many a name so fragrant;

He mourned Romance, now on the town,

And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici,

Albeit he had never seen one;

He would have sinned incessantly

Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace

And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;

He missed the mediaeval grace

Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought,

But sore annoyed he was without it;

Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,

And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late,

Scratched his head and kept on thinking;

Miniver coughed, and called it fate,

And kept on drinking.

Exercise 6: Third person “objective”

Write a novel opening, on any subject, in which the point of view is third person objective. Write a short-story opening in this same point of view.

1.

Ezra McCall held a bottle of gasoline in his left hand and a match in the right. An American flag handkerchief stuffed in the neck, he touched the flame to the rag and switched the bottle to his right hand. He felt the gravel slide under his feet as he pivoted and threw the bottle into the windshield of the red sports utility vehicle.

He bent down at his feet and found the second bottle. He repeated the motion. This time the S.U.V. had blue paint and by the time the white paint cracked and blistered on the third Ezra had his bike up and peddled down the hill.

—

Ramona’s mother never lost her love for the smell of flowers—she continued to sniff them, reveling in their odor and thanking her god for the life where she could smell flowers everyday. “The flowers never lose their magic,” she said.

Ramona knew which plants were poisonous. They sold large snake plants, their other name mother-in-law’s tongue, which, Ramona knew, were poisonous if eaten. She often thought about putting a plant in a blender though she was not sure if one plant would be enough, or if she could drink more than a blender-full of snake plant. She had the type of mind that required assurance she would meet her goal.

—

Without hesitation Salman sprung upon the lioness. He clawed her face to remove her eyes and then with one fluid movement bit into her spine. The tiger left the lion and went on.

2.

The day the water went red was also the same day Jamie found the box in the trunk. The health authorities warned those that received their water from the river to drink bottled water, that boiling it wouldn’t take out the color. As to whether or not the color in the water was harmful the health authorities were uncertain at this time. The health authorities did not offer any advice to Jamie.

She set the box on the coffee table and sat on the couch for a moment looking at it. The lock was still intact–the key long lost–and the swirls of paint on the outside unmarred despite the elapsed time. Though she knew where the bolt cutters were it would take some consideration before she would seek them out. She went to the sink and filled a vase, brought it to the table, and sat it next to the box. For a long time she stared at the red light cast upon the lock.

Exercise 5: Free Why-Fi

Write the opening of a novel using the authorial-omniscient voice, making the authorial omniscience clear by going into the thoughts of one or more characters after establishing the voice. As subject, use either a trip or the arrival of a stranger (some disruption of order–the usual novel beginning.)

Chip Meyer owned an old cafe out on Hilltop Road. It was the kind of place that really only the farmers went to for specials like salisbury steak and spaghetti and meatballs. The day the man in the Raiders jersey came in it was beef stroganoff.

Jake Heinbuck and Red McMillen sat at the counter, Jake drinking coffee and Red eating a bowl of cherries. Red spat the pits onto a paper towel and when the man in the Raiders jersey came in he said, “That’s something,” and thought immediately after jesus christ, what have we here? Another meth head? Or a gangbanger?

The man wore his hair short. His jersey hung halfway to his knees and he walked in tan, steel-toed construction-worker boots that had never seen a construction site nor work. Jesus christ, he thought, bet these motherfuckers have never seen a black man. What am I doing out here? This place is the land that time forgot. It could be 1850 or 1950, it’s impossible to tell. Oh wait.

A chalkboard hanging over the kitchen read: Free Why-Fi.

Chip came out of the kitchen wiping fry grease on his apron.

“Hi there,” the man said.

“Hello. What can I get ya?”

“I would like a cup of coffee and the special.”

“On its way.”

The man sat down at the counter, took out his phone, and began thumbing through the programs.

Well it looks like he’s at least got a little money, Jake thought. Probably a drug dealer. Or a gangbanger. Or both.

“Seems like things are changing around here,” Red said.

“Yep. Sure are. And not for the better, neither.”

The man looked over and then looked back at his phone. Oh shut the fuck up you hicks. I can tell you’re talking about me. You know there’s no one America anymore. There are hundreds of Americas and you’re just from a different one. Quit acting like you’re right.”

Chip came out with the coffee.

“How do you take it?”

Jake was intent on overhearing the interaction and couldn’t resist giving Red a look when the man answered “black.”

“Is there anywhere I could get a copy of the local newspaper? I just moved to town and I’d like to get to know how things work around here.”

“I’ve got one right down there,” Chip said. He walked down to the end of the counter and brought it over. “It’s not much more than birdcage liner, but you might find something interesting in there. The public record’s always good for a laugh.”

“I’ll take a look. Thank you.”

The man read through the paper slowly, reading the articles, not just the headlines. After a few minutes Red looked down to an empty cherry bowl and Jake’s coffee had gone cold.

“Welp, I guess I best be getting back,” Jake said. “Better get everything fed. Don’t know what’s going to happen tonight. Weather’s been kind of weird around here lately.”

“Hell, everything’s weird anymore,” Red said. “This country just ain’t what it was.”

“Have a good one, Chip,” Jake said.

“You guys don’t go getting any work done out there.”

“Oh don’t worry,” Red said. “There’s poker on. I’ve got a wife and a TV that works so I don’t have to.”

“See ya fellas.”

Chip went back and put together the stroganoff, ladling beef and gravy from a crockpot onto warmed-up egg noodles.

“Those your regulars?” the man asked.

“Some of ‘em. Them boys were born here, their fathers were born here, their grandfathers were born here, and they’re going to die here.”

“But their sons won’t.”

“No, I suppose not. Not many of ‘em anyway. You doing all right? You need anything else?”

“No. I think I’m good.”

“All right. Just holler. I’ll be in the back. Name’s Chip.”

“Tyrone.”

“Nice to meet you, Tyrone.”

“Likewise.”

“Welcome to the community.”

Exercise 4d: The Barn

Describe a building as seen by a man whose son has just been killed in a war. Do not mention the son, war, death, or the old man doing the seeing; then describe the same building, in the same weather and at the same time of day, as seen by a happy lover. Do not mention love or the loved one.

1.

The barn was built in 1894 to store straw, feed, and livestock. It stood tall and red for the next hundred years. It was a kind of lighthouse to farmers who drove far east from town to work and then returned home along the highway. It once stood for hope–a symbol of success. People in the valley thought of it as a landmark. The day it was erected was celebrated by farm families for miles around–a proud achievement of the first landowner. But as the years wore on, and the prosperity of farmers began to diminish, just as the barn began to sag and rot, the lives of the country folk in America began to deteriorate. And no amount of maintenance and hard work, no amount of barn-red paint could keep time and fate away. The barn would one day fall, as all things must. The young people in those places knew that and so they went where they must–to foreign soils, seeking glory and adventure. Now there was no one to carry on the tradition of agriculture, only the decaying barn.

2.

The barn, sanguine and noble, stood out from the rest of the farm buildings as the iconic image. It was the place of shelter. It had birthed many babies, it had fed more, and with a heat lamp and a milk bottle had done its part to keep away death. The life of the barn progressed in this way: it was built to great acclaim from the community–people thought it a perfect structure; the loft was filled with straw and grain, the rest with farm equipment and livestock in the winter; with the advent of the grain silo and the tractor its usage changed to more of a garage than a barn, but its utility never declined. The farmers that used it through the years owed much of their success and faculty with agriculture to that building. It required upkeep–it needed to be painted every five years, the floors had to be swept, the windows replaced, boards repaired. But it was always worth the work.