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 The Writing Lesson
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The Writing Lesson
Sarah is a young woman writing about her growing years, but in fiction. She writes about a young girl feeling down, drawing from her past, but wanting totake it in another direction, to elaborate, extrapolate, fictionalize her story. Shedoesn't want to write about herself. I suppose she doesn't want me to see where she is living, either, or I would gladly come to her for our lessons.As it is, she prefers to come to me; she says my study is inspirational, with therows of books floor to ceiling, and cozy in winter. The Florida room, she said,“is cool in summer and one can feel the life all around without having it come into bite you.” I always smile when I remember that.Her step on the porch makes me glad and sad at the same time. I'm going tomiss her; she has become very dear to me.“Good afternoon, Sarah,” I call, hearing the front door open.“Hello, Mr. Morgan,” she answers. She appears in the doorway of my studybundled against the late-September chill, two books clutched in her left hand.“Did you like that one?” I ask, pointing to the small red book she holds.“Oh, yes, it was full of description. It made me think of places I know that Icould write about. I had a dream.”
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 The Writing Lesson The segue was her way of saying she wanted to get right to business. Sheusually dreamed her stories; at least, the beginnings.“What was your dream?” The old leather creaks as she sits in the only other chair in the study. Her faceis thoughtful, remembering the images that floated through her head as sheslept. Her best sleep, she had said, was in the early morning hours just beforerising, as was mine.“I remember a young girl, looking at something, I'm not sure what.”“Where is she?” I ask. Sarah likes to put her characters in a setting. I am suremy study showed up in more than one of her rough drafts.“Where?” she asks back, creasing her forehead.“Yes, where is she? What's around her?”“She's in her window, in the upper floor of a farm house.”“And what is she doing?”“Looking out over the flat Kansas plains, seeing the rain coming in, thelightning creasing the evening sky.”“Yes, that's good. Go on.”“She is a young girl. She is sitting on a window box covered with a pillow hermother made out of odd bits of cloth. Her room is on the 3rd floor of the house,the window is gabled. She looks down at the rutted drive, the old barn, thebare bulb casting a glow on her mother bringing the horse into the barn beforethe storm. She'll cover the old truck before she comes in; the side window isbroken and it'll rain in otherwise.
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 The Writing Lesson“Her uncle, her father's cousin really, is downstairs not doing anything toprepare for the storm that's coming. 'Uncle Philip' came to them with a singlebag. He wore a checkered suit and argyle socks. When he came in, she sawthat his socks were worn through at the heel. He smiled at her mother, then ather; there was a twinkle in his eye like he knew a secret.“She is trembling as she looks out, for fear that he'll come up and into her room while her mother is busy preparing for the storm. Or he might come to her when her mother is in town, working at the five-and-dime store.”“That puts it in time,” I say.“Yes, this takes place in the forties.”“A good time, lots of change and action. Then what?”“She reaches into the embroidered box her grandmother gave her and pulls outa long hat pin. She slips the pin into her mattress under the pillow with onlythe pale, blue ball at the tip showing.”I see that she is taking this story to a dark place and seek to steer the growingfantasy away from dark places.“An interesting set-up. It invites me to find out what happens, also suggesting ways it may go. But suppose that is not the case, suppose there is another waythis story can go from that same window. What would happen then?”I settle back, reaching for my pipe at the side table, realizing that it is not there.Mild disappointment crosses my face for a moment as I remember giving up thepipe in favor of living a few more years. I put my full attention on the student
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