from this week in May, 1985  (I was 40)

 

Practice writing exercise #4a. 30 min.

from John Gardner, The Art of Fiction

         Nine o’clock and not even the borrowed hour of

daylight saving time could hold the day.  These were

her own hands looking knobby on the back posts of the

oak rocker.  It swung easy now, it swung light.  Beyond

the chair and the porch the oaks reached one by one

across the field to the dry hills.  The peaks had obscured

the sun an hour ago. The shadows had taken all the

reflective colors.  The purple remains of leaves and

branches played as optical illusion with dark sky.

Branch became sky and sky became branch.   

         She broke the spell by shifting her head, and she

sat in the chair and rocked.  Beneath the roof line the

breeze brought the cool scents of the forest.  Old smells,

moss, rotting bark on enduring trunk.  She watched the

trees fade into hills already indistinguishable from sky.

She listened to the crickets and timed her slight rock in

tune.  The wooden arc on the wood floor chirping and

pleasing, not so heavy as to mar the grain. 

We sinners can know

 

April 24, 1985  (I was 40)

 

We sinners can know

no righteousness

We dare not judge

We dare not discriminate

We may not be morally bankrupt but

we may be morally impotent

unable to cast an individual mold

upon the small society in which we move

What happened to my generation

 

December 20, 1985  (I was 41) 

 

                  What happened to my generation

         The generation waited. It was very easy.  It was a time

when it was the generation’s turn to wait.  Patience was easy,

mere existence was a recent awareness.  Judgments were

made and reserved.  First visions are clear.  There is no subtlety

to them, no complexity.  If something is not right, it’s wrong.

         Judgment leads to conviction.  Affirmation by the

precocious multitude creates righteousness, invokes the courage

to express conviction.  Let others call it audacity, we called it

vision.  Let others murmur presumption as long as they moved

aside.  The generation would roll over time, predicting and

planning our own obvious evolution.  The ride was inevitable,

it would be prudent to hold on.

         The errors of the past were easily forgiven, those times

were primitive.  We believed any remnant of ignorance would

surely fall before educating logic.  Loving parents were not

fools, they were only preoccupied with domestic triviality.  They

always talked of a better life.  They had fought each other to

make the world safe for it. 

         So it was that the naïve were dismayed by the resistance.

The determined youth were disillusioned by the tenacity of the

resistors.  The young complacent were sent to fight an invented

war, and the fanatics were killed or sent to jail.  The other

generation was not done yet.  Those in power had done what

they needed to get it.  They knew selfish greed and would not

relinquish their desires for those to someone else.  Their

advantage, in fact, was their ability to recognize the other. 

They knew what it really was no matter the idealist tags

attached.  They bought used innocence before and knew it

was a bargain whatever the price.  The foolish sellers tried to

hide shrewd smiles.  Ironic that something which could not be

bought could never again be owned once it was sold. After

snickering about what happened to others for twenty years,

my generation got lost in the commute traffic.  On the way

it thinks about the work it gets paid for today. On the reverse

trip it thinks about the work it will be paid for tomorrow.  Not

that it likes the work all that much.  No work paid for is needed

all that much, that’s why someone must be paid to do it. 

         In the end I suppose attrition seemed so civilized. 

Minute changes within the system, quality time with the kids,

skiing vacations, paid benefits and decent suits became the

things the generation did while it waited.  And while it waits

another generation with nothing to do, cut its hair because it

looks so radical, rather than cutting our throats.

The Cheap Joke and Expensive Humor

 

December 13, 1985  (I was 41)

 

The Cheap Joke and Expensive Humor

         The cheap joke is called gag, bit, fluff and other

snub capsulations to play upon its brevity, but also to

to hint at the ease, the convention, the banality.  It is

non-judgmentally coarse.  It is direct and overt.  It may

humiliate, arouse or both.  To those who like such things,

it works best when it is unexpected and inappropriate

(not like in church where such things are commonplace).

It goes over best with an audience that is stupid, drunk

or smugly patriotic (stupid and drunk).

         Expensive humor is called art.  It is based upon

perception and attitudes toward perception.  It is point

of view established and evolved.  It is stylistic approach

established and evolved.  It is patient insistence upon

laughter at last.  It is not over until the listener laughs,

and the listener does not know it is over until he laughs.

This insistence is the tension.  The story ends, the laugher

laughs, has to laugh; timing it is called.  It is the tumble

down wave that should have been predicted before it

knocked us silly up the beach.  And threatened to pull us

out to sea.

Practice writing exercise

 

June 10, 1985  (I was 40)

 

Practice writing exercise #2. p.202

from John Gardner, The Art of Fiction*

 

a.       The aluminum Greyhound pushed the fog from the curb, the air brakes discharged, the door swung open and a thin man in a faded trench coat paused on the step over the curb.  Her red skirt, her red wool jacket, and the red square hat, accessorized by her lips her nails, leather bag and red shoes, caused him not to see his own feet miss the step.  He fell forward toward her then caught himself with a quick stutter step, extending his arms toward her as a minstrel might to end a song.  And she laughed once and clapped her hands together to realize the fall and appreciate the recovery all at once.  He looked up to her and red heat spread across his forehead down his cheeks and neck.  He straightened and walked past her.  Fog spiraled before him, red morning sun burned above.

 

b.       He held onto the vertical hand post above the step to descend to the door.   The bus swung to the curb; the air brakes hissed.  As the door opened he skipped down the step. He saw her standing there, red figure in the lifting fog.  He missed the step and fell toward her, arms thrusting toward her; he recovered with a quick step. She laughed.  She clapped once.  He stood erect and looked at her.  His lips moved like an echo and she looked at him.  He stepped past her to walk up the hill.  He moved quickly.  Red fog rose from the street, lifting off the morning.

 

c.       There is the transference of the red color.  There is the falling off the last step of the bus.  It is morning in the city with the fog burning off.  She is the woman attired in red standing in the lifting fog at the bus stop.  The bus is stopping, the brakes are wishing, the door is opening and it is seeing her standing there in red that is not seeing the last step.  There is the diving forward at her laugh and her clapping hands, and there is the transference of the red color with the recovery and standing before here with nothing to say.  And there is the sun on his neck becoming a halo while he walks and does not turn back.  
         *Vintage paperback, 1985, © 1983

Practice writing exercise #4a.

from this week in May, 1985  (I was 40)

Practice writing exercise #4a. 30 min.

from John Gardner, The Art of Fiction

         Nine o’clock and not even the borrowed hour of

daylight saving time could hold the day.  These were

her own hands looking knobby on the back posts of the

oak rocker.  It swung easy now, it swung light.  Beyond

the chair and the porch the oaks reached one by one

across the field to the dry hills.  The peaks had obscured

the sun an hour ago. The shadows had taken all the

reflective colors.  The purple remains of leaves and

branches played as optical illusion with dark sky.

Branch became sky and sky became branch.   

         She broke the spell by shifting her head, and she

sat in the chair and rocked.  Beneath the roof line the

breeze brought the cool scents of the forest.  Old smells,

moss, rotting bark on enduring trunk.  She watched the

trees fade into hills already indistinguishable from sky.

She listened to the crickets and timed her slight rock in

tune.  The wooden arc on the wood floor chirping and

pleasing, not so heavy as to mar the grain. 

We sinners can know

April 24, 1985  (I was 40)

We sinners can know

no righteousness

We dare not judge

We dare not discriminate

We may not be morally bankrupt but

we may be morally impotent

unable to cast an individual mold

upon the small society in which we move

What happened to my generation

December 20, 1985  (I was 41) 

                  What happened to my generation

         The generation waited. It was very easy.  It was a time

when it was the generation’s turn to wait.  Patience was easy,

mere existence was a recent awareness.  Judgments were

made and reserved.  First visions are clear.  There is no subtlety

to them, no complexity.  If something is not right, it’s wrong.

         Judgment leads to conviction.  Affirmation by the

precocious multitude creates righteousness, invokes the courage

to express conviction.  Let others call it audacity, we called it

vision.  Let others murmur presumption as long as they moved

aside.  The generation would roll over time, predicting and

planning our own obvious evolution.  The ride was inevitable,

it would be prudent to hold on.

         The errors of the past were easily forgiven, those times

were primitive.  We believed any remnant of ignorance would

surely fall before educating logic.  Loving parents were not

fools, they were only preoccupied with domestic triviality.  They

always talked of a better life.  They had fought each other to

make the world safe for it. 

         So it was that the naïve were dismayed by the resistance.

The determined youth were disillusioned by the tenacity of the

resistors.  The young complacent were sent to fight an invented

war, and the fanatics were killed or sent to jail.  The other

generation was not done yet.  Those in power had done what

they needed to get it.  They knew selfish greed and would not

relinquish their desires for those to someone else.  Their

advantage, in fact, was their ability to recognize the other. 

They knew what it really was no matter the idealist tags

attached.  They bought used innocence before and knew it

was a bargain whatever the price.  The foolish sellers tried to

hide shrewd smiles.  Ironic that something which could not be

bought could never again be owned once it was sold. After

snickering about what happened to others for twenty years,

my generation got lost in the commute traffic.  On the way

it thinks about the work it gets paid for today. On the reverse

trip it thinks about the work it will be paid for tomorrow.  Not

that it likes the work all that much.  No work paid for is needed

all that much, that’s why someone must be paid to do it. 

         In the end I suppose attrition seemed so civilized. 

Minute changes within the system, quality time with the kids,

skiing vacations, paid benefits and decent suits became the

things the generation did while it waited.  And while it waits

another generation with nothing to do, cut its hair because it

looks so radical, rather than cutting our throats.

The Cheap Joke and Expensive Humor

December 13, 1985  (I was 41)

The Cheap Joke and Expensive Humor

         The cheap joke is called gag, bit, fluff and other

snub capsulations to play upon its brevity, but also to

to hint at the ease, the convention, the banality.  It is

non-judgmentally coarse.  It is direct and overt.  It may

humiliate, arouse or both.  To those who like such things,

it works best when it is unexpected and inappropriate

(not like in church where such things are commonplace).

It goes over best with an audience that is stupid, drunk

or smugly patriotic (stupid and drunk).

         Expensive humor is called art.  It is based upon

perception and attitudes toward perception.  It is point

of view established and evolved.  It is stylistic approach

established and evolved.  It is patient insistence upon

laughter at last.  It is not over until the listener laughs,

and the listener does not know it is over until he laughs.

This insistence is the tension.  The story ends, the laugher

laughs, has to laugh; timing it is called.  It is the tumble

down wave that should have been predicted before it

knocked us silly up the beach.  And threatened to pull us

out to sea.

Practice writing exercise #2

June 10, 1985  (I was 40)

Practice writing exercise #2. p.202

from John Gardner, The Art of Fiction*

a.       The aluminum Greyhound pushed the fog from the curb, the air brakes discharged, the door swung open and a thin man in a faded trench coat paused on the step over the curb.  Her red skirt, her red wool jacket, and the red square hat, accessorized by her lips her nails, leather bag and red shoes, caused him not to see his own feet miss the step.  He fell forward toward her then caught himself with a quick stutter step, extending his arms toward her as a minstrel might to end a song.  And she laughed once and clapped her hands together to realize the fall and appreciate the recovery all at once.  He looked up to her and red heat spread across his forehead down his cheeks and neck.  He straightened and walked past her.  Fog spiraled before him, red morning sun burned above.

b.       He held onto the vertical hand post above the step to descend to the door.   The bus swung to the curb; the air brakes hissed.  As the door opened he skipped down the step. He saw her standing there, red figure in the lifting fog.  He missed the step and fell toward her, arms thrusting toward her; he recovered with a quick step. She laughed.  She clapped once.  He stood erect and looked at her.  His lips moved like an echo and she looked at him.  He stepped past her to walk up the hill.  He moved quickly.  Red fog rose from the street, lifting off the morning.

c.       There is the transference of the red color.  There is the falling off the last step of the bus.  It is morning in the city with the fog burning off.  She is the woman attired in red standing in the lifting fog at the bus stop.  The bus is stopping, the brakes are wishing, the door is opening and it is seeing her standing there in red that is not seeing the last step.  There is the diving forward at her laugh and her clapping hands, and there is the transference of the red color with the recovery and standing before here with nothing to say.  And there is the sun on his neck becoming a halo while he walks and does not turn back.  
         *Vintage paperback, 1985, © 1983

Practice writing exercise

from this week in May, 1985  (I was 40)

Practice writing exercise #4a. 30 min.

from John Gardner, The Art of Fiction

            Nine o’clock and not even the borrowed hour of

daylight saving time could hold the day.  These were

her own hands looking knobby on the back posts of the

oak rocker.  It swung easy now, it swung light.  Beyond

the chair and the porch the oaks reached one by one

across the field to the dry hills.  The peaks had obscured

the sun an hour ago. The shadows had taken all the

reflective colors.  The purple remains of leaves and

branches played as optical illusion       with dark sky.

Branch became sky and sky became branch.            

            She broke the spell by shifting her head, and she

sat in the chair and rocked.  Beneath the roof line the

breeze brought the cool scents of the forest.  Old smells,

moss, rotting bark on enduring trunk.  She watched the

trees fade into hills already indistinguishable from sky.

She listened to the crickets and timed her slight rock in

tune.  The wooden arc on the wood floor chirping and

pleasing, not so heavy as to mar the grain. 

We sinners can know

April 24, 1985  (I was 40)

We sinners can know

no righteousness

We dare not judge

We dare not discriminate

We may not be morally bankrupt but

we may be morally impotent

unable to cast an individual mold

upon the small society in which we move

What happened to my generation

December 20, 1985  (I was 41) 

                        What happened to my generation

            The generation waited. It was very easy.  It was a time

when it was the generation’s turn to wait.  Patience was easy,

mere existence was a recent awareness.  Judgments were

made and reserved.  First visions are clear.  There is no subtlety

to them, no complexity.  If something is not right, it’s wrong.

            Judgment leads to conviction.  Affirmation by the

precocious multitude creates righteousness, invokes the courage

to express conviction.  Let others call it audacity, we called it

vision.  Let others murmur presumption as long as they moved

aside.  The generation would roll over time, predicting and

planning our own obvious evolution.  The ride was inevitable,

it would be prudent to hold on.

            The errors of the past were easily forgiven, those times

were primitive.  We believed any remnant of ignorance would

surely fall before educating logic.  Loving parents were not

fools, they were only preoccupied with domestic triviality.  They

always talked of a better life.  They had fought each other to

make the world safe for it. 

            So it was that the naïve were dismayed by the resistance.

The determined youth were disillusioned by the tenacity of the

resistors.  The young complacent were sent to fight an invented

war, and the fanatics were killed or sent to jail.  The other

generation was not done yet.  Those in power had done what

they needed to get it.  They knew selfish greed and would not

relinquish their desires for those to someone else.  Their

advantage, in fact, was their ability to recognize the other. 

They knew what it really was no matter the idealist tags

attached.  They bought used innocence before and knew it

was a bargain whatever the price.  The foolish sellers tried to

hide shrewd smiles.  Ironic that something which could not be

bought could never again be owned once it was sold.  After

snickering about what happened to others for twenty years,

my generation got lost in the commute traffic.  On the way

it thinks about the work it gets paid for today. On the reverse

trip it thinks about the work it will be paid for tomorrow.  Not

that it likes the work all that much.  No work paid for is needed

all that much, that’s why someone must be paid to do it. 

            In the end I suppose attrition seemed so civilized. 

Minute changes within the system, quality time with the kids,

skiing vacations, paid benefits and decent suits became the

things the generation did while it waited.  And while it waits

another generation with nothing to do, cut its hair because it

looks so radical, rather than cutting our throats.

The Cheap Joke and Expensive Humor

December 13, 1985  (I was 41)

      The Cheap Joke and Expensive Humor

            The cheap joke is called gag, bit, fluff and other

snub capsulations to play upon its brevity, but also to

to hint at the ease, the convention, the banality.  It is

non-judgmentally coarse.  It is direct and overt.  It may

humiliate, arouse or both.  To those who like such things,

it works best when it is unexpected and inappropriate

(not like in church where such things are commonplace).

It goes over best with an audience that is stupid, drunk

or smugly patriotic (stupid and drunk).

            Expensive humor is called art.  It is based upon

perception and attitudes toward perception.  It is point

of view established and evolved.  It is stylistic approach

established and evolved.  It is patient insistence upon

laughter at last.  It is not over until the listener laughs,

and the listener does not know it is over until he laughs.

This insistence is the tension.  The story ends, the laugher

laughs, has to laugh; timing it is called.  It is the tumble

down wave that should have been predicted before it

knocked us silly up the beach.  And threatened to pull us

out to sea.