Hey Alison and Heather.... What a fun story. Were you on the hike with Heather or did someone else take that picture of her? Also, has Heather explained to you Alison the culture of writers that come from the University of Missouri? I would not expect all Canadians to know about it, but Heather and the rest of us, running around in old gold and black shirts that say MIZZOU on them can fill you in. There's a good reason why you never have to have a resume your whole life, once you become part of the brotherhood, sisterhood, and writers circles of the middle of nowhere, Columbia, Missouri.
No, we weren't hiking together. Which makes it so interesting to see the commonalities between our experiences of hiking and writing-process.
The cultural differences between the Uni experience north and south of the border is drastically different, I've found. We just don't create "community" around it up north... Maybe it's too cold... :)
Hi Georgia - M-I-Z!! I will say I don't think I got the memo about writers circles out of Mizzou. I know journalism school is very much a tight knit group, but I was an English Creative Writing major, one of 9 people, who scattered it seems! I would love an education from your alumni experience! I also graduated early which wasn't in my favor for networking. I spent most of my time at Mizzou dreamily walking around campus with hot coffee, making up stories in my head about the old buildings and the people who lived in them.
This response to the prompt was posted on the lonely prompt thread... where no one has seen it! And no one else has posted. So I'm moving it here. It's by Amy Whitmore, posted a couple days ago.
My apologies: I need to be consistent with either adding a thread or not! I think that it's hard to find. I'll not add a thread again. Please add your own window stories HERE, and your thoughts!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By Amy Whitmore
I am bad for writing, not letting it sit and then editing, these prompts. Same with this one:
No! I recoil. The desk is too small. My heart deflates. The perfect window. The perfect close-the-door-on-the-babel- of-distractions space. Built in bookshelves filled with novels and memoirs and autobiographies, all so useful. All so dark.
The writing table is too small. I need paper and pen and elbow room. I need space to prop hand-written pages up while I type them. And that photo of Stephen King in his rising youth, looking down on my failures.
The window boxes looked perfect from outside, lush and exuberant. From inside they obstruct the streetview. Who's out there? What are they doing? Can only see pink blooms.
Not like my last window, where I could look down on the guy who dropped to the street, hands on the curb, and did a bunch of push ups. Never to be seen again.
The early morning couple who'd clearly slept by the big green graffitied recycling bin across the parking lot across the street. The plump woman stepped out from the shadows and the rising sun glowed off her pink skin. Slow and calm, an orange bowl with water at her feet, she worked through her morning ablutions. Bird bath salutations. Stretching her arms to the sky, cleansing her arms, her armpits. Her breasts. Her face and neck. Stepping out of her underpants she splashed water on her round buttocks, around her crotch. Then she pulled on new underpants, a grey t-shirt, sweat pants. She and her man bundled up their belongings and wandered off, never to be seen again.
The elderly woman walking her elderly big-furred black and white dog getting into an altercation with my trim slim elderly neighbour about the big starlings' nest in the tree high above the sidewalk.
"That nest needs to go!" stated the elderly dog walker. Her dog, patient, stood beside her, head bowed.
"I love the birds!" my elderly neighbour, glad.
"They attack me!!" insisted the elderly dog walker. Her dog sank to the sidewalk beside her, tongue lolling.
"They don't attack," I hear my elderly say. I agree with her: I've never seen the birds attack nor have I been attacked, walking by every day on my way to work.
"They're a menace and you need to get rid of that nest!" demands the elderly dog walker, pulling her elderly dog to its elderly feet and hobbling off.
Such beautiful etching on the glass, I sigh, thinking how lovely it would be, windows closed to the outside white winter. Such beautiful flower boxes. Such a writerly space.
I run from the too-enclosed room. Stephen King would have written it into a novel as a portal into an alternate, too-perfect universe.
Hey Alison and Heather.... What a fun story. Were you on the hike with Heather or did someone else take that picture of her? Also, has Heather explained to you Alison the culture of writers that come from the University of Missouri? I would not expect all Canadians to know about it, but Heather and the rest of us, running around in old gold and black shirts that say MIZZOU on them can fill you in. There's a good reason why you never have to have a resume your whole life, once you become part of the brotherhood, sisterhood, and writers circles of the middle of nowhere, Columbia, Missouri.
No, we weren't hiking together. Which makes it so interesting to see the commonalities between our experiences of hiking and writing-process.
The cultural differences between the Uni experience north and south of the border is drastically different, I've found. We just don't create "community" around it up north... Maybe it's too cold... :)
Hi Georgia - M-I-Z!! I will say I don't think I got the memo about writers circles out of Mizzou. I know journalism school is very much a tight knit group, but I was an English Creative Writing major, one of 9 people, who scattered it seems! I would love an education from your alumni experience! I also graduated early which wasn't in my favor for networking. I spent most of my time at Mizzou dreamily walking around campus with hot coffee, making up stories in my head about the old buildings and the people who lived in them.
I will state that "gut" was absolutely intentional! Thank you so much for the opportunity for a Q&A Alison!
Love it--very good!
This response to the prompt was posted on the lonely prompt thread... where no one has seen it! And no one else has posted. So I'm moving it here. It's by Amy Whitmore, posted a couple days ago.
My apologies: I need to be consistent with either adding a thread or not! I think that it's hard to find. I'll not add a thread again. Please add your own window stories HERE, and your thoughts!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By Amy Whitmore
I am bad for writing, not letting it sit and then editing, these prompts. Same with this one:
No! I recoil. The desk is too small. My heart deflates. The perfect window. The perfect close-the-door-on-the-babel- of-distractions space. Built in bookshelves filled with novels and memoirs and autobiographies, all so useful. All so dark.
The writing table is too small. I need paper and pen and elbow room. I need space to prop hand-written pages up while I type them. And that photo of Stephen King in his rising youth, looking down on my failures.
The window boxes looked perfect from outside, lush and exuberant. From inside they obstruct the streetview. Who's out there? What are they doing? Can only see pink blooms.
Not like my last window, where I could look down on the guy who dropped to the street, hands on the curb, and did a bunch of push ups. Never to be seen again.
The early morning couple who'd clearly slept by the big green graffitied recycling bin across the parking lot across the street. The plump woman stepped out from the shadows and the rising sun glowed off her pink skin. Slow and calm, an orange bowl with water at her feet, she worked through her morning ablutions. Bird bath salutations. Stretching her arms to the sky, cleansing her arms, her armpits. Her breasts. Her face and neck. Stepping out of her underpants she splashed water on her round buttocks, around her crotch. Then she pulled on new underpants, a grey t-shirt, sweat pants. She and her man bundled up their belongings and wandered off, never to be seen again.
The elderly woman walking her elderly big-furred black and white dog getting into an altercation with my trim slim elderly neighbour about the big starlings' nest in the tree high above the sidewalk.
"That nest needs to go!" stated the elderly dog walker. Her dog, patient, stood beside her, head bowed.
"I love the birds!" my elderly neighbour, glad.
"They attack me!!" insisted the elderly dog walker. Her dog sank to the sidewalk beside her, tongue lolling.
"They don't attack," I hear my elderly say. I agree with her: I've never seen the birds attack nor have I been attacked, walking by every day on my way to work.
"They're a menace and you need to get rid of that nest!" demands the elderly dog walker, pulling her elderly dog to its elderly feet and hobbling off.
Such beautiful etching on the glass, I sigh, thinking how lovely it would be, windows closed to the outside white winter. Such beautiful flower boxes. Such a writerly space.
I run from the too-enclosed room. Stephen King would have written it into a novel as a portal into an alternate, too-perfect universe.
The size of the desk here was the first thing that caught my eye, too!
Ah, that elderly dog-walker, with the sorry sad dog, WILL be seen again! I was wondering, after the two mentions.
I do like those mentions of "never to be seen again"--it captures the urban nature of your window.
And how that juxtaposes with the reality of one having to perform ablutions there (as if on a hike, or some more private space!)
I love this homage to your front room window, with its wonderful and--notably big, as should/need be--desk!
Every person--and dog--who goes by is a story.